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The worry over what Eli’s teammates think of me stacks up neatly next to all my other anxious thoughts, piling hoarder-high. It’s too bad there aren’t specialists who can deal with thought stockpiling. People who could parse through the worries and negative thoughts and sweep them out and into a dumpster.
Nervousness bubbles up inside me as we arrive at Eli’s house in a little caravan. Maggie welcomes me on the front porch with a hug and a wink. When she leans close, whispering, “Don’t worry—the walls aren’t thin,” I giggle maniacally and almost throw up in the bushes.
My nervous giggles give way to nervous hiccups I can’t shake, despite all the internet’s suggested remedies. Drinking water upside down—harder than it looks and didn’t help. Swallowing three times without taking a new breath—also harder than it should be and also nope. I even popped into the kitchen and tried a spoonful of sugar and immediately sucked on a lemon, leaving my mouth tasting funky … and still with hiccups.
“What’s in this box, B?” Van groans, pauses at the bottom of Eli’s stairs, and shuffles the box in his arms, clearly labeledBOOKS. “Bowling balls?”
“Yep,” I deadpan, then hiccup. “But just my favorite ones.”
He frowns. “I was kidding. Considering how many gutter balls you had the other night, I’m surprised. You really have your own bowling balls?”
Eli steps inside the house, adjusting the boxes in one arm so he can smack Van on the back of the head. “You’re blocking the doorway. And don’t insult my fiancée’s bowling prowess. I’d worry more about your ability to read. The box saysbooks.”
“What kind of books?” Van asks, looking with interest at the line of tape across the top like it will somehow become a window into the contents.
“I read a little of everything. You’re welcome to look if you want,” I tell him.
“But first—upstairs,” Eli says, nudging Van with a box. “Move.”
“Okay,” Van whines, clomping up the stairs.
“Thank you!” I call. Then knock my hip into the wall when Eli darts in for a sneak-attack cheek-kiss on his way by. I press my hand to the picture frames, rattling from the contact. Right along with my rattling heart.
Hic.
“Have you tried snorting cayenne pepper?” That’s Alec, walking in with a box in each arm, plus a hanging bag of the few nice things I own draped over his shoulder.
“I’m … not going to try that,” I tell Alec through another hiccup.
Alec shrugs and heads upstairs, followed by Nathan, whose face is a perpetual storm cloud. But he does pause long enough to say, “Snorting cayenne isn’t a remedy for hiccups. The best thing is to focus on breathing and relaxing your diaphragm.”
“Thanks,” I say, watching as he goes, passing Eli on his way back down.
Just the sight of Eli’s smile seems to make my hiccups do double-time. I step back slightly, expecting Eli to pass by me in the small entry hall, but instead, he curls his palms around my shoulders and directs me backwards, his smile edging wider and brighter.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my eyes darting left where Maggie is pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. She grins at the sight of us, waving an oven mitt as she sets the cookies down.
“I have another idea to cure your hiccups,” Eli says, and then he’s steering me into the cramped bathroom under the stairs, doing an awkward shuffle as he kicks the door closed behind us.
We’re plunged into darkness.
Immediately, my other senses engage. I can hear his breath and my pulse in my ears as my heart does its best jackhammer impression. I’m hyper aware of Eli’s hands inching across my shoulders, thumbs dragging over my collarbone and making me suck in a hiccuping breath.
“If you’re trying to scare them out of me, it’s not working.”
His scent invades my space as he leans in, the rough stubble he’s been growing out brushing against my cheek. His mouth finds my ear, his words and breath sending a cascade of shivers along my spine. “Who said I’m trying toscarethem out of you, Leelee?”
Well, okay then. I may not be willing to snort cayenne, but I’m happily willing to try whateverthisis.
Especially when Eli kisses a path along my jaw and up my cheek, like he’s mapping his way in the dark. Unhurried yet somehow urgent, like he’s torn between prolonging this moment and rushing to get there.
When a tiny sound escapes me that is definitely not a hiccup, Eli’s urgency wins. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s messy and raw and absolutely perfect. My hands take on a life of their own, just as eager as my mouth is as they grasp Eli’s shirt, then move to his biceps, then link around his neck, tugging him closer.
We bump into the wall, then the corner of the sink. I’m going to have a bruise on my hip. I actually hope I do. Maybe I can get a tattoo artist to trace around it, shade in something permanent.
Even as I realize how ridiculous that idea is, I lose all rational thought as Eli’s hands grip my waist, palms spread wide like he wants to cover as much surface area as possible, even on topof my shirt. I slide my hands through his hair, loving the silky brush of it against my fingertips. He shifts, going for a different angle.
In the process, he must hit the light switch because suddenly we’re blinking in the too-bright bulb over the sink. I take the tiniest peek in the mirror and see mussed hair, cheeks reddened from the scrape of his stubble, and lips that appear swollen. Eli is a mirror of me, only instead of looking simply dazed, he looks delighted. Totally unabashed. Totally unrepentant.
