Chapter Thirteen Scarlett / Evan #2
He steps in behind me, caging me in with his chest and his arms, and I forget what I was about to say.
I can smell him everywhere, feel the heat of his body against mine.
It makes my nerves sing, my body fighting between tensing up and relaxing under his touch in a way I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying.
He doesn’t say anything, but he reaches over to pick up the cue, settling it in my hands. His warm palms cover mine for the second time tonight and I don’t know where to look. Should I stare at his hands, or should I turn to see his face? Both seem like bad options.
We’re so close like this that I can feel his heartbeat against my back, feel every place my body slots in with his. My ass brushes against his lap and I suck in a breath, my pulse hammering. I immediately feel lightheaded. I need to lie down or something.
“You’re gripping it too tight,” Evan whispers, his voice warm and soft against my neck. I’m not sure how I manage it, but I drop the cue into his waiting hands. He readjusts it in my hand, my grip looser, my right hand closer to the tip, while my other rests closer to the top.
He takes a step away from me, but it doesn’t do anything to relieve the tension, because I can still feel his hands everywhere.
And just from his touch alone I can’t stop myself from imagining his hands elsewhere.
On my neck. My collarbone. Both of his palms splayed across my stomach. And lower. And lower.
“Nope,” I mutter quietly to myself. I need to get myself under control. I am not thirsting over Evan Branson’s hands, for Christ’s sake. Or where I want them on my body. Not at all. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m probably just worked up after the last hookup I had wasn’t fulfilling and now a mildly attractive man is behind me, he smells good, and—
His hand touches my back, and I am this close to caving.
His palm slides across my lower back before he makes his way up my spine, the fabric of my shirt getting caught in his journey up and up until he applies some pressure to my back, leaning me forward.
He’s only there for a second before he steps back again, but his touch lingers.
I focus on the task at hand, lining up my cue with the white ball.
I take my shot again, watching the balls rattle against each other.
I don’t know what any of it means, or if it’s good or bad, but I find myself turning to Evan for an answer.
For validation. For correction. For . . .
anything. Anything that will make me feel the way I did ten minutes ago when I beat him, not whatever this is.
I lick my lips, jerking my head in a motion as if to say, So?, and he grins evilly, like he wants me to have an attitude with him. He waits a couple seconds, gives me nothing just because he knows it’ll torture me.
Eventually, finally, he leans closer to me and whispers, “Good job, Scarlett.”
The three words light a fire in my stomach.
He’s not being teasing or mean. He’s being genuinely sincere, and all at once, I want him closer to me.
I want him to whisper the praise into my skin until it’s the only thing I know.
I want that stupid dimple back and I want it pressed against my stomach or my thighs.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?
I need to pull it together.
He’s just a man.
A man I don’t even like.
Evan finally snaps me out of my thoughts, stepping back from me and prying the cue from my grip to put it back on the table. “The next game’s starting. We should probably head back.”
EVAN
I have a problem.
A very serious, should-probably-see-a-doctor kind of problem.
I am overwhelmed by the urge to be close to Scarlett. This isn’t like me. I don’t even like when my own clothes are touching me most of the time, and yet here I am, completely undone by her.
I need to get it under control and quick.
I want things to go back to the way they were. When I didn’t think about her this much. Even at the rehearsals in Boston last week, I messed up one of my solos because I spent more time thinking about her than I did on my piece.
I can’t want her like this. I know I can’t.
Not only would our families murder each other but also because Scarlett doesn’t feel anything for me other than annoyance and hatred.
She’s only just started getting used to spending time together outside of class, but would she want to be around me if we weren’t working on a project together? I doubt it.
I used to be good at removing myself from situations when things got too intense, but now I feel like I’m the one initiating them, some daring part of me always willing to see how far we’ll go. I know it’s stupid and it’s bound to get me in some very big trouble.
And because I’ve been checked out since what just happened at the pool table, my team is drawing against Wren, Kennedy, and Scarlett in beer pong. I’m on a team with Xavier and Miles, and neither of them is as good at this as I thought they’d be.
They’re lucky I even decided to come out tonight. When Miles told me about this party, my first instinct was to make up some dumb excuse about studying or going to visit my dad. It would’ve been so easy to pull out and disappear for a few hours, but I weirdly want to be here.
I want to play dumb games with my friends and watch them do karaoke at random points during the night.
I want to be around Scarlett and the girls and let them tease me, because it gives my brain something else to focus on for a second.
It’s chaotic and loud, and I’m definitely going to have some regrets in the morning, but for now it’s good. Better than it has been in a while.
The last shot is down to Miles. If he gets this, we win the game; if he misses, we lose. Xavier stands beside him, rubbing his shoulders as if he’s about to be thrown into a wrestling ring. I give him some of my own advice, telling him to focus and stay calm so we can win this round.
It’s not helping that he’s a lovesick puppy and his girlfriend is on the other side of the table purposely stretching her hands above her head to show off her stomach. I honestly don’t think it would take much more from Wren to distract him.
“Wren’s cheating!” he shouts at Michelle, Xavier’s girlfriend, who is scoring this round.
She just shares a grin with Wren before shrugging.
Scarlett watches Miles carefully, probably trying to psych him out with her intense staring.
When she catches me looking, she scowls at me too, and I laugh, shaking my head.
You look constipated, I mouth, doing hand gestures and everything.
Scarlett just flips me the bird before pointing at me and dragging a finger across her throat, making a motion of slitting it. I laugh even harder at that. She’s so competitive about everything that it’s getting a little adorable, especially after she beat me at arm-wrestling.
“I’m not cheating,” Wren argues. “You’re just a sore loser, baby.”
“You know that nickname is my weakness!”
I groan at their constant bickering, and all the girls laugh. Wren slowly shimmies off her cardigan, pouting at her boyfriend.
The tips of Miles’s ears turn pink. “Look at me like that one more time and I swear to God—”
“Just throw the damn ball, Davis,” I say, nudging him.
The split second before the ball leaves his hand, Wren winks at him and from that, I can tell the shot is going to be a miss.
Still, I watch it play out in slow motion.
The ball bounces on the table once. Then twice.
Then again, losing its height before it rolls right off.
The second it drops to the ground, the girls all jump in unison, cheering loudly.
I watch the sly smirk on Scarlett’s lips as she turns to me. She holds her hand up against her forehead in an ‘L’ shape, mouthing the word ‘loser’ over and over again as she makes her way to our side of the table.
Wren practically skips up to Miles, laughing hysterically in his face, and he takes it.
“Are you done?” he asks her. She shakes her head, still laughing, before he grabs her face and kisses her deeply, silencing her laughter.
“Very weird reaction for someone who just lost,” I mutter. Scarlett’s beside me now, leaning against the wall as she watches them make out, before diverting her eyes to the ground.
“I don’t think he could ever lose if it came to her. Losing a game against Wren is like winning to him,” she replies, a short laugh escaping her mouth.
“Doesn’t it get tiring?” I ask. She looks up at me, not understanding. “I mean, you’re around them all the time being all lovey-dovey and cute. Doesn’t it annoy you?”
She shrugs. “I mean, it can get annoying sometimes, but I don’t mind it. I’d much prefer whatever this is than pure silence.”
I grin. “You’d prefer anything over silence. That’s why you argue with me all the time.”
“That and a million other reasons.”
I hum. “Do you believe in that sort of stuff? Romance? Fate?”
She raises an eyebrow, eyeing me suspiciously, as if she can’t tell if I’m being serious or not.
Still, she answers anyway. “Do I believe in the idea that my life is not really mine and it’s controlled by some mysterious third person?
Not really. I like having control. I like my life the way it is because I’m the one pulling most of the strings. ”
I bump my shoulder into hers. “You said ‘most of the strings.’ ” That just earns me another stare. I laugh. “You’re not really a cynic, are you?”
She doesn’t answer that. “What about you? Do you believe your one true love is out there waiting to find you?”
I answer her honestly. It’s not something I think about often, but it’s still something I believe in. I’ve not had the best of luck with relationships, but that’s never deterred me.
“I think there’s a person for everybody, so yes, I’d like to think there’s someone for me,” I tell her.
She twists her mouth to the side, trying not to laugh. “You mean someone willing to put up with you.”
“That too.”