13. CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
GRETCHEN
O kay, okay. You’re fine. Just breathe.
Holy shit.
Was Brady Hawthorne really looking at you like he wanted to take you?
Fuuuuck.
I study the palm of my hand. That’s, like, probably the cutest thing any guy has ever done – writing on my hand like we’re in the fifth grade.
And what the hell? He’s smart too? All that talk of economics…
from a stripper ? Although, it was just twice, really.
I mean, this is not his intended line of work…
. Still, the boy can move. He was sexy as Zorro, but the group dance with the baseball getup was about all that I could handle.
You asshole! Why did you leave? It was pretty fucking obvious he wanted you to stick around, at least for a little while. What were you thinking?
I inhale, hold my breath, and wait for my heartbeat to slow down.
I’m tingly all over. I’m supposed to hate Brady Hawthorne.
But, first I found out that he didn’t actually fire me, and in fact, he also got fired (which – sidebar – 100% had to be my fault), and then, just when I wanted to write him off as a complete douchebag for hooking up with some random chick in front of me, I find out she threw herself at him and she also cheated on him way back when .
Okay, and so then, I’m like it’s fine, whatever, we can co-exist as neighbors who occasionally work together, but he goes and feeds me ramen, tells me I’m beautiful, and declares his intentions on my palm.
And, let’s not forget the princess carry.
Okay. Okay! I like him. Whatever. It’s fine. I can be cool about it.
I’m about to head into the bathroom to wash my face when I hear a knock. It’s a light tap, really, but my heart stops, because I know it can only be one person.
I go to the door, my entire stomach lodged in my throat. I open it, trying to keep myself from trembling.
“What’s up?” I say, thinking maybe I left something behind at his place. I scramble to consider what I had on me over there. “Did I, uh, forget something?”
“No,” he says, quietly. “I did.”
Then, he places his forefinger and his middle finger just under my chin and gently tilts my face up towards his. “May I?” he asks.
I’m paralyzed. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. I can’t even speak. I just nod, ever so slightly.
His kiss takes my breath away. He closes his eyes and leans, slowly, into me.
When I feel his lips on mine, they’re soft, moist, full and delicious.
His hand slides around to the hairline at the back of my neck, and as he pulls me in closer to him, his long, thick fingers weave their way into my messy waves.
He massages the back of my head with the calloused pads of his fingertips.
His tongue parts my mouth and he tastes me, tentative at first, then hungrily.
As if I’m a decadent dessert, he revels in the meeting of our taste buds with a soft, appreciative moan.
I’m instantly overcome with a combination of exhaustion and elation, in much the same way as a triathlon competitor must feel when approaching a long-awaited finish line.
Finally, he seals the moment with a soft bite of my lower lip and a single brush of his nose against mine.
Brady exhales, untangles his hand from my hair, and runs his fingers down my cheek. “I’m sorry. I just –” he begins.
“Don’t be,” I say. “Sorry, I mean. That was –”
“Mmm,” he breathes. “Yeah, it was." He lightly puts his lips to my forehead and lingers there for a second. “Goodnight, Gretchen,” he whispers.
“’Night, Brady,” I reply.
I wait until he’s all the way inside to close my door.