Chapter 8 Accidentally Hot #2
My heartbeat is still trapped in the fantasy, though, so I jump when Penn comes into view.
His wet hair curls at the ends, and he’s in gray sweatpants again, but this time, he’s wearing a hoodie, too.
The top of his tan chest is visible above the white sweatshirt strings because he’s one of those freaks who wears sweatshirts without a T-shirt underneath.
Easier access, I think, and my cheeks warm.
That manifestation really got to me. File under: Netflix and No Chill.
He’s carrying two bowls of popcorn, which is unfortunate. I hoped we’d share one bowl for maximum hand-brushing opportunities, but it’s fine.
Until—no.
No, it isn’t fine. Because Penn isn’t alone.
Trailing behind him, wearing a tiger-print onesie and a wide grin, is my brother.
Ryan barrels into the basement, lifts both hands to his mouth, and shouts, “Movie night!”
I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a cackle and a cry. “Ry!” I screech. “What a nice surprise.”
I meant what I told Bridget on my birthday: There’s no such thing as a good surprise.
Penn hands me one of the bowls and sits on the farthest edge of the couch. “Figured you’d want me to invite this guy,” he tells me.
“Mm-hmm.” My voice is tight. “Thanks.”
Ryan, who’s busy surveying the bar spread, reminds me with his mere presence just how silly my plan really is. A tight shirt and a magical kiss. With Penn. What the hell am I thinking?
Even if a kiss could work, I’d never look at Penn again without wanting to pluck out my eyeballs. Avoiding him isn’t an option, either. Not anywhere. In both worlds, our lives cross in far too many directions—with my brother right at the center.
If only I’d circled Devon Sawa’s name in that stupid MASH game.
Ryan tosses Penn a Coors Light and plops down between us, cracking one open for himself. “Just like old times,” he says, knocking elbows with Penn and me.
I feign a smile. I don’t want old times. I want new, temporarily hot times that will catapult me out of here. Ideally, with no memory of what’s transpired.
I take a long, weary sip of white wine.
“Did you tell Penn about your friend?” Ryan asks me, and I cough on the wine.
Penn leans forward. “What friend?”
My cheeks go fire-hot. “Oh. Well…”
“Ruby wants to set you up with someone,” Ryan says.
“Is that right?” Penn’s dimple makes an unwelcome appearance. “Interesting. Who is she?”
“You don’t know her,” I say quickly. “And I’m not sure it’s a good idea, anyway.”
Penn doesn’t let it go. “Why’s that?”
I take another massive gulp of my drink. “You wouldn’t like her,” I say, struggling to swallow it all down. “She isn’t very fun.”
He gives me a strange look.
“Speaking of fun,” Ryan says. “What are we watching?”
My psychological death. The humiliating extinction of all my hope.
Sighing, I gesture for Penn to grab the remote, which seems like an act of kindness—a rare ceding of control—but really, I don’t know how to work the TV.
“I was thinking 10 Things I Hate About You,” I tell them.
It was Bridget’s choice: a movie about two people who change their mind about each other and make out. Admittedly, it felt fitting.
Ryan looks unimpressed. “What about The Hangover?”
Ah, yes. The pinnacle of passion.
Penn clicks through action movies. “The Dark Knight? That’s fun. Homicidal, but fun.”
Ryan presses his lips into a Joker smile, and we laugh, and for a moment, with all three of us wearing goofy grins, it feels how it used to, years ago.
We spent so many hours on my parents’ couch fighting over snacks, making one another laugh and rant and rock-paper-scissors to decide which loser had to grab another round of juice boxes. A lot of the old times weren’t so bad.
“Fine,” I say. “Homicidal fun it is.”
We settle back, and we’re less than halfway through the movie when Ryan’s head lands on my shoulder.
He’s fast asleep, which is strange. I can count on one hand the number of times my brother’s fallen asleep during a movie.
He’s always bewilderingly energetic, even late into the night.
Here, though, he seems to be putting far more of that energy into his work. Happily.
As I shift to make him more comfortable, Penn laughs. Seconds later, I get a text.
Shall we let Sleeping Beauty rest?
We shall.
Maybe I can get back to my plan, after all.
We tiptoe around Ryan, Penn grabbing a bag of Twizzlers while I snag a bottle of emotional-support tequila. If ever there was a time for liquid courage, this is it.
Upstairs, Penn suggests we get some fresh air, so I follow him outside, grateful for a pleasantly cool evening and a spectacular backyard.
String lights stretch across the lawn and over the pools, their reflection flickering like fireflies in the water’s surface.
Penn snatches a brightly colored plaid blanket off the porch and sets it on the grass.
He gestures for me to go first, so I sit down, and Penn lies beside me, one broad hand beneath his head.
It feels strange to sit while he’s lying down. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe, because of my plan, I’m overthinking it.
I’m definitely overthinking it. And struggling to breathe normally.
Bridget’s voice fills my head: Aren’t you ever assertive?
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then lie beside Penn, staring up at a sky full of stars, the air still and quiet except for the leaves rustling overhead.
I can’t believe I thought the basement felt romantic.
Penn cuts through the silence with a laugh. “Top-shelf tequila, huh?” He side-eyes the bottle I’ve set at my feet. “Planning to rip some shots there, Tiger?”
I face him, fighting a grin. His stare glitters in the dark.
Flirting is just teasing with eye contact, Bridget had said.
Coyly, I say, “I didn’t know what kind of night you wanted this to be.”
The line is intentionally loaded, but Penn only stares back, clearly confused.
Defeated, I reach into the bag of Twizzlers. “You used to hate these,” I remind him, swinging one around. “You said they taste like crayons, which is concerning on a few levels.”
Penn laughs. “Tastes can change.”
“Not mine.”
“C’mon. You’re telling me there’s nothing—not one thing—that’s grown on you over the years?”
He looks at me, waiting for an answer, and my mind conjures images from the past few days against my will: Penn shirtless at the dinner table, smirking as he adjusts that ridiculous scarf-bib. Penn making Mrs. Baker laugh. Penn pinned beneath me, the disco lights dancing across his face.
“Ruby?”
I jolt back into the moment, his eyes still steady on mine.
If you want Penn to see you differently, you need to act differently.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I can probably think of…something…that’s grown on me.” His brows lift, prompting me to elaborate. “Like…cucumbers.”
Penn’s lips twitch. “Cucumbers.”
“I used to think they were a waste of time, but now I find them refreshing.”
My God. Cucumbers. Bridget would be appalled.
“Good to know.” His smirk inches up, and he lets out a small laugh. “You’re really something, Wynne. You know that?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was some affection in his voice.
Warm pleasure blooms in my chest. Or maybe it’s determination, because before I can think twice, I sit up and pull my sweatshirt off, smoothing a hand over my bare shoulder.
Never has so much hinged on choosing the right tank top.
And when I turn, it’s clear: We definitely did.
I catch Penn in a sidelong glance while adjusting my strap, and his gaze lands exactly where I hoped it would. Then his eyes meet mine, and he looks away, pulling his phone from his pocket. A notification lights up the screen, and he clears it.
I lie back down, pleased with myself. “Is that your secret girlfriend again?”
Penn turns. His face is so close, he only has to whisper. “Why? You jealous?”
It’s the kind of line he’s dropped a million times, but on a dark and starry night, lying close enough to smell his citrusy soap, the moment feels different. Charged.
I whisper back, “Why? Do you want me to be?”
Penn’s eyes spark in surprise, and maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, but I’m sure of it: He wants me to be jealous. Just the thought emboldens me, and when I shift closer, our eyes lock, and I can hear his sharp inhale.
My heart sprints in anticipation. This is it. He’s going to kiss me.
I’m petrified and hopeful as I hold Penn’s gaze, daring him.
But then he turns and faces the sky, staring up at the stars, and my stomach drops.
He sits up quickly, strangely out of breath as he pulls out his phone again. “I need to take this call,” he says gruffly, still avoiding my eyes. Then he stands and leaves, tugging the back of his neck as he heads inside.
It’s a terrible excuse. We both know his phone didn’t ring.
He had a chance. And he didn’t take it.