by Anna Todd
Nora doesn’t waste any time before taking her next turn. “What do you like more, sports or reading? What’s your favorite memory from your childhood? And how did your dad die?”
I stand a few feet away from her and lean against the counter.
“Reading. Though I love sports almost as much. My favorite childhood memory is really hard to choose.” I skim through the happiest memories I can pull up. “The first that comes to mind is when my aunt and her husband used to take me to baseball games when I was younger. We went a lot; every time was my favorite. My dad died from natural causes.”
“No one dies from natural causes in real life.”
The smell of onions fills my senses, and I back away slightly. Nora chops the onions like those chefs on TV. It’s pretty cool to watch.
“My dad did. He had a heart attack when I was little.”
Nora regards me quietly, and her hand moves the spoon in quick circles to mix the batter.
“My turn. How did your parents meet? If you weren’t a pastry chef, what would you want to do? Why did Dakota kick you out of the apartment?” I slide that last question in pretty gracefully, I would say.
Using a spoon, Nora drops her mix into the cupcake pan. “My parents met while my dad was on a business trip in Colombia. He does a lot of work with charities, and he had a team in Bogotá to train surgeons at a local hospital there. My dad is from Kuwait, but was already living in Washington State. My mom worked at the cafeteria in the hospital in Bogotá, and my dad fell in love with her.”
I look over at Nora, taking in her features. What a beautiful mix of ethnicities she is.
“If I wasn’t a pastry chef, I would open up a food truck, like the ones that park on the streets in Williamsburg. Dakota kicked me out of the apartment because she felt threatened by me. She told me to stay away from you, and I didn’t listen.” Nora smiles, laughing lightly. “So now I’m homeless.”
I frown in frustration. “It’s not funny that you were kicked out of your apartment.”
Nora rolls her eyes at me and walks to the oven, pan in hand. I move over to her and open the oven door. She sets the pan on the center rack and closes the door.
She turns to me. “My turn. How many people have you slept with? How did you meet Dakota? How often do you think about fucking me?”
I can’t begin to describe the noise I made when she asked her last question. My body tenses, and blood flows through me, straight to my cock. I push and push the thoughts away, but the mental images of Nora straddling me are so hard to battle.
“I’ve only had sex with one person. I’m sure you can guess who that is. I met Dakota when I was just a kid. She was my next-door neighbor . . . And I’m skipping the last question.”
She shoots me a dirty look. Dirty as in pissed off, not as in she wants to rip my clothes off.
“Hmm . . .” Nora hums, and taps her index finger on her lips.
I clear my throat and pray that my jeans can hide what I’m thinking.
“My turn.” I can hear the change in my voice. It’s thick with longing and need, and I really just want to push her soft body against the counter and lift her shirt over her head and taste her skin.
I ask the first questions that pop into my head without screening them. “How did you meet your last boyfriend? Does it bother you that I’ve only slept with Dakota? And how often do you think about fucking me?”
Her eyes dart away from mine, and she carries the mixing bowl to the sink and turns on the water. “I met him through my parents. My dad has some business with his. Yes, it bothers me like you wouldn’t believe. I think about fucking you nearly every minute of every day.”
My voice gets caught in my throat, and I can’t breathe. My stomach flutters like a thousand angry moths are swarming inside me.
I don’t know what to say to Nora, the twenty-five-year-old woman who for some reason wants to fuck me. Her words hit every nerve in my body, and I’m not sure I could actually handle her. Inside my head, she’s already naked, spread out on my bed and calling for me.
Gah, she actually wants me. And thinks about fucking me. And has no problem telling me. I’m so out of my league here, yet my fingers are twitching, wanting to touch her.
“Oh,” I say. I ball my hands into fists to keep them from reaching for her.
Nora doesn’t look at me, and I don’t trust what my body would do if she turned around. She washes the bowl and pats it dry with a kitchen towel.
“My turn. Do you trust me? What’s your favorite TV show? And . . .” She tilts her head back and forth, thinking. “If Dakota came here right now and begged for you to take her back, would you?”
Why did I create this stupid game, anyway?
Instead of calling it quits, I suck it up and continue with the next round of answers. “I do. I don’t know if I should, but I do trust you. My favorite TV show is Arrested Development. And no, I don’t think I would.”
Nora finally turns around to look at me. After making brief eye contact, she looks to the floor quickly. “Don’t think you would? Or wouldn’t? You don’t sound very sure.”
I grab a rag from the counter to busy my nervous hands. “I wouldn’t.”
Nora nods and stands still, leaning her back on the counter next to the fridge. I jump into the next set of questions, intentionally keeping my body a few feet away from hers.
“Do you trust me?” I steal her question and she notices, regarding me with an eye roll. “Did your last relationship end on a good note or a bad one? And lastly, do you have feelings for me? Beyond sexual attraction?”
Nora’s fingers tug at the loose pieces of her braid. Her long, almond-shaped fingernails are painted black, and she has flour dusted on her knuckles. “I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else in the entire world the way I trust you, and that frightens me, because I barely know you—and you don’t know me at all.”
I want to interrupt her and tell her that I know her better than she thinks. I want to tell her that I’m going to know her even better than she can fathom. I’m going to know her better than she knows herself, and I’m willing to play this game every day until I do.
On paper, I couldn’t write her down. I could make a bullet-point list, but I couldn’t draw her in the vibrant colors she deserves. I’m learning more of the depths of her each time I’m with her, and it’s not an easy feat, breaking down wall after wall, but I will learn her soul. I will study every page of her until I can recite them from memory.
“My last relationship ended on a bad note. Worse than that, really. And I’m skipping the last question.” Nora’s hands are still fidgeting with her hair, and she shuffles her feet.
I look down at them, and she moves again. She’s restless, and so am I.
“I want to go again. Then you can go twice. Okay?” I say.
She nods, staying silent.
I step closer to her. She seems so small now, in my kitchen. With blushed cheeks and downcast eyes. She’s still the warrior I met, but she’s without her weapon.
“Do you have feelings for me, aside from attraction?” I ask her again, taking a wide step to her. She tugs on her hair but doesn’t move. She nods her head unconsciously, and I move to stand in front of her body.
She looks up at me, and I touch her chin with the tips of my index finger and thumb. She sighs into my touch.
“Next question.” I bend my neck just enough so that my face is positioned just above hers.
She waits patiently, her eyes on mine. Her eyelashes shadow the tops of her cheeks when she blinks. I keep my fingers on her chin so she can’t look away from me.
“Does it scare you, the way you feel about me?” My question is heavy, and I feel the weight of it pass to Nora.
She nods.
I cup her cheek now, gliding my hand over her skin to rest on her neck. I lean closer, so close that I can hear each breath that passes between her lips. I can see so many things from here. The worry in her eyes, the set of her mouth. I try to keep my nerv
ous hands steady as I take her into them. I slide my free hand behind her back and grab the counter. She’s intoxicating, so sweet and addicting that I can’t look away from her. I have her cornered now, caught between me and the counter.
Fire is burning up my spine, through my chest.
“What’s your last question?” Nora whispers, and I taste her breath.
I move my hand down her arm, touching her just enough to tickle her skin. Bumps form in my wake, and a shiver moves over her body. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
chapter
Twelve
Nora
I KNOW THAT IF I nod, all bets are off. Landon will press his mouth to mine, and there will be no more talking. That can’t happen. Not that I don’t want it to, because, boy, do I.
“Skip,” I say into his mouth.
His eyes drop, ever so slightly, and I hate the look in his eyes. I saw it in Scarsdale and when I left outside Juliette. Sadness should never touch Landon, not him.
“I’m skipping the question. If I don’t, we will never talk like this.” Each word burns like bleach down my throat. I want his hands on me more than I would ever be stupid enough to admit.
I kept on telling myself to keep my distance from this boy. He’s too young for you, Nora. Too young.
I look at the dark stubble on his chin. He was freshly shaven yesterday. I can’t believe that’s something I pay attention to, but I can’t help but notice. The hair grows thicker around his chin. He doesn’t look so young now, standing in front of me with his eyes on me. His eyes aren’t as young as his body. Something older, wiser, is inside them. I don’t know what it was, but something hurt him deeper than just a breakup with Dakota.
“You’re skipping the question?” His lips turn up, forming a shy smile, and his arms close tighter around me. He’s still gripping the edge of the counter, but the safe space between us is getting smaller and smaller.
I nod, and his smile grows. Barely moving, he shakes his head, just slightly.
My God, he’s convincing.
And too nice.
He’s too nice for you, Nora.
Way, way, way too nice.
Fuck, I’ve turned into that woman I always thought I despised. I hate women like that; they are the literal worst.
This is how that woman works:
Phase One: She sits around with her closest friends, drinking wine in their pajamas. “I’ve dated too many assholes. Why are all men assholes?” she cries into her cheap Moscato. “No more assholes for me.” She raises her coffee mug full of wine.
Phase Two: She shows up for coffee with her friends. She suddenly likes bitter coffee because her new beau does, and he’s nice and smart, and she’s never dating an asshole again. “He’s so sweet,” she tells her friends. And she’s right—you won’t find him at a bar on a Friday night, or nursing a hangover on Saturday morning. You’ll find him walking the aisles of Anthropologie, holding her coffee while she tries on everything in the store.
Phase Three: She sits with her friends at a nightclub, wearing a new black dress, and has curled her hair for the first time in a month. She’s wearing full makeup, not for her nice guy, not even for herself. “I’m kinda not sure about him anymore. He’s kind of boring,” she complains, and shares a smile with a hot guy in the crowd.
Phase Four (last and final phase): She sits on her couch, watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. Her friends sit around her with wine in their hands. “Men are such assholes,” she says, because the hot guy from the club cheated on her and now she’s back to Phase One.
I am that woman right now.
“I don’t think skipping that one’s very fair.” Landon’s mouth touches my ear, and I shiver.
My God, this man.
This man is Tessa’s best friend.
I have to remind myself of this. This is one of the thousand reasons I have to end this mess between us now. He’s her best, best, best friend in the world, and if I fuck that up, I would never forgive myself.
Tessa has dealt with enough this year, between Hardin’s ruining her life and her not getting into NYU yet. She lost her dad and the love of her life, and I’ve seen the way she leans on Landon for support; if I take Tessa’s rock away, I wouldn’t deserve him anyway.
“Nothing in life is fair.” I bend my knees and duck out of his cage.
I can’t think clearly enough to be anything close to productive when Landon’s this close to me. Every time I step into the elevator in this building, I tell myself, Keep it together. Don’t stare too long, don’t ask Tessa too many questions about him.
I knew I had a problem when, every single time I went to their apartment, I found myself hoping he was inside. The flood of disappointment I felt when he wasn’t there scared the shit out of me, and still does.
“How do you like NYU? Are you excited for your mom to have little Abby? Where would you go if you could fly anywhere, right now?” I ask in a feeble attempt to change the course of the conversation before I end up on my knees in this kitchen.
He glares at me, and I take an extra step away from him. “I like it just fine. Yes, I am. Spain, to go to a Real Madrid game.”
Landon is clearly not amused by my bland questions, and I’m clearly not doing a good job at keeping things platonic. Landon walks over to the refrigerator and grabs a blue Gatorade. I make a face at it, and he smiles at me.
He twists the top open and continues to stare at me. He’s watching me intently, and I can tell he’s concocting something.
“There’s a bonus round to my game.”
Oh, sure there is. “Is there?” I try not to smile at him, but I can’t fight it. “Do tell.”
He leans back against the counter, and I keep a safe space between us. Five feet; that’s safe enough. I back away at least ten more, pretending to need a glass of water.
From this distance I can’t see as clearly how he looks at me. I can’t stare as closely at the masculine curve of his broad shoulders. I can’t obsess over his strong hands and thick fingers. If I keep my distance from him, he won’t be able to tell that I’m itching to touch him.
It’s more than an itch. Itching can be cured by scratching, and my need for him doesn’t have such a simple solution. The feelings I have for Landon will have to be burned from my body to be calmed. A thousand yards of bandages will be needed to dress my wounds.
Landon takes a long drink before he answers. He sets the bottle down on the countertop and faces me. His kitchen feels so damn small.
“Okay, so it goes like this. You have to answer one of your skipped questions, or you lose.”
“Hmm.” I consider this. Lose what, exactly? I look at Landon. This kind, caring, sexy, stained-T-shirt-wearing guy has crept his way into me, and I try to remember which questions I skipped. I skipped the stuff about my last relationship, but that was for Landon’s own good. Okay, it was mostly for my own good, but a little for him, too. I don’t want him to know that side of me.
I also skipped the question about my feelings for him. I really, really shouldn’t answer that.
“You only skipped one question,” I point out.
He nods, knowing damn well that this “bonus round” is designed to work in his favor. He smirks and lifts his drink to his mouth again.
I have to consider that I want him to get to know me. I want him to feel like I’m not going to run if he asks the wrong question at the wrong time. But honestly, I probably would. It would be easier, and for once in my life I would like to take the easy way out of something. We’re playing a dangerous game here, and I’m not ready to lose.
“I’ll answer one,” I tell him.
He nods. “I get to choose which one.”
“Don’t be greedy.”
He smirks again, and my first instinct is to moan. My body is screaming for him, and I can picture him perfectly, on top of me, pushing into me, that stupid smirk still on his innocent face.
“Rules are rules, young lady.”
His words make
my brain fuzzy. His smile is bigger now, braver. It’s fascinating the way he shifts from teenager to man, being submissive one second and commanding the room the next. He steps toward me, further shedding the teenage boy, and reaches for my hand. I let him take it. I’m mesmerized.
I straighten my back as he approaches me. His hands are cold when they wrap around mine. I love how he makes me feel so small, even though I’m close to his height. My height used to be such an insecurity of mine. I remember when my abuelita told me that men loved women they could put in their pockets. She was tiny herself, hence we called her abuelita. Every woman on my mother’s side of the family is tiny: small frame, small hips, small feet. But not me.
At five foot seven, I’m taller than my mother and her mother. I’m taller than Stausey, and my big hips were a topic at many family dinners. Legend has it that I get my frame from my mother’s abuela. She was said to have to make her own pants because her backside was just that big.
“Why so quiet now?” Landon asks.
He has me cornered again, but has let go of my hand. I can touch him; just one little touch won’t hurt.
I lift my hand to his face and caress the curve of his cheek. His cheekbones are prominent, which sometimes reminds me of a frat boy somehow. Landon has the looks of an asshole and the heart of a puppy.
I tell him that he needs to answer the question first. I want to know how often he thinks of taking me. I run my finger over his pink lips, tracing the soft shape of them. The curve of his nose is slight, and his eyes close under my touch.
“How often do you think about fucking me?” I repeat.
His eyes flutter under the lids, but he keeps them closed.
“Is it as often as I think about you?” My words are as audible as a sigh, but I know he can hear them. I continue to touch him, to admire the sharp line of his jaw. “Because I think about you fucking me in so many ways. I touch myself while thinking about you, and I don’t mind admitting that.” I lean closer to him, and his chest rises and falls.
The tension in this room will choke us both.
“Do you do the same, Landon? Do you think about how it would feel?”