He nods at the floor. I’m shocked that’s everything he owns.
“Do you have anything clean?”
“That’s all clean-ish.”
I rub my temples. It’s definitely time for a drink. “Show me a t-shirt aside from the one you just had on.” He does, a white one that’s not so white anymore and has gross stains around the collar and in the pits. “Okay, that’s disgusting.”
“What? I wear it all the time.”
“Obviously. New rule. You aren’t allowed to wear white again. Like ever. Besides, it’s like three sizes too big.”
“I like baggy shirts.”
I knock the clothing out of his hands and thrust a darker one into them. “Put this on. Let me have a look.”
He lifts his arm to pull the shirt on and I bite my bottom lip at that magnificent torso. Sweet baby Jesus with a pillow, does this guy have a perfect body. If only he could walk around naked so the rest of the world could witness the power of his muscles. All his muscles.
Another wicked, brilliant idea plants itself into my brain. If we shrink his shirts to actually fit him and show off his God-like physique, we’d have a real winner. “Do you have a big pot?”
“I’m a bachelor. I don’t even have a regular sized pot.”
“Then we buy one. Besides, we need some new jeans for you. I can’t do anything with high waters.” I throw out my vow to stay in for the night. “Time to hit the mall.”
He gives me a look and shakes his head. “I don’t do the mall.”
“Don’t tell me you shop at, like, Target and Walmart.” When his ears turn red and he sets his jaw, I groan. “You go to those stores for TVs, not clothes. We’ll swing by one of them on the way home to buy a big pot.”
“Why do we need a pot?”
“To shrink your shirts.”
He drops his chin to examine the shirts on the floor. “What’s wrong with the size of my shirts?”
“They aren’t tight enough in the shoulders. You have great shoulders. Show them off and you’ll get every girl on campus panting.” God knows his body has me panting, as well as what he can to with his body.
Ryan curls his lips into that lopsided grin that always makes me smile. “Let me get my wallet.”
I pile my hair on top of my head and decide a little mascara goes a long way. I don’t have the energy to make myself any more presentable than that. As long as I don’t end up on that website that shows all the embarrassing images of the people that shop at Walmart, I’m good.
We double check to make sure the coast is clear before we leave the mod and hurry to the street. Since I don’t have a car, I have no choice but to climb aboard the Vespa and grab the helmet. I’m not worried about helmet hair. I already look like a drowned rat and it shocks me that I’m not racing back to my dorm to fix me before going out in public. But I’m too excited to finish Ryan’s makeover so I sacrifice my appearance for the greater good. I pull my hair out of the sports bun and plop the helmet down. “Let’s go, James Dean.”
It takes us all of ten minutes to pull into the mall’s parking lot. The nice thing about being on a scooter is the rock star parking. He locks the helmets to the bike and we head to the front entrance. I wrap my hair up and tie it back. He watches me and smiles when I catch him. I let out a breath and pretend it doesn’t excite me that I finally catch him gawking.
“We are definitely going to start running you in the morning. You’re winded.”
“Running me? You make me sound like a horse.” I walk through the door he’s holding open and try to breathe easy. If he only knew why I’m breathing hard. I love the way he’s devouring me with his gaze. “Besides, I already told you. I don’t run. I don’t even own a pair of running shoes.”
“Good thing we’re at a mall.”
“You are not allowed to work on me, dude. That wasn’t part of the deal.” When he tries to take my hand, I jerk it away. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Holding your hand.”
“No, you’re not.”
He gives me that puppy dog look, but I cross my arms in front of me and thrust out a hip. He then pushes out his lower lip, making him look about two years old. When he drops to his knees in front of the entire world and begs, I’m so embarrassed I want to die right there.
“Get up.”
“Hold my hand.”
“Ryan, Goddamn it. Fucking get up now.”
He holds out his hand. I take it and pull him to his feet, still so mortified I can’t meet the eyes of any of the people staring at me. I recognize half of them as students at BU, and they are all laughing at me. Great. By Monday this little stunt will be all over campus. I’ll be known as the girl who had the nerd on his knees in the middle of the mall.
Kill me now.
“If you ever do something that embarrassing again, I will cut you.”
Instead of him taking me seriously, he chuckles. I can’t really take anyone seriously who says they’ll cut someone, either. “You could have just held my hand when I asked.”
“You cannot turn this on me.” Now I really do want to cut him. He squeezes my hand. I refuse to squeeze back. He squeezes it again, this time harder. Still, I remain impervious to his attempts. When he squeezes my hand so hard it cracks knuckles, I squeeze back just as hard. We walk toward the first store, our hands in death grips, the whole while trying not to crack up.
“HP?” Nancy the TA Nazi appears out of nowhere, her hungry gaze eating Ryan up. She tosses a bored look my way before returning one hundred percent of her attention to Ryan.
“It’s Ryan,” he corrects her and loosens his grip on my hand. The blood rushes to my fingers and they tingle.
“Oh, that’s right.” This time she gives me a glare. “You’ve renamed him. And forced him into contacts. And changed his hair. Let me guess. You’re at the mall to change something else about him?”
“Time to go.” I jerk Ryan’s hand and pull him away from Nancy.
She yells from behind us. “Women who date men only to change them are just fooling themselves. It must be so lonely to be you, Emma Rae.”
I whip around, ignoring the pinch in my heart. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re so busy searching for the next person to blame for your misery, you can’t see how lonely you really are.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She regards Ryan. “If I were you, I’d run now. She’ll only find a way to blame you when she does something to screw this all up.”
Her words hit me like sharp little daggers, slicing into my heart. I don’t want to believe her, but as her words replay in my head, the more they sink in. I am an absolute screw up, destined to fuck up any relationship I have. It’s why I prefer to keep everyone at a distance.
“Good thing you’re not me.” Ryan holds my hand tighter. I try to pull my hand back, but he won’t release it.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Nancy sings and walks away.
“Let me go,” I whisper to him, deflated.
“The fuck I will.” The hard look in his eyes as he holds me in his gaze paralyzes me. “Now, are we going to do this? Or are you going to let someone like Nancy Pettigrew get to you?”
“I hate that bitch.”
“I’m pretty sure you won’t be getting a Christmas card from her this year, either. She’s just jealous.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No one is jealous of me.”
“You have it all, baby.” He grins and it warms me, chiseling away at the hardness surrounding my heart. “Looks. A hot body. A fucking crazy awesome personality. And me.”
“You?”
“Of course. I’m the bomb diggity.”
I laugh. “Never say that again.” And yes, he is the bomb diggity.
We walk into Hollister. A cute, perky little size zero immediately stops folding shirts and eyes Ryan. Christ. Another one? Did they pump horny gas into the vents or something?
“Can I help you find something?”
“I…uh…I, um…”
And the stutters are back. I smack him on the shoulder to snap him out of it. “He’s looking for some jeans.”
After taking her time staring at his ass, she nods. “Follow me. I know the exact cut that will look perfect on you. My name is Samantha. I’ll be your personal shopper. What’s your name?”
“Ryan.”
I nod, impressed. No stutter that time. Well done, Grasshopper. “I’m going to get a coffee.”
“Wait,” Ryan says, his voice tight, his eyes wide. He’s scared to death. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Get fitted.” I smile sweetly and leave before I’m tempted to spend my entire savings on a sweatshirt. “Take good care of him, Samantha.”
“Oh, I will.” Another one bites the dust as Samantha mentally fucks Ryan, just like Nancy did. I have to say, I’ve done a pretty damn amazing job transforming him into eye candy. I force myself to leave before I poke Samantha’s eyes out of her perky little head for devouring my guy like that.
I stop that train of thought. He’s not my guy. He’s not anyone’s guy. That’s the point of this entire thing. I chant that over and over as I get my iced coffee. When I return, Ryan has on what could be classified as the nicest fitting jeans in the history of nice fitting jeans. The way the material hugs his ass could cause a riot. Got to love the right jeans. They make all the difference.
He’s at the counter paying and I walk up to him. “What’s the damage?”
After Samantha swipes his card with a smile on her face—she obviously works on commission—she hands it back to him, along with a register receipt. “Sign here.”
I steal a glance at the total and choke on my coffee. “Three hundred dollars? What the hell did you buy?”
He looks at me, utterly confused. “You told me to buy jeans.”
“Not three hundred dollars worth. No guy has three hundred dollars in his entire wardrobe.” I grab one of the bags and look through it, then the other, then the last one. I remove one of the pairs of jeans I deem the least sexy and add them to the bag with the exact same jeans, and thrust them at Samantha. “We’ll take three.”
“But I’ve already rung up the sale.” Cute perky little size zero is no longer smiling.
“He doesn’t need so many of the exact same style. We’ve got three. We’re good.”
She thins her lips and punches her finger on the keys of the cash register, voiding the sale. She then rings up the three pair. “That will be one fifty.”
Ryan doesn’t say a word as he hands her his card. She swipes it to void the first sale, then swipes it again for the new sale. After he signs everything, we hurry out before Samantha wrangles more money from him.
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute.”
“What? They were on sale.”
“You don’t need six pairs of jeans. There’s only, like, three different styles and you’re wearing one. Let’s get you some shoes.”
He slows and looks at the boot-like shoes on his feet. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Nothing if you’re in the seventh grade. Let’s get you some Vans or maybe Toms.”
“Shoes have names?”
“Any shoe worth wearing.”
We pass by one of those little photo booths and he slows as that lopsided grin flashes. His eyes glimmer and he shoves me inside. I look like death and am not about to have it immortalized, so I try to step out but he pushes me back inside and then traps me by sitting next to me.
“Ryan—”
“Get ready.”
The flash catches me off-guard and as I try to escape, he grabs my hips and holds me down by putting his legs on mine. “Resistance is futile. You will have your picture taken with me.” I give up and laugh, drawing a laugh from him. That’s when the second flash hits us.
Oh, what the hell. Why not have a little fun. He steals a kiss on my cheek and I feign shock, dropping my jaw and lifting my gaze just as the flash goes off.
“One more. Let’s make it count.” He leans against me and we smile into the camera. It flashes and I can’t see.
“There. Happy?” We step out of the booth and he grabs the strip of photos before I can rip them up.
He grins and slips them into his wallet. “I am now. Ready to find some shoes?”
I break out of my paralysis of staring at his stunning smile and nod. “Shoes.”
We walk into the shoe store and he immediately points out the running shoes. I give him a shake of my head just as a sales guy in a striped shirt approaches. “What are we looking for today?”
“Running shoes,” Ryan answers and then nods at me. “For her.”
“Ryan—”
“She’s a beginner, so something light. Good arch support. Measure her.”
“I know my own size.” I turn to the sales guy. “I’m an eight.”
“Let’s see what we can find.” He leads me away from Ryan and I don’t have the balls to tell him that I’m not going to buy running shoes. “Remove your shoes. Let’s get you measured.” I do and step onto the little metal contraption that miraculously deems a person’s shoe size like those machines that base the type of lover a person is by his or her grip. “Looks like your boyfriend was right to have me measure you. You’re an eight and a half.”
“He’s not—” I stop and blink at him. “I’m what?”
“Eight and a half.”
“Since when?” No way. I’ve been a size eight since my freshmen year in high school.
“I’ll just bring out a couple different styles.” The guy scurries off before I can say anything else.
I storm over to Ryan, ready to unleash on him, but he stops me by holding up the perfect pair of Vans. “Will these do? They’re fifty percent off.”
“Nice find. Let’s pay for them and go before the sales guy comes back with shoes for me.”
“Nope. You’re getting a pair of running shoes. Come on.” He grabs my hand and drags me back over to the sales guy. Ryan tilts his head as he scratches his chin and studies the two shoes the guy brought out. He points to the ugliest-ass pair of shoes I’ve ever seen. “Those.”
“No way. I’m not wearing those.”
“I bet they fit like a glove.”
“They’re lime green.”
“I’d call them more like a yellow.”
“Ryan!”
“Just try them on,” he insists.
I decide to humor him. What does it matter? I’m not buying them. I slip my foot into the shoe and as the sales guy laces me up, I try not to moan. Sweet heaven in summer. It’s like a foot orgasm. I nod for the guy to put the other one on. When I stand, I nearly collapse from the sweet, sweet rapture. I’ve never had a shoe feel so good before.
Closing my eyes, I release a shudder and smile. If I get to wear these every morning, I wouldn’t mind pretending to run with Ryan.
“We’ll take them,” he tells the sales guy.
I don’t even argue. I want to sleep in them. When I find out the price, which is as much as Ryan spent on his jeans, my smile falters. “I don’t know how I’m going to afford food now.” I swing the bag holding my new shoes.
“We’ll pool our money and buy only the best Top Raman. Have you ever had eggs in your Raman? It’s a good boost of protein to counteract all the empty carbs.”
“We’ve already established that I don’t cook eggs.”
“Right. We should get you over your fear of eggs.”
“I’ll add it to my bucket list.” My stomach grumbles and I push a fist against it. “Let’s not talk about food. I’m starving. The bagel and eggs from this morning only carry a person so far.”
“What did we do for lunch?”
“Each other.” I laugh, drawing the same from him.
“I’m a terrible provider. How about this? Dinner is on me.”
“Hey, big spender.”
He laughs. “It’s a two-for-one coupon for hoagies at the CUB.”
Ah, the goo
d old Campus Union Building. The central hub for all the activity at BU, with two cafeterias, a restaurant downstairs, and a movie theater. It even has a coffee shop at just about every entrance into the building. And it’s walking distance from everything, which means no more riding bitch on the Vespa.
“Hoagies from the CUB? How gourmet. You really know how to treat a girl.”
“I’ll even spring for some vodka and cherry syrup if you want to get really fancy. Of course, I’ll expect something in return. Say, letting me practice stealing kisses.” He sneaks up and plants one on my cheek.
I laugh and lean into him as we walk out of the mall and over to the Vespa. Damn, he’s fun. “Let’s see. A Friday night at home, hoagies and maraschino martinis, all while we boil your shirts. God, Ryan. We’re living the dream.”
He winks. “Only the best for you, baby.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma
Who knew boiling t-shirts would be so messy? I’m drenched in sweat from the steam, I have water all over the stove, counters, and floor—which could be sweat since it’s literally dripping off me—and I’ve used every towel Ryan owns to sop up my mess.
And what the hell is that smell? It’s like a cross between gym socks and sweaty ball sac. “You told me these were clean.”
“I said clean-ish,” he clarifies and sweeps behind me. I swear I feel his lips on the back of my neck, but by the time I whip around, he’s at the other end of the small kitchen, making us two fresh drinks.
“Did you?”
“Did I what?” He grins and I know he just pulled a fast one. “I have to admit, these cherry syrup martinis are good and I don’t even like cherries.”
“That explains so much,” I tease and hold up the long metal tongs we had to purchase to protect myself in case he sneaks in another attack. My libido can’t take much more of this before I drop everything, including my clothes, and just go full-on sexual assault mode. After we got back from the mall, we attacked each other on his couch, then on the floor, then back in his bed. As much as I love sex, I’m sore as shit and need a break. “And they are maraschino martinis. Get it right.”
Contemporary Nights Volume One Page 41