Am I saying we're best buds?
That we're going to hold hands and frolic in the fields together singing the F.U.N. song from Spongebob?
Absolutely not.
But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't growing on me.
Just a tiny bit.
Rayne's still eyeing me with a curious perusal when my phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call: Weston Paine
"Hello?"
"What are you wearing?"
"Excuse me?"
He emits a hearty laugh. "Now if I texted you that? Then you could accuse me of a booty call attempt."
"Seriously?" I question, disbelief in my voice. "That's more cliché than 'You busy?'. There's no freaking way that works."
"It does, believe it or not. It's 91% effective over text, 99.5% success rate over a phone call."
"What are you doing—taking stats on this crap?" I ask with a chortle.
"They're guesstimates, but they're pretty fucking accurate."
"Mhmm. I'm sure." I twirl a piece of hair around my finger. "So what happened with the .5%? What went wrong there?"
"I almost got her to come over, but she ended up staying home 'cause she was sick," he replies. "Probably dodged a bullet with that one, honestly. I'll take the imperfect stat over getting the flu."
"Good decision," I say before challenging his still ridiculously high statistic. "99.5% has got to be an exaggeration, though. That line is far too shitty to work that often."
"Results don't lie," he states smugly. "Here. I'll prove it to you. I'm gonna ask you again, you answer it with whatever the fuck you want, and I'll show you my magic."
"You sound so sure of yourself."
"Yeah?" An arrogant grunt comes through the speaker. "That's 'cause I am."
Of course he is.
I don't think Weston has an insecure bone in his entire body.
"Okay." I give in with a reluctant sigh. "I'm ready. Hit me with your best shot."
A moment or two ticks by with no noise. I picture him closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, preparing himself like an actor about to take the stage.
I'm about to tell him to get a move on when the infamous line finally comes through the phone.
"What are you wearing?"
His voice is a notch lower and significantly more gravelly than his previous attempt.
It catches me off-guard, but I quickly clear my throat.
"Khakis," I answer, trying to get him to break frame.
It doesn't work.
It doesn't work at all.
"Fuck," he murmurs, the sexy tone of his voice penetrating the line and sending a sizzle straight down my spine. "That sounds hot."
And then he lets out a deep, sensual groan, one that has me swallowing the growing lump in my throat.
"You should come over," he growls out.
And now I understand his impeccable track record—it's not about what he says, it's how he says it. The natural sexual tension that oozes from his voice is an undeniable panty-melter. He could read the phone book, the terms & conditions for a contract, the freakin' Canterbury Tales, and I'd still be clenching my thighs together like I am right now.
"What do you think, Lexie?"
"Um, I, uh..." My cheeks burn as I bumble like an idiot.
"You wanna come show me?"
Damn that slow, sinful rasp. That cocky note dripping from every word.
Damn him.
"No?" I eventually squeak out.
Rayne cocks her head in my direction, puzzled by whatever the hell is going on with this conversation.
That makes two of us.
Luckily, Weston decides he's fucked with me enough and lets out a loud laugh. "Jeez. Sorry for getting you all hot and bothered. I warned you I was good."
I snap to my senses at the smug nature of his words. "I'm not all 'hot and bothered'. Jesus. Get over yourself."
Rayne's eyes go wide as saucers as she whispers a frantic "What?!"
"Don't ask," I mouth in her direction.
Weston's chuckle of disbelief says it all. "You would've been in my bed in ten minutes tops."
I don't even bother dignifying the comment with a response. Instead, I change the subject. "Okay, I know you're not bothering me just to fine-tune your seduction skills. What do you want?"
His tone goes serious as he finally gets to his point. "I need to meet up tonight to work on the lab instead of tomorrow."
"Westonnn." I drag his name out on a whine before emitting a deep sigh. "We agreed on Saturdays!"
"Yeah, I know. But our scrimmage for tomorrow just got rescheduled for their home turf instead of ours. It's like three hours away, so unless you want to work on it when I get back at eleven at night..."
I'm silent for a moment as I consider it.
I already have plans for the evening, and they do not include writing up a report with a wannabe phone-sex operator.
But it's not like it's his fault the soccer game got moved.
And he is being proactive about the situation, trying to find a solution tonight instead of tomorrow.
I'm sure Trey wouldn't mind a rain check.
"Ugh, alright," I mutter, giving in more easily than I intended. "I'll clear my schedule."
"Thanks," he says sincerely.
"I'm out with Rayne right now, but she can drop me off at The Treehouse on our way back."
I glance over at my best friend and raise my eyebrows, making sure that's cool with her. She gives me the okay symbol, but Weston's laughter says otherwise.
"Hell no, babe. The Treehouse on a Friday night? It's like a fucking mad house. We won't get shit done."
"Well," I say as I think of an alternative option. "I guess we could meet on campus. I'm banned from the science library, but the main library is usually open until about nine on Fri—"
"Nah, I have a better place in mind," he interrupts. "Where are you? I'll come pick you up."
"We're at this place called Needlez and Thread."
He grunts at the name. "What the fuck is that?"
"Craft and home decorating type of store."
"Kay, let me Google this shit." He goes quiet for a second as he searches for directions. "Found it. I'll be there in...sixteen hours and twenty-three minutes? You guys are in California?"
"Yeah, Weston. Rayne and I jetted off to California to go to a freaking decorating store."
"You're saying that like it's not feasible, but my mom drove five hours both ways to go to a fucking scrapbook store once. I've learned to expect anything when it comes to women and their shopping habits."
"A ten hour trip for one store?" My mouth drops open at the thought. "What did she buy?"
"That's the craziest part of the whole thing. She didn't buy shit. Not a damn thing." He lets out a dumbfounded sigh. "She said they didn't have the color she wanted."
"Oh my gosh. Next time she should call ahead and make sure they have the item she wants in stock." I chuckle before helping him find the correct directions. "I bet you're spelling the store name wrong. Needlez is spelled with a Z, not an S."
"A Z, huh? What is this place? A gangster Hobby Lobby?"
"Aisles and aisles of gold chains and bling," I tease. "And they only blast old-school Eminem and 50 cent. They're stuck in the hip-hop of the early 2000's. Just like the word gangster."
"Hey, don't knock it. That was the freaking golden era." He laughs before making an affirmative clicking sound. "Okay, found it. Be there in ten."
12
After purchasing a few yards of fabric and a shimmery throw pillow I couldn't pass up, we head outside. Rayne, being the loyal 'Man's Best Friend' that she is, offers to stay with me until Weston arrives, but I tell her she's free to go. She bids me adieu, and I plop down on a metal bench near the entrance to wait.
As I survey the parking lot, I realize I have no clue what kind of vehicle I'm looking for here. If I had to guess, I'd put my money on a flashy sports car. A chromed-out Camaro with gaudy flames painte
d on the sides, perhaps. Maybe a jacked-up Mustang with absurdly large rims and tacky underglow lights.
Something that sends a message loud and clear to all who lay eyes upon the ostentatious ride: "Look at me, everyone! I'm a douche!"
A few minutes later and I know he's arrived by the thump of the tumultuous music assaulting my senses. I'm not surprised I can hear him coming before he even pulls into view.
I am surprised, however, when he rounds the corner and I see what he's driving.
Borderline shocked, actually.
He peels across the pavement in the way only immature boys do—tires squealing, radio booming, and bass turned up to earthquake-registering levels.
Guys think this makes them look badass.
My opinion?
They look like idiots.
He rolls up to the entrance, the passenger side window lowering as he comes to a stop. Crude rap lyrics emit from the car, and a pair of older ladies blush as they scuttle past.
When I approach the vehicle, he leans over to speak to me.
"You have to press that button in the middle of the handle to open the—"
Before he can finish his instruction, I'm already getting comfy in the front seat.
"What year is your car?" I yell over the noise.
"2015." He fumbles with a knob and the music finally lowers to an ear-friendly volume. "Why?"
An incredulous laugh bursts from my throat. "We drive the exact same car."
"No shit?" He lets off the break as we pull away from the store. "You're a Jeep Wrangler girl?"
I nod as I buckle my seat belt. "Love them. I saved up for years to buy mine."
"Nice." A smile tugs at his lips. "But yours is pink, right?"
"Pink?"
"Yeah, you know. Like a Barbie Jeep."
I grin as I picture it. "That would be really cute, actually. I'd totally be down for a bubblegum pink paint job. Mine's red. Just like yours." I shake my head at the odd coincidence. "So strange."
"I don't think it's that strange," he says with a shrug. "We have more in common than you think, Lex."
"Sureee we do," I mumble sardonically. The notion that we are anything alike is somewhat ludicrous. "We're just two peas in a pod over here."
"Damn right. Practically soulmates." A stupid simper is shot my way, and my eyes roll in response.
As we merge onto the highway, my gaze travels to where he's sitting.
Tuffs of messy brown hair poke out from beneath a backwards baseball cap and black Ray-Bans shield his eyes. One arm hangs loosely out the driver-side window, the other hand lying casually atop the wheel. Late afternoon sunlight penetrates the windshield, the rays highlighting every inch of his picturesque profile.
The perfect lighting, the chilled-out vibe, and the annoyingly attractive guy...It's as if I've been dropped into the middle of a freakin' car commercial. All we need is some cheesy song about adventure and a few mountains Photoshopped into the background and we're good to go.
"So," Weston comments, his voice pulling me from the Jeep advertisement playing through my mind. "You like to take your top off?"
Horror splashes across my face at the unexpected question. "What?"
"'Cause I like to take mine off." His head swivels in my direction, a little half-smirk punctuating his words. "Should I take it off right now?"
My eyes widen, my vision involuntarily dropping to his navy T-shirt. The material clings to an obviously chiseled physique, and for the second time today, I find myself at a loss for words when it comes to Weston's antics.
Why I'm so easily flustered this afternoon, I have no clue.
But it's driving me mad.
"Any thoughts? I could pull over and take it off right now if you want."
I blink rapidly, finally finding my voice. "Are you joking? I absolutely do not want you taking your top off."
He glances over, notices my eyes fixed on the hem of his shirt, and barks out a loud laugh.
"The Jeep, Lex. Jesus. I'm talking about taking the top off the car." He shakes his head in mock-disapproval. "Damn. You've got the dirtiest mind."
"Oh, fuck off," I groan. "With the way you were wording that, how could my mind not dive straight into the gutter? You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Dunno what you're talking about." He raises his shoulders in a gesture of innocence. "Don't blame me for your skeevy thoughts, babe. That's all on you."
I scowl in his direction.
I think it's my turn to get him all riled up.
"To answer your question, yes. I love to take my top off." I add a sensual emphasis to my tone.
"Yeah?" He bites on his bottom lip. "Tell me more."
I begin my ridiculous erotic tale, messing with him the same way he just messed with me.
"The first time I took it off, I was sort of nervous. I mean, driving around with your top down, where everyone can see you? The idea was daunting. But the moment I took it off, I felt amazing. The sun warming my face, wind caressing my skin—it was liberating."
"Sounds like it," he agrees. "Go on."
"I drove around all day with my top off. Towards the end of the night, I pulled up next to another girl with her top down. Two girls, no tops, and nobody around."
"Oh shit," Weston mumbles with a grin. "Keep talking."
"I caught her eye and waved. She smiled, I smiled, and then..."
I pause for a moment, building the suspense.
"And then?" He urges me to continue.
"And then...a bird crapped on my head."
"What?" His brows squish together and he sighs. "That's the ending?"
"Yup. A bird pooped all in my hair, I sped home, and then I cried in the shower while I attempted to wash it out." I cringe at the memories. "Here's the worst and almost unbelievable part—it happened twice more that week. Birds have been my mortal enemy ever since."
Weston's forehead crinkles. "Okay, definitely not the direction I was hoping that story was going in, but shit. Three times in one week? That's crazy odds. You should buy a lottery ticket."
I immediately nix the idea. "Unfortunately, my luck is not of the 'win the mega millions jackpot' variety. More of the 'struck by lightning' or 'shark attack victim' kind."
"Good point." He laughs as he drums his fingers against the wheel. "Alright, so what happened? You don't drive with the top down anymore or what?"
"No, I do. Of course I do. What's the point of having a Jeep if you don't ride with the top off?" I shake my head at the thought. "I found a solution."
I pull my phone from my bag, scrolling through my photos until I find one Rayne took of me last summer.
I'm cross-legged in the front seat of my car, tongue out and both hands pointing at the makeshift umbrella-hat perched on my head. The contraption is massive, sports every color of the rainbow, and the glittery tassels hanging from each pointy edge really give it that extra Wow! factor I was going for.
Is it a little over the top?
Sure. If you hate color and happiness you might think so.
Do I provide passengers with protective goggles to avoid any eye-poked-out incidents?
Maybe.
But it keeps my head clean, and that's all that really matters.
I shove my cell towards him. "Here. Take a look."
He waits until we come to a red light before taking his eyes off the road.
Pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, he grabs my phones. The moment he sees the photo, he rumbles with laughter. "This is a joke, right? No way do you drive around with that shit on."
I frown. "What's wrong with it?"
He zooms in on the picture, shaking his head as he continues cracking up. "You look like a fucking clown. Seriously. If you pulled up next to me wearing that thing, I'd throw a damn tomato at you."
"Hey!" I snatch the phone back from him as he hurls insult after insult at my apparatus. "Rude much? I happen to think it's cool-looking."
"Yeah, the chin strap really screams cool-l
ooking." He makes a pfft sound with his mouth. "Where the hell did you get that thing, anyway?"
"I made it," I reply proudly.
"Innovative."
"Would you like one?" I offer with a smile. "I'll even give you the lab partner discount."
He lifts a brow. "Which is...?"
"Well, the going rate for a lab partner discount is 10% off, but for you..." I bring a finger to my chin as I pretend to think it over. "Only 5% off. Best I can do."
He grins and shakes his head side-to-side. "I don't usually turn down a deal, but I'm gonna have to give it a hard pass. I'd rather get bird shit in my hair than be caught dead in that thing."
"Wow. Ouch. Tell me how you really feel."
"You know I'm not one to sugarcoat, Barbie. That hat is fugly."
"So you'd be embarrassed if I showed up to your soccer game tomorrow wearing this? Cheering your name in the stands, letting everyone know the crazy umbrella-girl is your number one fan?"
He groans. "For fuck's sake, please don't. Although..." His head cocks as he considers it further. "On second thought, maybe do. You'd be a hell of a distraction for the opposing team."
"If it wasn't so far away, I probably would," I say as a thought I had earlier pops into my mind. "And speaking of soccer, didn't the season end last semester?"
"It did," he confirms.
"But you guys still have games and practices and stuff like that?"
"Uh, yeah." His mouth bows up at my question. "What the hell do you think we do when the season ends? Pat each other on the back and say 'Welp. That was fun. See ya next year'?"
"I have no idea," I admit with a shrug. "But I'd assume you'd take it easy during Spring. Maybe practice once every couple of weeks or something."
"Practice once every couple of weeks?!" He can barely spit out the words, his jaw going slack at my apparently-delusional comment. "Not even close. In fact, off-season's more grueling than in-season. It's the time to work out all the kinks, build up muscle and stamina so when Fall rolls around the only thing we're focused on is winning the games."
His head twists towards mine as he lifts the sleeve of his shirt and winks. "This is what we do in off-season."
He straight-arm flexes, the cut bicep and tricep of his upper arm bulging beneath golden skin. I admire the robust muscles for about two seconds before I quickly put an end to his little show.
[No data] Page 11