We just sit in silence, studying.
“The library is quiet today,” he mumbles.
My breath hitches at the sound of his voice. Keeping my head down, I try to ignore him for as long as possible, but when I look up, he’s watching me, his mouth turned up in amusement. Our eyes lock and he smiles at me with one of his panty-dropping, charming expressions and that’s it. With one look, I’m gone. Consumed by him. He’s that good.
“I’ll alert the media.” I try to sound bored.
He chews on the pen in his mouth and smiles before placing a folded note on my book.
My focus drops to it and then back to him. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
I do, and frown when I see that it’s blank. I eye him curiously.
“There is nothing written on it,” I point out.
“I know.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Here’s the thing. I was going to write I’m sorry on it. But after I thought about it, I’m not sorry. I have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not sure why you’re pissed off at me.”
“What makes you think I’m pissed off at you?”
“It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken.”
Sitting back in my chair, I wrinkle my nose while my eyes drink him in. He’s right. Aside from being slightly rude and put off because I didn’t tell him about having a boyfriend, he didn’t do anything to merit whatever crazy emotional bender I’ve been on.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not pissed.”
He blows out a long relieved breath. “Then what’s the issue between us, Em?”
Looking around, I lower my voice. “It’s complicated.”
“We’re complicated?”
“It. It is complicated.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
A slow smile creeps across his lips. “I haven’t asked you to sleep with me.”
I lean forward. “Not with words.”
“Not with words,” he nods and repeats at the same time.
I wave my hand at him. “Your seductive looks, hot tattoos and sexy, indifferent attitude toward me, and life in general, aren’t alluring. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
A light chuckle falls out of him. “Your unresponsiveness toward me is noted.”
“I mean it, Lincoln,” I bite out. “This”—I point between us—“can’t happen.”
“I’m not trying to get in your pants, Em.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m trying to be friends with you.”
“Friends?” I repeat, disbelief lining my voice.
“Friends.”
“The way you flirt?”
“For the record”—he leans in closer so his breath washes over me—“you flirt back.”
Holding my breath, I stare at his lips. They’re so close to mine. If I lean forward the slightest bit, mine would brush his. The truth is, I think the realization that I might actually like this guy and want to spend time with him is making me far more skittish about a possible friendship with him, because right now, all I want is to devour his mouth.
Lincoln’s eyes meet mine. They’re calm and serene, but if you look deeper, you can see the untamed wild darkness that swirls like a cloudy storm in their steely depths.
“Emerson,” he whispers, and I shiver. “Do you want to be friends?”
My full name on his lips sounds different. Like I’m some sort of special and mystical creature to be revered. And I like it. I like the way he makes me feel. And that’s really bad.
“What if . . . I say no?”
“What if . . . you say yes?”
My insides heat, because apparently I have a thing for his voice. It’s husky and warm, slow and teasing. Velvety and smooth, like silky hot chocolate on a cool fall day.
“Do I really have a choice?”
“Nope.”
My skin prickles with reluctance. “Then I guess we’re friends,” I give in.
He sits back in his chair, watching me with a curious expression. “Good. Now, tell me about this prep school tool you’re dating, who clearly isn’t good enough for you.”
6
The harsh fluorescent lights above me hum quietly in the empty room, while the clean, fresh smell of laundry detergent mixed with fabric softener curls around me. From my seated position on the dryer, I look up and across the aisle to check how much time is left on my washing machine before shoving my nose back into my book to finish my chapter.
A few minutes later, a shadow crosses over me, prompting me to look up.
“Hey,” I say, taking my earbuds out.
“Hey yourself,” Lincoln replies. “Laundry night?”
I nod. “I like to come down here late so I can study. It’s quiet and warm.”
“Warm, huh?” He looks around the dorm’s basement turned laundromat.
“From all the dryers,” I explain.
“Not a fan of the cold?”
“Nope. Warmth is my jam.”
“Your jam?” Lincoln laughs. “Well, if it’s your jam, Em.”
He places his full basket on the dryer next to me while preparing a washing machine to use across from us. For the longest time, I just stare at the shirts sitting on top of his dirty clothes, curbing the desire to curl up in them because I know they’ll smell like him.
When he clears his throat, I realize I’ve acquired some serious stalker tendencies.
“Did my shirts offend you?”
“What?” I look at him.
“You’re giving them a dirty look.”
“Am I?”
“It’s as if they’ve mouthed off to you or something.”
An odd sound falls out of me. It’s half laugh, half groan. “No. Sorry.”
Lincoln’s eyes search mine and he gives me a strange look I don’t quite understand before shrugging it off. Turning my attention back to my book, I pretend to read, but every so often, my gaze lifts and I watch him separate out his clothes and throw them into the top machines. His height allows him to reach them without issue. I’m envious; my five-foot frame only allows me access to the bottom washers, and for whatever reason they take longer than the top ones do to run through the wash and rinse cycles.
With his back turned, I openly stare at his broad shoulders and solid muscles. He looks like he’s been working out more. Every time he lifts his arms, the thermal he’s wearing slides up, giving me a peek at his toned and tanned lower back right where the top of his jeans meets the bottom hem of his shirt. It’s an amazing view. Stunning really.
And those damn jeans. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the way they hug his ass in the most perfect way. I don’t realize he’s turned back around and is watching me until he clears his throat again. I summon the courage to look at him, knowing I’ve been caught.
I blink like crazy, doing my best to pull my shit together around him.
A mischievous glint flashes in his eyes. “Are you checking me out?”
“No.” The word comes out of my mouth too quickly.
Lincoln cocks his head to the side, considering me. “Sure you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t,” I state, a little too firmly. “I was checking the time left on my machine.”
He steps away from his empty basket on the floor, walking toward me before he stops directly in front of me. “This is a different look for you,” he says. “More . . . casual.”
I look down at my favorite long sweatshirt, yoga pants, and fuzzy slippers.
“It’s laundry day,” I say, as if that explains my frumpy look. “And midnight.”
“Not many girls can pull off just rolled out of bed and still look cute as hell.”
“Your point?”
“You can.”
I squint my eyes at him. “You’re flirting again.”
Lincoln gets a faraway reflective look on his face before he shakes it off. “Sorry.”
Some of his h
air has fallen back into his face and it’s all I can do not to reach over and brush it away. I bet it’s soft. I scold myself. What is it with me when he’s around? It’s like he drains me of all my common sense and proper etiquette, making me look and act crazy.
He touches my textbook, lifting up one side so he can look at the cover.
“You contemplating declaring architecture as a major instead of walking around all . . . undecided?” His charming smile is back, firmly etched on his lips.
“Probably not. It just sounded like an interesting lecture.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. I like it so far. I mean, I’m not sure if I want to spend the rest of my life designing buildings, but it’s a cool class and it takes care of my art science credit,” I reply.
“I need to find something to cover that requirement.”
“I recommend it.” I smile brightly. “It’s not an easy A, but it’s stimulating.”
Lincoln smirks at me, and all of his usual sharp edges soften a bit, making him even more attractive. I lick my lips and his gaze drops to my mouth before he steps closer.
“Truth be told, Em, I’m not interested in something easy,” he says in a low, rumbling voice that vibrates straight through me. “I prefer challenges and . . . stimulation.”
Silence quickly falls between us, our eyes catching and staying locked on one another. My skin feels all flushed and heated, as if the dryers all turned on at once and raised the room’s temperature. Thoughts and feelings run wild through me, all blurring together and stupefying me, because whatever it is that my heart is doing, it can’t be good. At all.
An impish grin sharpens his features as he leans in a bit closer. “Want to play a game?”
My eyebrows pull together, confused at the topic change. “What kind of game?”
“Truth or Dare.”
“What?” I laugh nervously.
He slides himself onto the dryer next to me and points to his empty basket. “I have a tub of detergent pods. We’ll each take a turn trying to get one into the basket. Whoever makes the shot gets to pose truth or dare to the other person. Then they have to answer the question, or perform the dare. It’ll be a fun way for us to pass time while we wait.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Scared?”
“No. It’s just . . .” I trail off, trying to come up with a reason not to play.
Looking over at him, I try not to seem unnerved, when in actuality I am so out of my comfort zone with him. He always makes me feel so unhinged and disjointed.
Lincoln hands me a pod and winks as I roll my eyes at his childish excitement.
“I promise not to ask to see your panties,” he announces. “Unless you want me to.”
“If you want to see my panties, Lincoln, all you have to do is look up. They’re tumbling in the washing machine in front of you.” I smirk when he swallows and tries not to look.
“Ladies first,” he says, distracted, pushing his sleeves up.
My eyes roam over his tattoos before I throw the pod. In one shot, I get it in. That’s when I realize the basket is way too close for either one of us to actually miss. Interesting.
He rubs his hands together. “I’ll take truth.”
My eyes slide to his. “Truth, huh? Scared?”
He scowls at the wall of washers, avoiding my eyes. “I think I actually am.”
“Don’t be,” I say, softening my voice as he meets my gaze again.
For a moment, I actually forget what we’re doing. We just stare at each other in silence, like we are waiting for something or trying to figure something out. It’s weird.
Lincoln looks at me with unguarded eyes. “So, what do you want to know?”
“Where are you from?” I start with the easy stuff.
“Trenton. It’s a shitty little town about an hour from here.”
“What’s so shitty about it?”
He waves the pod at me. “My turn.”
I watch as his pod slips into the basket and his expression fills with excitement.
“Truth,” I grumble.
He laughs. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I frown. “I told you. I’m undecided.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“No?” I ask in disbelief. “Why not?”
“Everyone wants more. To be something, someone, or somewhere different.”
I cross my arms over my chest, my expression twisting and becoming tight with tension. “Maybe I’m already who, or where, I’m supposed to be,” I reply dryly.
“You aren’t.” His gaze runs over me and he pushes a hand through his hair.
Watching him, my heart squeezes. No one has ever asked me what I want. Not ever.
My family has a plan for my future—their plan. I’ve never been given a choice.
“It’s silly, but sometimes I daydream of moving to California,” I admit. “Basking in the warmth of the sunshine. Meeting new people. Making it on my own . . .” I trail off.
“That isn’t silly,” he says, focused on our conversation.
“No?”
“Not at all. I can see you relaxing under a blue sky with the sun kissing your skin.”
I like the picture Lincoln paints. And I like him.
I throw another pod into the basket. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your family like?”
“My dad is dead. My mom is remarried to an asshole. I have a lot of cousins. I also have a half sister, but we aren’t close. I don’t spend a lot of time with my family, or at home.”
Suddenly, I feel like a jerk for asking about his family. “That must suck.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
He points to my sympathetic frown. “Everyone does that. Don’t be like everyone else, Em. I accept my life. It doesn’t matter where I come from, or what shitty hand I’ve been dealt. Life is about getting back up, no matter how many times you’re kicked around.”
I clear my throat. “Have you been kicked around a lot?”
He works his jaw for the longest time. “Every damn day of my life.”
My gaze floats over him and I can see the darkness seeping through the cracks.
And it’s that darkness that draws me to him, because in a way, it’s just like mine.
Two pods land in the basket, shifting my attention, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“You just asked me for two truths,” he explains. “I get two now.”
I take in a deep breath. “Dare.” I switch it up on him.
He flashes me a wicked smile and his eyes go all naughty, and I know I’m screwed. I immediately regret my decision when he leans into my personal space, caging me in.
“I dare you to let me in. To show me the parts of yourself that you hide from everyone else. The ones behind this . . . façade of control and perfection you work so hard to maintain.”
I study him for a moment. “You think I’m hiding something?”
“I think you’re hiding a lot.”
Lincoln moves closer, the heat from his strong, solid body seeping into me as he leans into my side. I exhale, hating myself for wanting to show him those parts of me.
“And if I am?” I whisper.
Gradually he lifts a hand, tucking my hair behind my ear before holding his hand still with his thumb on my cheek. My breathing ceases at his touch. Ever so slowly, his thumb runs across my skin. I know I should stop him, but every part of me savors the intimate way he’s touching me and the glimmer of desire in his eyes.
“Those secrets you hide, you do it because you don’t want the world to see them. You don’t think they’ll accept them. I get it. More than you know. But here’s the thing—under all your layers of perfection, I see the real you,” he whispers. “Just like you see me.”
Something ignites within me, knowing he sees through my armor. It’s unsettling, but even more, it’s exhilarating. Being near Lincoln is an addicti
ve feeling, and I want more.
Taking a breath, I lean closer, only to stop the moment the washing machine beeps. Its high-pitched sound pulls me out of my lust-filled fog. I turn away from him, slide off the dryer, and walk to the machine. Leaning down, I open the door, putting my wet clothes into my own basket. When I’m finished, I turn around to see he’s been watching me the entire time. Ignoring him, I head over to the dryer I was sitting on, open the lid, and start shoving my clothes into it, trying to remind myself I can’t like him, and I certainly can’t kiss him.
I can’t get addicted to him. He isn’t mine to get addicted to.
Without a word, Lincoln’s hand snaps out and his long fingers curl around my wrist. The heat of his touch forces me to look at him. When I meet his soft expression, I shiver.
This heightened awareness of him is driving me insane.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“Can’t do what, Em?”
“Whatever this is we’re doing.”
“We’re playing a game. Getting to know one another.”
“No. We aren’t.” I slam the cover down and turn on the dryer with an angry snap. “Getting to know one another is learning about each other’s favorite foods and colors.” I step away from him, my skin feeling itchy. It’s too tight, because he sees through it.
Right into my soul.
I love it.
And I hate it.
His brows lift. “You want to have a superficial friendship with me?”
“Yes,” I reply quickly. “No. I don’t know,” I exhale, tripping over my words.
Lincoln frowns at my response as his eyes dip and focus on my trembling hands.
“Green,” he pushes out, in a deceptively calm voice.
“What?”
“Green is my favorite color.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “I love Italian food. Not so much the pasta, but I’m a fan of the chicken dishes, like piccata. I’m not big on sweets. I love ice cream, though. I got my first tattoo when I was fourteen. It was something to hide a scar my shithead of a father gave me during a beating before he died. I like to sleep in and stay up late. I love beer but hate tequila. I’m a sports medicine major because I can’t imagine not being around a baseball field. I’m not good enough to play professionally, so my major will still keep me tied to it. I’d love to coach someday, maybe little league. I don’t really want to be married. Or have kids. I love to laugh, so comedies are my favorite movies, and I try to read but don’t do as much as I should. As for music, Pearl Jam is my favorite band.” He pauses. “And I like hanging out with you, Em.”
IF | A Novel Page 3