I waver, the length of time between the question and my continued silence glaringly apparent until Tyler chimes in, “Actually, we had an issue.”
My head swivels toward him in surprise. Is he going to rat me out?
Why wouldn’t he? You know he’s only concerned with himself. This is his perfect opportunity to get the study all to himself now.
I open my mouth to confess to the anxiety attack, but he beats me to the punch. “The biofeedback machine wouldn’t turn on when we first came in, but it turned out to be a couple cables loose in the back. Just something to keep in mind if anyone else uses it and has trouble.”
My mouth snaps shut. That’s it? He isn’t going to say anything about me? About how I completely fell apart in there? A crying, gasping mess he had to talk off the ledge?
“But it was working by the time the participants showed up?” Dr. Price asks.
“Yes, I fixed it. And Mia’s doing a great job. You can tell she genuinely cares about the people when she’s performing the biofeedback sessions.”
It’s the same as he told me in the lab the other week, but I’m surprised he’d say it to Dr. Price. I’ve been half waiting for him to undercut me in some way in front of him, not praise me.
“Excellent. I’m glad you two are getting along. I confess, I had a few doubts in the beginning. But it sounds like things are working out well.”
I nod, my mouth still not quite functioning right.
After a minute, my brain’s finally operational again and I’m able to answer the last few perfunctory questions.
Dr. Price leans back in his chair, reaching for the remainder of the cookie on his desk to gulp it down in one bite. I side-eye Tyler. Reminds me of another guy I know.
“You two have any plans for this Friday?”
Tyler narrows his eyes. “What’s Friday?”
“Valentine’s Day,” he replies jovially. “I’m taking my wife out to Chez Luc’s.”
“You’re asking if we have plans?” I motion between Tyler and me, my voice squeaky for some reason. Does he have cameras in our lab? Did he see that kiss?
“I think he means separately,” Tyler says dryly.
“Oh,” I breathe out. “Yeah, I’m going to Element, this club nearby. They’re having an Anti-Valentine’s Day party.”
“Do you not like Valentine’s Day?” Dr. Price asks hesitantly, brows drawing together.
“Oh, it’s not that,” I awkwardly chuckle. “I just, you know, don’t have a date or anything. And my roommate is going, so I said I would too.” God, it sounds lame even as I say it.
“How about you, Tyler?”
“I don’t do Valentine’s Day,” he says sullenly.
Yeah, he doesn’t quite seem the hearts and flowers type.
“Well.” Dr. Price claps his hands. “I hope you two have good nights anyway.”
We’re dismissed after that and make our way out of the Stress Lab to the stairs leading out of the psychology building. I pause at the top, turning to him. “Thanks for not saying anything about earlier.”
He nods, jamming his fists in his pockets but makes no move to speak. The sleeves of his shirt are still wrinkled where I gripped them, the spot on my neck where his fingers brushed against me still warm from his remembered touch.
I stare at his lips, reliving how soft they were, how they felt pressed against mine. How gentle he’d been. Even if it had just been to help me, I can’t regret it. That was a first kiss to remember.
What am I thinking? First kiss? He said himself that kiss didn’t mean anything. “See you later,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed about the whole thing.
I walk halfway down the stairs and glance back one last time. He’s still standing there, watching me, his blue eyes hypnotic. A shudder runs through me and I pull my scarf out of my coat pocket, winding it around my neck.
That should keep the chill at bay.
Chapter Seven
Tyler
I watch her go, her curls bouncing as she heads down the stairs. Through the building’s glass windows, I see her brace herself against the cold as she steps outside, disappearing down the sidewalk toward the nearby parking lot.
I rest my arms on the railing and hang my head down low. What the hell was I thinking kissing her like that? It was completely unprofessional. There’s nothing between us. Nothing.
But when she’d started panicking, I’d seen true fear in her eyes. The gasping noises she was making, clutching at her chest, had made my own heart race watching her so desperately flail about. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. And when she finally got her breath in sync with mine, her body relaxing, there’d been this… connection. One I’ve never had happen with anyone else. Like we truly understood each other. Looking up at me with her big, gray eyes, so trusting, how could I have resisted her?
She should have slapped me. Pushed me away.
But instead, she’d kissed me back.
I’m surprised she didn’t call me on my bullshit excuse about calming her down, but what else was I supposed to say?
And what am I doing now? Wistfully reminiscing? Jesus Christ.
And really, it must not have meant that much to her. She didn’t seem upset about it. She’d calmed down and acted like normal the whole time during her biofeedback sessions. Even thanked me just now for keeping her secret.
What, am I mad the kiss didn’t seem to mean more to her? I should be happy. We’re back to the status quo.
If it meant more, then she’d have expectations of me I don’t want. There’s a reason I don’t have girlfriends. I’ve never wanted to get tangled up in all these messy complications, these… feelings. I shudder at the thought.
Driving home, I get a text from Mom asking me to come for dinner. I automatically think to put her off and then remember I did that last week. And the week before.
I sigh and switch lanes, U-turning back in the other direction.
As soon as I step in the house, Riley barrels into me. “Tyler, Tyler,” she shouts, jumping up and down, hugging me around the waist.
I pick her up and spin her till she’s upside down, her hair nearly brushing the floor. She giggles loudly, alerting my parents I’m here.
“Glad someone’s able to do that with her,” Dan says from the kitchen entryway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder as if he’s some kind of real chef. “I’m getting too old to be swinging her around like a monkey.”
Mom comes up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Dad made lasagna for dinner.” She always insists on referring to him as Dad to me, even when Riley’s not around, though she didn’t start doing that till after they were remarried. She says it’s rude for me to still call him Dan, but he’s never scolded me for calling him by his name.
I carry Riley into the dining room by her feet, feigning confusion when she won’t fit in the chair headfirst. After a minute, Mom breaks up the game. “Tyler, just put her in her seat,” she sighs.
“Mom, he was only being fun. No one’s ever fun with me.”
Mom’s about to be fifty in a few weeks and Dan is fifty-five, so I understand they don’t have the energy to play the way she wants to. I try to make up for it when I come over, but Mom ends up breaking it up half the time, too used to the horrors of raising three boys and the collective broken bones, sprains, and bruises we accumulated over the years.
“Sorry, squirt.” I set her down properly and take the seat next to her, furthest from Dan.
“I tried to get Brandon to come tonight,” Mom says, serving up the lasagna, “but he was busy with Rochelle. They’ll be coming for my party, though.” Dan is throwing her a big birthday blowout, with all sorts of friends and family invited. “And Dylan is bringing his new girlfriend, Laura. They’re taking the train from New York.”
“Yeah, I know where he lives,” I mutter, burning my tongue when I take a bite before thoroughly cooling it off.
“You should bring a date,” she continues.
I snort, then r
ealize she’s serious. “Mom, when have I ever brought a girl home?”
“It would be a birthday present to me. I’d like to see you paired up with someone before I’m over the hill.”
“I thought forty was over the hill.”
“Are you saying I’ve been over the hill for a decade already?” she exclaims, fake aghast.
“You’re still as beautiful as the day I married you,” Dan pipes up, covering her hand with his.
Which time?
I quickly shovel a mouthful of too hot lasagna in my mouth before I voice the thought aloud. It’ll do nothing but cause another fight and make everyone upset.
I don’t hold my mom blameless for her part in their divorce by any means, but if he had focused more on her happiness to begin with, maybe she wouldn’t have been tempted to stray.
Then again, I wouldn’t exist now, so I guess it is what it is.
“Barf,” Riley mutters under her breath as Mom and Dan kiss.
“Agreed.”
“You don’t do that with girls, do you?” She squints up at me, tomato sauce all over her mouth. “Kiss them all mushy-like?”
I grab a napkin and gently wipe her face. “No, I don’t do that.”
Except with Mia, apparently. She’s the only girl I can recall kissing like that. Without it leading to sex. For no other reason than because I wanted to, caught up in the moment, no clear idea of where it was heading or what was happening.
Or what the aftermath of it would be.
After dinner, Dan suggests we all play Monopoly, like we’re some kind of 1950s family playing wholesome games. I decline, making my excuses, and head home.
I keep the music off on the drive back, silently reflecting on the day. Mia mentioned an Anti-Valentine’s Day event at Element on Friday. That sounds more up my alley than hers. Maybe I’ll have to check it out. Purely in support of boycotting an overly commercialized holiday.
Not for any other reason.
Banners of black hearts with arrows through them decorate the club, Def Leppard’s Love Bites playing overhead. They really took the theme to an extreme.
It’s genius marketing, though. Invite everyone who’s sad about not having a date out to the same place where they can get wasted and hook up with each other.
Not that I’m sad. I’ve purposely never had a date for Valentine’s Day. Not even a hookup. I don’t need a girl getting the wrong idea about us.
So why am I here tonight?
I push that thought aside, the same way I did when filling out that stupid journal for Motivation I have to keep. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t want to know the reason.
I glance around, plenty of girls eyeing me as I check my coat at the door. Good lord, they’re practically licking their lips. Tonight’s the wrong night to be out.
I’m not interested in them, though. I’m interested in finding one particular girl. One with a riot of brown curls, ranging from cocoa to caramel. One with soft, gray eyes and a smile as sweet as the desserts she makes.
I stop in my tracks. Jesus Christ, am I waxing poetic? What has one measly kiss done to me? Is it only because I know her? Because we’re… friends? Are we friends? I don’t know. I’ve never had a female friend before. Not really many guy ones either.
Besides, none of this even matters. It was just a helping kiss. Right?
I don’t examine it too closely, making my way to the bar to grab a beer.
And right there at the end of the long, wooden counter is Mia, in her normal sweater and jeans, nothing frilly about her compared to some of the other girls here, decked out in clubwear despite the theme of tonight and low temperature outside.
She’s sipping some kind of pink drink in a martini glass, staring off into space. She turns her head slightly, making eye contact with me, and almost chokes on her drink.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as I approach her, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.
I raise my brows at her. “What, you don’t think I belong here among the others that hate Valentine’s Day?”
She gives me a small smile. “You’re right. It’s so you.”
I motion to the bartender for a beer, then consider her. “It actually doesn’t seem like something you’d do.”
She gazes down at her drink, swirling it around. “Well, it beats sitting at home alone on Valentine’s Day.” She looks up at me, a rueful smile on her face. “I figured you just told Dr. Price you didn’t have plans to avoid explaining your whole ‘fuck buddy’ arrangement.”
A bark of laughter escapes me and I hand the bartender a five as he gives me a bottle, then take a sip. “I haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“No?” If I didn’t know better, I could swear there’s a gleam of interest in her eye. She’s not the type to do stuff like that, though. Everything about her is so… wholesome. Pure. When I’m not riling her up, that is.
“When’s the last time you got any?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and she recoils slightly.
“That’s— That’s personal,” she stammers, her cheeks visibly turning red even in the dim light of the club.
I immediately feel like shit. “Sorry—”
“Over a year,” she blurts out, meeting my gaze and lifting her chin higher. “What about you?”
“A few months.”
She takes another sip, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “That’s longer than I expected from you.”
I lean closer. “And why’s that?”
She makes a gesture with her hand to encompass all of me. “The way you look. You obviously put time into working on your body. Seems like you’d want someone to appreciate it more often.”
I shake my head, my lips twisting of their own accord. “Sex is just a means to an end. If I need to blow off steam and boxing isn’t cutting it.” I pause, picking at the label on my beer bottle. “And I’m selective with my partners.”
Her eyes widen. “How so?”
I stare at her, taking her measure. “You really want to know?”
She nods, bringing her glass up to her mouth again.
“She has to have experience. I’m not messing around teaching some virgin what to do.” She rolls her eyes, her body relaxing. “She has to be on the pill or some kind of birth control. I don’t take any chances with that sort of thing.”
“That’s fair,” she murmurs.
“And she has to understand it’s a one-time deal. I don’t do girlfriends.”
“Of course not.”
I stay silent, letting her have her little jab.
“Come dance with me,” she says, gulping down the last of her drink. “Not as a girlfriend.”
I smirk at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leads me to the dance floor, shaking that wild hair of hers out behind her shoulders, her hips moving sensually to the rhythm of some remix playing I can’t quite put my finger on. I watch her move, much more coordinated than I would have given her credit for. “Where’d you learn to dance?”
“Miss Galina’s Dance Academy.”
“What?” I laugh.
“Ballet and jazz. From first through seventh grade.”
“And what happened after seventh?”
“My body started actually developing. And I didn’t want to eat salad every day to keep my weight down. So I wasn’t really encouraged to continue.”
I stare at her. “You’re not fat.”
“I know. But for a ballerina…” She grips the sides of her waist, pinching the skin through her sweater. “You are too big,” she proclaims in a Russian accent.
I place my hand on her hip, tracing my thumb over her hip bone. “You feel good to me.”
Her movements falter and she looks up at me, eyes wide.
What the hell am I doing? I quickly backtrack. “I mean, you’re normal. Everything feels normal.” I do the same as she did, grasping the area with my thumb and forefinger.
Her eyes narrow. “Did you just pinch my stom
ach fat?”
“I… uh…” Normally I like riling her up, but not this time. This is beyond the line, even for me.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I kiss her.
Her lips are as soft and pliant as I remember, some light and fruity taste from her drink earlier mixed with a natural sweetness that’s all Mia. My hand moves from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her closer, and she complies, stepping into my body. She skims her palms up my torso until she has her hands on my shoulders, her nails digging in slightly, a sweet sting that makes me want to ask her to do it harder.
When I deepen the kiss, touching my tongue lightly to hers, she makes a sound of need in the back of her throat, one that has my dick springing up at attention.
But also getting my attention. I shouldn’t be kissing her like this.
I break apart from her regretfully, her eyes still closed as I put some distance between us.
When she opens them, there’s no lust or hunger like I expected there to be, though. She gives me a sardonic look as she asks, “Are you just going to kiss me every time you want to distract me?”
It takes me a moment to answer, thrown off by her response. “It seems to be working.”
“So why’d you stop?”
“Mia…” I bring a hand up to the back of my neck, rubbing away the sudden tension. I wouldn’t have cared about being blunt when I first met her, but things are different now. We’re in this weird coworker/friend/sometimes kissing gray area that I’m not sure how to make sense of. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”
She bristles, crossing her arms over her chest. “I never said I was either.”
Oh.
I don’t know why I’m taken aback, but she just doesn’t seem the type for casual hookups. “So what are we doing, then?”
“We’re just…” She throws her hands up, exasperation pouring off her. “Kissing, I guess.”
Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Page 6