Page 113 of Clinically Awkward

“Oh, I am.” She set her coffee down on the side table and shifted closer. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I move my face.”

“So... all the time?”

“Pretty much.”

She was right next to me now, her eyes scanning my jaw with what looked like genuine concern beneath the teasing. “You’re an idiot,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“You got arrested.”

“I know.”

“For me.”

“I know.”

She reached out and gently touched the bruise, her fingers feather-light against my skin.

I winced.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re hurt.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Quinton.”

I looked at her. “He called you boring. And a cold fish. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not get arrested?”

“That wasn’t really an option at the time.”

She smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

“I really do.”

And then she was straddling me. One second, she was sitting next to me, and the next she was in my lap, her thighs bracketing mine, her hands on my shoulders.

I blinked. “What are you⁠—”

“Shh.” She leaned in, her breath warm against my skin. “I’m going to kiss your boo-boo and make it better.”

“My boo-boo?”

“Your boo-boo.”

“Vivian, I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t have boo-boos.”

“You have a boo-boo,” she said firmly. “And I’m going to kiss it.”