With a smirk, I open the door and get out of the Explorer. “Fancy seeing you here,” I say and collect my thermos and flannel jacket from the backseat.
She runs her pale-pink, painted fingernails through her hair. “Yeah. Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your Sunday working on this? You already spent your morning at Sam’s and—”
“Bethany,” I say, climbing up the stairs to the second floor. Her footsteps are quiet compared to mine. “You don’t have to feel bad. It’s my project too.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve already done so much.”
“For another project that I have to do. I’m not making you do Murray’s final on your own.” Plus, I want to spend time with her. Pushing away all the reasons that’s a foolhardy idea, I find my house key, deciding to let the cards fall where they may.
When we reach the landing, Casey’s standing outside her door, two apartments down from mine. Her brown hair is braided on both sides, and her favorite doll is clutched under her arm. When she sees me, her eyes light up. “Nick!”
“Hey, squirt.” I flash her a big, toothy grin.
Casey takes in the sight of Bethany. “Hello,” she chirps, and she seems almost mesmerized.
“Hi, cutie,” Bethany says in a voice reserved for little kids. “That’s a very pretty doll you have there.”
“She’s my favorite,” Casey explains. “Her name is Pickles.”
Bethany’s eyes widen. “Oh?”
“Yep! Nick named her for me.”
I burst with laughter, more than amused by the look on Bethany’s face, as I unlock my front door. “What can I say? Pickles are my favorite.”
“They’re mine too,” Casey explains.
“For now,” Colton mutters as he steps outside. He glances between Bethany and me and pulls the door shut. “Hey there.”
“Hi, I’m Bethany.” She waves slightly.
“Colton,” he says. “And this munchkin here is Casey.”
Casey waves shyly at Bethany, like she’s awed or nervous, and I can’t help but love the kid all the more for her innocence. “You look like Cinderella.”
“I do?” Bethany peers down at her sundress as she smooths it down a little. “The cinder girl or the princess version?” she asks wryly, though her insecurity is lost on Casey.
I can’t help but chuckle as I set my stuff inside the door.
“Uh . . .” Casey considers Bethany’s question seriously. She glances between her face and her clothes. “Both, I think.”
“Well, I hope that’s a good thing,” Bethany mutters.
Colton shoves his wallet into his back pocket. “It is.”
“Yep! Yep! Yep!” Casey’s head bounces with the syllable. “She’s my second favorite Disney Princess in the whole world.” She displays a number two with her fingers.
“I see. Well, in that case, thank you very much, Casey. It was lovely to meet you.”
Colton takes her hand. “Come on Casey baby, we don’t want to make Cal angry for being late.”
“Oh boy, family dinner with the Carmichaels? That’s going to be . . . fun.”
Casey nods emphatically. “We’re having spaghetti.”
“Yep, and it’s going to be gone if we don’t get there on time,” Colton warns. “You two kids have fun.” He looks at Bethany. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she says with a little wave at both of them, and we watch father and daughter hurry away.
“Grandpa Cal would never be mad at me.” Casey’s chirps carry on the breeze as they make their way down the stairs.
“Yeah, I know. Lucky.”
I laugh at Colton’s reply and head inside my cold apartment.
“She’s cute.” Bethany wraps her arms around her middle as she steps into the icebox.
“Yeah, she’s a kick.” I flick the lights on and hand her one of my sweatshirts from the laundry basket. “It’s clean, I promise.”
She lifts a playful eyebrow but accepts it. “Thanks.”
“This place stays pretty cool, so when I don’t let the sun in during the day it’s a bit chilly. I’ll get the fire going. The sun’s going down soon.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“It’s gas and gets the living room warm in seconds. Trust me, you want the fireplace on.” I pull off one boot and tuck it out of the way by the door.
Bethany doesn’t argue. Instead, she sets her bags on the couch and checks her phone. It’s a habit of hers, I’ve noticed. She keeps it on her at all times and looks at it regularly. I have a feeling Jesse has something to do with that.
“So . . .” She drops her phone on to the couch cushion. “Your neighbor’s dating Mac, huh? It makes sense, I’ve seen them together at Lick’s.”
“Yep.” I pull off my other boot then walk to the kitchen. “They’ve been dating since Christmas. He works at Cal’s, that’s how they all met.”
“Is that complicated—them working together and him being your neighbor?”
“Not anymore.” I set my thermos on the counter, glad Mac and Colton figured their shit out. It was getting awkward there for a minute. “You can set up shop at the table.” I nod to my small-ass dining room and set my bag in the chair.
“Great. Do you want me to order a pizza or something? I’m getting a little hungry.”
“Actually, that sounds mouthwatering right now.”
She smiles and picks up her phone. “I can’t believe you named her doll Pickles,” she mutters, and I like the easiness and amusement in her voice, and that I put it there. Then, her eyes shift to me with a measure of concern. “You don’t by chance put pickles on your pizza, do you?”
I bark out a laugh. “No, I don’t, but now that you mention it, I’m not sure why. Maybe I should try it.”
“Maybe we should get two pizzas.”
“I’m kidding. If you can live with pepperoni and olives, we’ll be golden.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “That’s what I usually get—sometimes with mushrooms for Jesse.”
“Cool,” I say, though it’s more than cool, it’s perfect. She rubs the backs of her sweater-clad arms, then types into her phone. “It should warm up quickly. But here’s a blanket in the meantime.” I grab the throw draped over the other end of the sectional and walk it over to her until I’m so close, her perfume fills my nostrils, like I’ve stepped into a candy shop.
“Thank you.” Her gaze shifts to me, and she takes the blanket. Her gray eyes are so soft and captivating in the shadows of the room, I feel the rumble of something more dangerous than flirting awaken inside me.
“Uh, yeah, you order the pizza,” I say, turning for my room. “I’m going to jump in the shower.”
Twenty-Three
Bethany
My neck aches, and I cringe as I stir awake. Though I’m sitting upright, I’m in a cocoon of warmth and in a semiconscious haze that tries to pull me back to sleep. But my neck . . .
When my eyes finally open, a half-eaten pizza blurs into focus on the coffee table, project notes, blue prints, and photos strewn around it. The fire in the hearth is still blazing, lighting the room, and I realize I fell asleep. I half expect to find Nick’s left me on the couch and gone to bed, but I register his steady breathing and find he’s asleep beside me.
I glance around the room as everything in my mind’s eye sharpens. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but when I see the microwave clock reads nine-forty, I figure I’m an hour away from dirty looks and condemnation from my parents, when I get home.
My eyes find Nick again on their own accord, and a claw of panic rakes over me. My instinct is to sneak away before he wakes up and things get awkward, but the subliminal part of me—the part that feels curiosity and desire—keeps me just as I am, only inches away, admiring him despite myself.
You’re bordering on dangerous, I tell myself. But I can’t look away. Nick’s face is almost bronze in the low light of the room, and my gaze traces the scruff shadowing the outline
of his jaw, appreciating the masculinity of it. I’ve only ever seen him freshly shaven, and my fingertips are itching to feel the roughness of his skin. I imagine how his perfect lips draw up into a contagious smile—it’s so Nick, so carefree, and it intimidates me in ways I’ve never understood.
Daring to close my eyes, I lean in and inhale the scent of wood and male skin. I know now without a doubt that I’m neck-deep in an impossible situation. Nick and I are oxygen to a flame, combustible and all-consuming. Whether it’s hatred or desire, the end result would be the same. He would ruin me, and I’m barely holding on as it is.
“That tickles.” He rasps the words, and my heart gallops. Lazily, he peels one eye open.
I’m too close, too obvious. I’ve been busted. “I was checking to see if you’re awake,” I whisper, but only because I can barely find my voice.
Nick peels his other eye open, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a self-satisfied gleam in them. He tugs slightly on my hair, and when I look down between us, he’s playing with the ends that brush against his bare arm.
“Sorry,” I breathe, and when I meet his gaze again, it’s fixed on me, soft but focused. Searching and leaving me feeling exposed.
Just as I’m about to lean away and put some distance between us, he presses his mouth to mine, a bit roughly, as if impulse compelled him to, but I don’t move.
His kiss is entrancing, casting a spell over me, and I can’t keep my eyes open. A weightlessness, that feels a lot like relief, floods my senses and I kiss him back.
Despite my racing heartbeat, any apprehension I have fades when his palm cradles my cheek, warm and strong and surprisingly soft. My mind melts along with my body, becoming a malleable heap beside him to do with as he wills. This is right. This is perfection. Our muddled history dissolves to nothing. He pulls me closer, kissing me more deeply.
I’ve never felt so calm and ravenous at once, but I know I want more from him than I should. I’m overreaching. I’m setting myself up for disappointment and something too closely resembling another heartache. I can feel it as I let him in.
My hair falls in a veil over us as I lean closer, letting him consume me. All that exists in the room with us is a burning need and the crackle of the fire. I grab hold of his biceps and urge him even closer, down and over the top of me. I want to feel his warmth and weight against my body.
Our chests heave together, and I run my hands through his hair. His groan makes my fingers greedy and my body hum. I want to feel him alive and virile and like he’s mine, just for a little while.
“Wait, what are we doing?” he rasps against my mouth, then pulls away. Nick leans back against the cushion. He scrubs his hand over his face, and his chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath. “This is a bad idea.”
My lusty haze diminishes, and the warning signs I’ve been ignoring begin to flash again. The warmth of the room becomes a cold vacuum, assaulting my exposed skin. The burn of rejection and my erratically racing heart feels too much like I’ve lost control, and I can’t allow that right now. There’s too much at stake—it’s too similar to shadows of my past.
I shake my head and rake my fingers through my hair. “You’re right,” I breathe. “That was the stupidest thing we could’ve done.” I rest my elbows on my thighs and let out a deep breath.
Nick leans forward as well. “I don’t know about the stupidest, but—”
“I’m gonna go,” I say quickly and hurry to my feet. I start shoving all my notes and the project materials into my bag, no rhyme or reason to any of it.
“Hey, wait.” Nick reaches for my arm. “Don’t go yet.”
I laugh desperately. “Why not, we’re clearly done working.”
“Because,” he says, peering up at me, his green eyes shimmering in the flickering firelight. “We have to make whatever this is between us work. Don’t run away and make it weirder and more complicated than it already is.” He runs his thumb over my arm, a reassuring gesture that only makes staying more difficult.
I pull my arm away. “You’re right, things are definitely weird and complicated, but my staying won’t change that, Nick,” I admit. “It was an impulsive kiss, probably something we needed to get out of our system. But, it is late and I need to get home. We have class tomorrow.”
“I think you know it’s more than just an impulsive kiss.”
“Whatever it was, you were right.” I haul my bag strap over my shoulder. I’m not going to get mixed up with Nick, not now when I have enough to deal with. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You know what I mean.”
Nick shakes his head. “Why do you think it’s like this with us?” he asks, eyes fixed on my arm where he held it. “Being drawn together only for you to push me away.” Finally, his gaze shifts to me, expectant.
“Push you away? You make it sound like I’m playing games with you all the time or something. You ended that kiss, Nick, not me. And I need to focus on graduation right now. I can’t keep falling into this trap.” I know Nick isn’t Mike, but the risk with Nick is even greater, I know it, deep down in my bones, and I cannot do that again. “I have more to lose this time,” I remind myself.
Nick’s expression hardens. “We already discussed this. You make a lot of assumptions about me—I’m not like Mike.”
“I’m not saying you are but—” I turn to face him fully, my patience thinning. “What is this between us, Nick?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did, so that it would stop haunting me.”
“Exactly. We’re not ready for this, not right now.”
“Speak for yourself,” he bites out. “I think we should see what happens.”
“What—why? In what world is us a good idea?” His friends don’t like me, I barely like them, and Nick knows next to nothing about me. Then there’s Savannah who’s “not” his girlfriend.
“What’s the alternative, ignoring whatever this tension is between us?”
“We’ve been doing it for this long,” I say with what patience and willpower I have left.
“Yeah, and look where it’s gotten us.” His gaze is fixed on me, pinning me in place and willing me to see his point of view, and I do, which is why I know anything more between us is a risk.
“Fine, then. I’m not ready for this. I don’t have room in my life for the outcome of a see-what-happens relationship.”
Nick’s brow furrows. “So, what, you’ve already got it in your head that it won’t work? Instead of trying, you’re going keep surrounding yourself with douchebags, like the one in the bar the other night?”
“Just because you don’t know Ryan, doesn’t mean he’s a douchebag, Nick. Stop assuming you know me.” His judgement only magnifies the years of narrowed looks and snide comments he’s made. That my parents have made. That all Nick’s friends have always made. They don’t know me, and I’m tired of everyone assuming that they do.
Nick shakes his head and groans. “God, this is so dysfunctional,” he says with a laugh. “And I thought I was always the level-headed one. Yet here I am, trying to convince you to, what, go out with me?” He laughs and leans back on the couch. “I didn’t see this coming.”
Nick’s words are like a prick to my heart and my ego. Does he even know what dysfunction looks like?
“Then let me spare you the hassle of worrying about any sort of dysfunctional relationship with me,” I say and open the front door. “Let’s just focus on being partners and getting through this with our sanity intact, shall we?” I don’t bother looking back at him as I shut the door behind me. He’s right, this is dysfunctional and I have enough of that in my life, I don’t need Nick thrown in the mix, too.
Twenty-Four
Nick
“Let’s see which one of you can tell me the difference between modern and postmodern architecture in two sentences or less.” Professor Murray glances around the room expectantly. A few people raise their hands, but he calls on Bet
hany.
“All right, Miss Fairchild, why don’t you take a stab at it.”
She taps her pen against her notepad, a tick I’ve noticed since our first class together. “Uh, well,” she starts, clearly searching her memory for the answer. “Modern architecture was dominant after World War II through the 20th century, and incorporated new construction technologies, like reinforced steel and glass. Postmodern architecture expanded the movement, introducing a more high-tech aspect.”
“And,” Professor Murray drawls, “what do you mean by high-tech, exactly?”
I’m not sure why Bethany always seems to look like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car when the professor singles her out, but she does. You’d think after four years of lectures and classes she’d be over it by now. She always knows the answers, even if she has to think about them for a second first.
“Uh,” she starts again, tapping her pen more fervently, “architecture wasn’t just about the exterior, but the interior too—the steel and glass and concrete all became a major part of interior design in postmodernism, not something ugly that was meant to be hidden. At least in larger buildings. It was more ‘outside of the box’ design, so to speak.”
“And the year of this transition to postmodernism?” he quizzes her.
I see a twinkle in her eye this time. “It’s a gray area, Professor Murray. We’re not exactly sure. It’s a bridge more than a new era of design.”
I’m not sure if it’s amusement I see playing on the professor’s features or surprise. Maybe a little of both. He nods then addresses the rest of the class. “Who can tell me which major architects played a role in this bridge Miss Fairchild speaks of?”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 80