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“My parents would love this place. They’re academics,” Piper whispered, pulling out her color-coordinated folders. “My dad’s an archaeologist and my mom’s an aquatic and marine biology professor.”
“I know.”
Piper stopped pulling out her folders for a moment. “Wait, you know?”
“Yeah, your dad’s working on the Oklahoma City dig.”
“When did I…?”
I hesitated.
Oh, shit. She didn’t.
In my following spree on her social media accounts, I must’ve picked it up from scrolling. That wasn’t a cool thing to say. Hell no. I could still remember the secondhand embarrassment from hearing Ryan confess something similar when he cyberstalked Kassie last semester.
Play it cool.
“You must’ve told me when you were drunk.” I shrugged.
“Oh.” She sat back in her seat. “Yeah. That’s why I don’t drink, I cannot control myself.”
“Smashing good time, huh?”
Piper gave me a hard look. “That’s not funny.”
“They can’t all be winners.”
“Next time I commit a crime with someone, it’s going to be with someone that doesn’t make puns about it,” she muttered, breaking out a thick stack of paper.
A group of sixty or seventy bright markers followed. There were more colors in her bag than I knew existed. She placed all of them on the desk and then the list of residents on her floor. It was door decoration time.
With a glance my way, Piper bit her lip. “You’re not going to rip this one off, right?”
“Probably.”
And put it in my locker so nobody tears it down.
She sighed. “Just don’t throw it in the trash where I can see.”
“Got it.” I tugged one of the pieces of paper from her hand and picked up a marker. “I’m sure Coach Lawson would love to see this.”
Piper started coloring in one of the decorations, her lips curved in determination, and my eyes dropped down to her hand, only a few inches away from mine.
It was easy to make fun of her for how often she whipped out her pink tube of lotion but the results were undeniable. My marker stilled over the paper while I studied her hand. She was soft and pretty. Feminine. The complete opposite of me. My eyes flickered back down to mine, with the hard scars on the back of my hands and a few new calluses from spring training. Nobody would ever look at my hands and think about what it was like to hold them.
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about that while I gazed at her hand. Inches from mine.
I never held someone’s hand before. I never wanted to.
My thumb tapped against the table, thinking it over.
What’s it like to hold your hand?
“Mr. Russell.” Another tutor approached the table with a plea in his voice. “It’s so nice to see you bring a friend for once, but sir, please—”
“We’re fine, thanks.” I gave him a sharp nod and watched him leave, irritated. “Jesus, you think they can take a hint.”
And then it hit me, exactly why everyone around us was giving us the fishbowl treatment. I had never brought a girl into the tutoring hall. That’s why everyone athlete in the room kept staring at us. Nosy bastards. I swore under my breath and went back to work, coloring in the door decoration.
