Page 8 of Don’t Be A Stranger

Keeping myself in check proves to be more tedious when River has the gall to walk around without a shirt on. His tan skin on display and the tattoo of an angel from the wall of Versailles on his ribs, only make it harder to keep the memory of him pulling me into his lap at bay. Our tongues exploring the other and me kissing his jawline.

When he’s making food, I catch myself staring at his hands. The same hands that were gripping my hips tightly that night a few months ago.

In the moment, it felt right.

But when the reality that we were sitting in his room with beer bottles sprawled out on the floor came crashing down around us, we pulled away as if our touch burned one another.

Hours prior to that, my heart had been crushed. Not because Savannah had just broken up with me, but because of the conversation we had before the breakup.

“You never have time for me and I get that you have a lot on your plate, but that doesn’t stop you from making time for River.”

I tried to argue with Savannah’s observation and reminded her that River and I were just friends.

That’s what I genuinely wanted us to remain.

I had no intentions of ever being with River behind Savannah’s back. But even though River and I never did anything physical—he didn’t even know how I felt—spending any free time I ever had with him instead of Savannah was enough for her to feel that she and I were a lost cause.

Savannah told me that she could no longer pretend that she was okay with being second best in my life. And at the time I thought I was heartbroken because she felt that way. But then I realized I was heartbroken because it meant that I had to face the truth in what Savannah was telling me.

She was able to point out something that I’ve tried to keep buried.

A wet towel is thrown over my head, pulling me away from my thoughts. I rip the fabric from my head, only to be met with the sight of River smiling.

“Hey!” I throw the towel back at him. “What was that for?”

“You spilled your water.”

My gaze shoots down my body to see that I did in fact spill water all over my shirt by letting my cup tilt over a little too far.

“I meant to do that.” I immediately try to defend myself.

“Really? ’Cause it looked like you were in some deep thought over there.” River moves from the doorway and toward his closet.

I only watch the way his shoulders move with every breath for a split second before I realize what the hell I’m doing.

What am I doing?

River equals friend.

Friend equals someone you’re not allowed to have fantasies about.

“What’s got you so distracted?” River doesn’t even bother to turn to look at me, his attention solely on whatever he’s looking for in his closet.

“Work,” I blurt out.

Yeah. Work is a good answer. That’s a normal thing for any person to be thinking about. River doesn’t even attend Kingswell—or any college for that matter—so he should understand having nothing but work on one’s mind. Especially when said job requires you to be surrounded by men who think they can pay for your time and women who have nothing better to do than gossip.

Otherwise known as the Ellingbrook Country Club.

“Oh, yeah?” River finally turns from the closet, a shirt in his hand.

I begin to silently thank god because there’s no reason for him to be shirtless right now. Well, considering that it’s ninety-two degrees outside at ten pm and the air conditioner might as well be blowing hot air back into our faces, he actually has a perfectly good reason.

River continues. “None of the loaded rich women catch your attention?”

“Oh, please,” I scoff. “If I’m going to marry someone for money, it’s going to be a man. They’re dumb enough.”

River stands at the foot of his bed, the shirt now thrown over his shoulder and his palms pressed against the bed frame. The veins underneath the skin start at his knuckles and work their way up to his forearms, raising his skin just enough to give me the urge to trace my fingertips along the veins.