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He glances down at my pyjama pants. “Are you cold in here? You’re dressed for Antarctica.”
I pause for one stomach-sinking moment because with that comment he’s hit a nerve, but I quickly shake it off. “I’m toasty. Did you know that you’re naked?”
He’s eyeing up my little stacks of books. Thank God he’s far enough away from them to make the titles illegible. Then he glances over at the bed, a crumpled mess with my current read enthroned on the pillow like a little smut shrine.
Tate looks down at me and folds his arms across his chest in an attempt at male modesty. His biceps bulge against his nipples in my peripheral vision.
“Are you staying in tonight? It’s Friday.” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“I am very busy,” I reply.
“What are the little tabs for?” His eyes are back on the book stacks, much to my horror.
“I tab the useful bits of information. Vivid and grotesque murder scenes, for example.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “You just keep them out on the floor like that?”
I scowl at him as he continues surveying the room.What is he still doing here?
His breathing becomes a bit weird and I notice that he’s looking at my laundry pile. It’s topped off with the little baby pink bra that I need to hand wash because of the black lace trim. I can smell thunderstorms and pheromones radiating off his hot damp skin and he drops his eyes and swallows, a subjugated blush spreading across his cheekbones.
He takes a step back, avoiding my eyes. “I’m… sorry about tonight. I’ll get everyone out of here, five minutes tops.”
Then he turns around and begins trudging down the stairs, hands in his pockets.
When I put my hand on the door to finally close it, a thought crosses my mind as he reaches the last step.
“I want a lock on my door,” I call down the stairs.
He pauses with his back to me for one moment before he looks back over his broad shoulder and meets my gaze, under a veil of wet tousled hair and stunning black lashes. His eyes twinkle with something that I can’t put my finger on.
Then he rolls his shoulders and exhales deeply.
“Trust me, I’ll fit one.”
Chapter 8
Three Years Ago
By the following Monday Tate knows the order of the track list and every lyric to my Breaking BenjaminPhobiaalbum.
On the second evening that I went to give him the player again he looked a lot happier than he had the previous night. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie and a gorgeous smile tugging at his lips.
When I went to hand it to him I noticed that he had put out some folded up blankets to sit on, which was unusual because I’m pretty sure that he had never done that before. He was blushing a bit when he saw me looking but then he stood up extra straight and said, “I was wondering if you wanted to listen to it with me tonight?”
How did his eyes get so sparkly? I said yes, of course, and we sat down, taking one ear bud each. I was holding the top step of the porch in a death grip because his pinkie finger was so close to mine and he flexed it a few times as if he could sense the attention.
At the end of the week I had become more comfortable, so I asked him if I could unfold the blankets and lie down whilst we were out here. Being a full-time swat was kind of tiring, and I could use the resting time.
Tate was eager in agreement. He was so on board with the idea that he even went back inside to get the pillows from his bed for us to lie on.
We were near the end of the album when I heard it. I was only wearing one ear-bud so I could still hear the noises from around us, and, being a nerd and all, the rustle of pages caught my attention. I opened my eyes and looked over at Tate, thinking that maybe he was asleep, so I took the headphone out using the hand that wasn’t next to his and I sat up.
Twisting my head I looked at the binder laid out behind us and I gently opened up the first page. It was stacked with old test essays, only it looked as though none of the questions had been answered yet. Maybe these were his revision papers that he was yet to go through. I softly moved over a few more leaves until I got to one that was dated this week, again empty, but this one had a circled letterFat the top, and asee me after classscribbled underneath it.
Was Tate failing his classes? The thought made my brow pinch. From what I could tell, Tate was smart. He was articulate and considerate, two skills that take a developed intelligent brain. I pondered it some more and then realised that maybe it was because of all of the sports that he has been doing, taking his time away from his studies – and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, especially if that’s the kind of physical profession he would rather do after he finishes school – but it did explain why he would want to hide this stuff from his mom and her boyfriend.
I couldn’t help the ten-tonne drop in my stomach, though. My mom would never approve of him.
