Page 119 of Make Me Mean It

I’m watching him.

He reaches the last open button and his fingertips graze my collarbone, my pulse jumping beneath them.

For the first time since he grabbed me, his eyes lift to mine, but he doesn’t let go. Both hands stay curled into the edges of my shirt as the last scraps of space between us disappear, and when he leans closer, rising slightly onto his toes, his breath catches warm against my mouth.

Fuck. Three days of avoiding me, calling what happened a mistake, and now he can’t even let me walk out the door with my shirt open.

“Why won’t you just admit you don’t want me to go?”

Connor sucks in a breath and releases my shirt, backing away from me like I’ve finally said the one thing he couldn’t pretend not to hear.

“Why would I care if you go on a date?” he scoffs, his eyes falling to the ground.

I catch his chin, tipping his face back towards me. “Then why do you care if my shirt’s open?”

“Because it looks ridiculous.”

“Right.” My thumb brushes slightly over his jaw. “So you don’t care if I take Tristen home?”

Connor’s lips press together, his eyes flicking between mine, and I lean closer. “Well?” I push.

“Is he your type?”

I blink at him, and Connor’s eyes widen slightly. Normally I’d have a dozen answers ready, something filthy or obnoxious enough to make him blush and regret ever fucking asking, but my fingers are still curled beneath his chin, and I’m looking at him from this close, and none of them come.

Instead, I give him the one answer I probably shouldn’t.

“My type can’t be trusted.”

Connor’s breath catches against my fingers, my stomach dropping.

“Theo-”

I slap my hand over his mouth before he can get another word out.

“No.”

I shake my head as a laugh drags its way out of me, hollow enough that I barely recognise it.

I can’t fucking do this again. Can’t stand here while Connor looks at me like he wants to tear Tristen apart, puts his hands on me because he can’t stand the thought of someone else seeing my chest, then waits for me to politely ignore all of it because he’s straight and I’m still the mistake he wishes he hadn’t made.

“You don’t get to make it this hard for me to see someone else,” I grind out, my hand falling from his mouth.

I step forward, Connor matching me with a step backwards.

I follow until his shoulders meet the wall and his eyes narrow, flicking over my face before dropping briefly between us.

“I’m not making anything hard for you,” he scoffs, turning his head away.

I close the last of the distance, and his palm lands against my chest.

“Stop.”

The word has more force behind it than his hand does.

I look down at his palm pressed flat over my heart, barely holding me back, before lifting my eyes to his face again. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted around breaths coming faster than they should, and there’s so much conflict written across him that I’m sick of pretending I can’t see it.

I shift my thigh between his legs.