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“I’d like the bookcase here,” Ariana says, gesturing to a blank expanse of wall. “As big as you’re prepared to make it.”
The apartment is so tiny that even a bookcase the size of the wall won’t be very large. It probably won’t even fit a tenth of the books that are strewn about the living room, but I dutifully start taking measurements, making a note of the dimensions.
“You sure you don’t want one in the living room?” I ask.
“I thought about that, but there’s not enough space.” She gestures to the doorway with a wry smile. “Once I get a couch and a table, there’ll barely be room to move in there.”
I think of my cabin—all the empty rooms I never use. If this girl was mine, I’d let her have them all. She could fill my place with all the books she wanted. Anything to make her smile.
The sight of a framed photograph on Ariana’s nightstand pulls me from my thoughts. It looks like a family picture, and there’s a flicker of recognition as I look at the people in it.
“That’s my family,” Ariana says, looking self-conscious. “As you can see, I’m kind of the odd one out.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
I see what she means. Her dad and brothers are tall and muscular; her mom and sisters are thin and sinewy. They’re all tanned and grinning at the camera, flashing their pearly white teeth. Ariana’s smile is small and awkward, like she’s uncomfortable being photographed. She looks gorgeous as ever, pale and curvy, wearing a baggy t-shirt and holding a book under her arm.
“Your family looks familiar,” I mutter, frowning as I try to place the smiling faces.
“They’re all athletes. My dad is Bruce Carmichael, the swimmer.” She joins me in front of the nightstand and points to him. “He’s retired now. Then my brothers, Bobby and Nick, are professional basketball players. My mom was a gymnast when she was younger. Meredith Carmichael. And my sisters are too.” She points to one of the girls in the photo. “Fiona just came back from the Paris Olympics. She won bronze for Women’s Vault.”
“Damn. That’s impressive.”
She smiles, and this time it’s genuine. “It is. I’m so proud of her.”
My gaze drifts back to Ariana’s mom, and it finally clicks.
“I went to school with your mom,” I say, cringing slightly. “She was called Meredith Tremblay back then, a few grades above me.”
I only vaguely remember Meredith and never spoke to her, but it still makes me flinch to know that I’m a similar age to Ariana’s parents. It’s just another reason why nothing can ever happen between me and this gorgeous girl. She’s half my age. Off-limits.
“Really?” Ariana asks, looking surprised. “What was she like?”
“We didn’t know each other, but I think she was a cheerleader.”
“That sounds like my mom.” She shakes her head, smiling as we step away from the photograph. “You know, I used to think I was adopted.”
I shouldn’t encourage any more conversation. I should get out of here, make the bookcase, then leave this girl alone. But I can’t resist.
“You did?”
She nods. “I was totally convinced that one day, my parents would sit me down and tell me I wasn’t their biological daughter. It was the only thing that made sense to me as a kid. I couldn’t understand why I was so different.” Her voice trails off, golden-brown eyes glazing over for a moment until she seems to come back to herself, cheeks pinkening. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m talking about this.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her, frowning. “You can talk about anything you want.”
But even as I say it, Ariana’s shaking her head, forcing a smile. “You’re already doing me a huge favor by making my bookcase for free. I’m not going to force you to hear me complain about stuff as well.”
My frown deepens. “I mean it, Ariana. You can talk about anything. I’m interested in anything you have to say.”
Her eyes widen in surprise and her plump lips curve into a surprised smile. “Really?”
“Yes.”
I take a step toward her. She has to lean back to hold my gaze, and my heart melts at the look of affection she gives me as she says, “Thanks, Duke.”
She’s so fucking cute. Everything about her is sweet and sexy as hell, from her soft voice to her rounded cheeks. Being alone with her in her bedroom, without getting to touch her…it’s a special kind of torture. All I want to do is wrap her up in my arms and never let go.
There’s something shy and self-conscious about Ariana, like she’s uncomfortable in her own skin. I can recognize it easily—that stifling discomfort. It’s something I’m all too familiar with. This girl deserves to know how beautiful she is, and more than anything, I want to be the one to show her.
But I can’t.
