by Clara Stone
He’s grinning, an eyebrow raised. “I’m sure I can persuade you.”
“Whatever,” I say.
He licks his lips and stares at my ice cream. The boy is asking to be kicked in the shin. “So, how long before we get to eat it?”
“We?” I pick up my almost-ready-to-devour ice cream bag and hug it to my chest. “Nah-ah-ah. There is no ‘we.’ ” I walk out of the kitchen, and Hudson follows. “But, if you must know, my ice cream will be ready in less than five minutes.”
I plop down on the couch and pat the space beside me. He slides down next to me and settles in, incredibly close to my side.
“I know you didn’t come here to steal my stuff and get kicked for it, though.” Because I won’t think twice. Ice cream equals Heaven. And there’s no way I’m missing out on that tonight, not after that conversation with Vicki. And really, one scoop just doesn’t do it justice.
“I’m here to offer my extremely, much-wanted company to my fake girlfriend,” he says. But the way he says “fake” screams sarcasm, like that’s no longer what exists between us.
My stomach dips a little as butterflies swirl about.
“However, I’m feeling a little lonely, since my girlfriend refuses to share her ice cream with me—her ever-loving, fake, but hot, boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes. I know he’s trying to make a point with the whole fake thing. I just wish he’d get on with it and spit it out. Because I’d love to know where we stand after that hot, fog-up-the-glass make out session two hours ago.
Fake, or real?
Real, or fake?
But he doesn’t say anything else, just eyes me, a sparkle glistening in his hazel irises.
I feel the side of my lip curve up. Fine, he wants to play? I’ll play. “Yes. How not very sweet of me. I guess I should . . .” I smack my lips, “make up for being soooo unwelcoming.”
He smirks. “I like the way you think, firecracker.”
I lean forward, glancing down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “You do, huh?”
He nods. Then, in a matter of two seconds flat, the smirk disappears, replaced by a smoldering look. His chest heaves as his breathing hitches. He swallows hard, his attention moving from my mouth to my eyes and back. The air sizzles between us, and now it’s me who can’t breathe.
“Where’s your mom?”
His question makes me pause in surprise. Mom. Why does he want to know about Mom? “S-she’s out at a company party . . .” My voice wavers when I answer.
“Good. Good,” he says absently, wetting his lips. “You were saying something about making me feel welcome?” The corner of his lips quirk up in a come-hither smile.
Well then. Back to flirting, I see. “Hmm . . .” My voice lowers, becoming husky. My gaze drops to his mouth again as his tongue darts out, licking his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Memories of his hands and mouth—the way he felt pressing into me—spill into my head. Heat burns my cheeks, and I have to force myself not to look away from him.
His lips part, his eyes turning dark.
Anticipation drums inside my chest, threatening to break free. “I guess I should be a good hostess, huh?”
He nods. Again. Like he’s lost his voice. A frisson of excited, nervous satisfaction blazes through me.
I don’t know why I’m being so damn brazen around him. Well, okay, I know why. It’s him. Hudson. He makes me this way. All kinds of bothered. I tuck my right leg under my left thigh and lean into him.
His eyes narrow, like he’s wondering what’s up my sleeve.
I bite down on my lip and place my hand on his thigh, hoping to conceal how badly my limbs shake. He sucks in a deep breath. I lean forward even more, letting my lips graze the bottom of his earlobe. He shivers. Heat assaults me, fast and ferocious.
I open my mouth and whisper, “I guess you’ll need to wait until Hope’s around for the next part of make-out-fest, fake boyfriend.”
I pull back, but my hand stays on his thigh. Hudson’s staring at me, and I can’t seem to look away. He blinks. Then that stunned expression turns more conniving than I’ve ever seen on his face.
I slide my hand back, but he places his fingers over mine, trapping them on his thigh.
One side of his lip quirks up as he leans forward. “But I insist.”
My gaze drops to where his fingers lazily circle over my knuckles. I gulp and look back up at him. He comes closer, and closer, and closer . . .
I want to ask him what he’s doing, but it’s obvious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being melt into a puddle of useless goo as quickly as I do. My blood pounds in my ears as he reaches for my cheek, stopping just shy of touching me. He drops his hand lower, outlining my face, slow and steady, making sure he doesn’t touch my skin. Just the anticipation of feeling his caress makes me weak and breathless.
I want to tell him to quit seducing me, that I’m throwing a white flag on the field, but I won’t. Because in truth, I want this. I want his touch to send heat scorching through my body. I want to feel his lips pressed against mine. And I want him to seduce the heck out my sense of right and wrong. So I let him. I let him come closer, until his body is nearly hovering over mine and my shoulders hit the back of the couch.
My breath turns harsh and heavy.
My hand, of course, has found new home—over his chest. I tilt my head up and his heated gaze slams into me, boring holes into the depths of my heart. It’s heady, and smoldering, and makes everything inside me burn with want.
He places his hands on either side of my face. My legs fall apart to allow him space, because surely, he needs space, his long, hard body snuggling between me, on top of me, inside . . .
I want him to kiss me. I need him to kiss me. Now. “Tell me, golden boy . . .” My voice sounds foreign, even to me. There’s a pinch of sultry to the way I draw out his nickname. “Are you going to kiss me, or just tease me with promises?”
He shifts his weight to one hand, his body pressing down on mine, gently, but enough to feel his need pushing between the apex of my thighs.
“You are so . . .” He brushes the hair out of my face and nuzzles my neck. I think he kisses me there, but I’m not sure. My world’s twirling like mad. The only thing that feels real is the weight of him over me. I arch up, pushing my chest toward him, trying to ask him for what I need—his kiss, his lips, his mouth over my hot flesh.
“Not real . . .”
“What?” My eyes fly open as he pushes himself off me. I don’t know what the hell just happened. I got rejected . . . ?
He sits back with the ice cream bag in his hand.
That’s when it hits me. The two-timing, stuck-up, spoiled brat seduced me to steal my ice cream. “You!” I dive for the bag, and he easily scoots out of the way.
He doesn’t look at me as he pulls it open. He sticks his finger in and scoops some of the frozen goodness onto the tip. He drags it toward his mouth and raises an eyebrow, challenging me as he it from his skin.
I’m rendered useless. I can’t say a word, or breathe, or really anything. My brain feels like mush. What the hell has gotten into me?
I clear my throat. “You take one more lick, and I’ll kick your ass, Son.”
“Can’t keep yourself from touching me, eh?” He chuckles.
“What are you, Canadian?” Oh, brilliant. Now I can’t even come up with a good comeback. I snag the bag from his hand, not above licking ice cream clean off the plastic.
“Why don’t you come to my school tomorrow and find out?”
I raise my eyebrow.
“You could find out all kinds of shit from my friends. Including whether or not I’m Canadian.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re so cheesy, golden boy. Besides, I already met your ‘friends.’ Remember?”
“No, I’m serious,” he says, licking his fingers. I’m transfixed by the action. “You know how they say the best way to know a man is by knowing who his friends are? Well, you’ve already met Jags, so n
ow I think you should meet the douches I hang out with on a regular basis. Besides, if Hope’s going to believe us, then we need to be seen in public, not playing house, alone.” He then looks down at his fingers and tilts his head to the side before looking smugly back at me. “Of course, I’m all for some hot and heavy make out sessions. You know, for the sake of the world and all.”
I feel my eyes widen. He stares back, one eyebrow arched high, his eyes big and round and radiating innocence. If I didn’t know him better, I’d have fallen for that act. Fortunately, I know Hudson. Even though we’ve only been at it for a little over a month, I somehow feel this connection with him. Especially when he spits out crap that would make Pinocchio’s nose grow ten times its size.
I smirk. “Oh my, Mr. Lovelly. Consider me swooned. Your charm knows no bounds.”
He smiles, but then his expression softens. “In all seriousness, I want you to come over so you can meet them—”
“And so you can mark your territory,” I say teasingly.
When he doesn’t smile, I’m not sure what to think.
“So, you’ll come?”
Wait, he’s not even going to deny it? “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up,” he says.
“No. I’ll come by once school’s out. After all, I don’t want your friends to think you’re completely whipped.”
He scratches behind his ear, and a boyish grin appears on his mouth. That mouth that was so, so close to me not five minutes ago.
And he called me a tease.
He stretches his arm out, inviting me to come closer. I go willingly. I adjust my head on his chest and dig another chunk of ice cream from the bag, popping it into my mouth.
We’re treading a fine line between pretend and reality. Especially when it’s so easy to cuddle next to him, my legs pulled up, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, eating the all-too-delicious ice cream. And why should I deny the attraction I’m feeling toward him? A boy who—I think—also feels the same way about me. Why is it still so hard for me to accept it? To let go. Give in.
I know the kind of luck I’ve had with men in my life. I shouldn’t tempt it too much, but how can I not, when he makes me feel so wanted, so safe, and so, so happy?
“Blake,” Hudson’s breath stirs at my temple, warmly. “Everything okay?” he asks softly.
I pull away from him, but he holds me close.
“Stay.”
So I do. “Why do you ask?”
“You can’t answer me with a question.”
I sigh, because I don’t know why he’s asking me this. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. I just didn’t know . . .” He seems to be thinking, contemplating. But he continues to hold on to my hand, drawing circles over my arm. I want to sigh, but then he says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something . . . about Vicki.”
This time, I don’t give him a chance to stop me from pulling away. “What about her?”
“Are you safe?”
I scowl. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I’m worried, Blake. I just . . .” He rakes his perfectly combed hair with his hand, making it stick out in all different places. It’s long. I hadn’t noticed that before. It’s grown a lot in the past few weeks. Since the debate competition, for sure. “I’ve been to your home twice, Blake. Two times,” he emphasizes.
Ok. Not news to me. What’s he getting at?
“And both times, you looked disturbed. But today . . . today, it was something else. The way you couldn’t wait to get home, and your anxiousness during the entire ride over . . . I don’t know, something just felt off. That’s why I couldn’t just leave. I had to come back and make sure you were okay.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. Wasn’t I just marveling at his ability to not butt into my life? And here he is, asking me.
“I want to help, firecracker.” His nickname for me makes my heart dance faster, and my anger simmers down. “Hear me out a sec, okay?”
I cross my arms, unsure why he cares about what I’m going through, what Vicki is going through. After all, who am I to him? A fake girlfriend, created to get back at his best friend. A willing fake girlfriend, true, but nonetheless, fake.
“Whatever is going on, let me take part.” He puts up his finger when I open my mouth to say, “Like hell.”
“I’m not going to sit here and tell you that things will turn out okay, or that you can do anything,” he continues. “Because really, that’s bullshit. No one can do things by themselves. They need someone to talk to, to use as a soundboard, or hell, to curse the hell out when they get frustrated. I’m asking that you let me be that person. The person that’ll work things out with you, that supports you.”
“Why does it matter to you, Hudson?” My voice is small, but hopeful. And I hate that I’m starting to feel this way. That I want his desire to help me to mean that he feels something for me.
“Because I care about you . . .”
Something swells inside my chest, warm and fuzzy as hell.
“And you’re my friend, Blake. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I protect my friends until the end.” My hope gets deflated, his words like a pin to my balloon.
“I see.” I’m just one of many. Knowing what I know of Hudson so far, and having seen him with his family, I know he’s completely telling the truth. And for some reason, that pisses me off. I’m angry at him. At me.
“And,” he says, drawing my attention back to him. “And maybe—”
I pull away from him and stand, furious. I don’t want to hear any more. How could I have been so wrong? I’m never wrong when it comes to reading people. And yet, here I am. Wrong about the worst possible thing I could be wrong about.
Anger boils inside me. I want him gone. I want him out of my sight. I’m just another girl he’s spending time with. I’m “not real.” I know this shouldn’t anger me. I knew from the beginning that this was the arrangement we had. That I’d pretend to be his girlfriend, not be the real thing. But that hurts me. And suddenly, I know I can’t keep up the pretense much longer.
Not real. He’d said it himself. God, I’m so stupid!
“You should go,” I say.
“Firecracker,” he starts.
I walk toward the door and pull it open.
He gets up slowly, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans as he shuffles toward me, hesitant. He steps outside, but pauses and turns back around. “Blake?”
The way he says my name is pained and filled with longing.
I press my lips together when I see the same emotions etching his face. Not real. Not real. His words continue to echo in my head.
“I’m sorry—”
I shut the door in his face. Because I know it isn’t Hudson’s fault. It’s the curse of the Voss women. The men we fall in love with hold the most power to hurt us. Hudson is the closest I’ve come to loving someone. And he considers me a friend. A friend with benefits.
KEYS CLATTER ON the kitchen countertop, startling me from my thoughts. I look up. Mom slides out of her jacket and places it over the chair.
It’s been less than ten minutes since I shoved the door closed in Hudson’s face, and I’m already halfway done with the batch of ice cream I made earlier. God, I need to break this habit before I die from a major brain freeze. I drop my gaze and dive in for more.
A pint-sized container slides across the table and stops just shy of touching my hand. Mint Chocolate Chip.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling disinterested. God, why does it matter so much, what Hudson thinks? Because really, we’re just flirting with each other for the sake of pranking Hope.
“Wanna talk about it?” Mom says, pulling a chair up beside me, a spoon in her hand.
“No!” I answer, way too quickly.
She grabs the ice cream container and pulls open the top.
I whimper as the smell of mint overwhelms my senses. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Who in their right mind eats sooo much ice cream and
still craves more?
“Here, take a bite.” She pushes the container toward me, knowing that I can’t resist the temptation.
Temptation that’s so decadent. Sweet. Mouth-watering. Like Hudson. An image of him flashes through my mind. I groan. Could I be any more weak and pathetic?
“I don’t mind sharing,” Mom says, offering the spoon. “Unlike someone I know.” She jabs my shoulder with hers.
When I turn to look at her, she smiles sheepishly. I crinkle my nose at her. “It’s your fault I’m as addicted to this stuff as I am. You should’ve never let me eat so much ice cream as a kid.”
She chuckles. “Sure, blame the hand that feeds.”
“Whatever.” I continue to poke at my crappy homemade ice cream.
She scoops another huge chunk of mint chocolaty goodness onto her spoon and casually licks the end of it before asking, “Do you want to tell me why I saw Hudson sitting in the car outside with his head on the steering wheel?”
I look up at her, sharply, as the spoon disappears into her mouth. “He’s still out there?”
She nods. “I drove past him to get into the garage.”
I look over my shoulder, biting down hard on my lower lip. I want to go see if he’s still there. Waiting. But for what?
“Blake,” Mom says.
I return my attention to her.
She places her thumb over my lip, prying it free from the clutches of my teeth. “Did you guys have a fight?”
I nod, then shake my head. Would being pissed off as hell, even if it was one-sided, count as a fight? I sigh, exasperated. “I don’t know.”
She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know why. Mom’s never been one to stay quiet about anything, and yet, here she is. Quiet. Like she knows something I don’t. Is she going to take his side? ‘Cause, if she does, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need her on my side. Telling me that Hudson is a jackass.
But she doesn’t say anything. She simply scoops up another bite.
I growl, pushing away from the counter and jumping to my feet. “I’m going to bed.”
Again, she doesn’t say anything. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m ten years old again and at our second Christmas alone. I really wanted this pair of shorts that Mom completely disapproved of and wouldn’t let me keep. She’d made me return them the next day and I’d been upset about it for weeks. Just like then, I stomp my way out of the room and all the way up to mine.