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Matt's arms tighten around me as I stand completely still, wondering why this feels so wrong. These aren't the arms I want congratulating me right now. They're too muscular, too pale.
The ones I want are two hours away. In Boulder. Too busy for me.
"When did you find out?" Matt asks.
He lets me go, takes a step back. I fumble with the hem of my T-shirt. "Yesterday."
Matt lets out a frustrated sigh. "I'm kind of surprised you didn't tell me sooner."
"You weren't around."
He rests a hand on my shoulder, waits until I look up at him, warmth shining in his dark eyes. "I'm never too busy for you. You know that, right?"
I exhale heavily. "I'm not really in the mood to play basketball. Can we just go home?"
Home.
Where I can cry my eyes out because the guy who confessed to liking me, then had sex with me, left a few hours ago. And when he disappeared down the street, he left me with all these perplexing emotions and feelings I don't know how to process. Lust. Desire. Hurt. Disappointment. Apprehension. A fluttering in my chest when I think about his hands on my bare skin. A stabbing pain in my stomach when I think about him leaving.
"Let's do something fun," Matt suggests. "We've both been in shitty moods since—"
"The boob debacle," I cut in, blowing out a breath of hot air.
"I hate that you call it that," he scrunches his nose, almost as if he's disgusted.
We get it, Matt. You're repulsed by me.
"Just know," I stick a finger rudely in his face, watch his eyebrows furrow, "one day, some guy is going to worship these awesome boobs and it's going to make you realize you're the one who missed out."
He grabs my finger and yanks me forward, our mouths a few inches from each other. I can feel his warm breath on my lips, see the golden flecks in his dark brown eyes, the few freckles sparsely dotted across his nose. "You're an idiot if you think I didn't like everything that happened in my Jeep that day."
He releases me before walking off the court and slamming the gym door shut behind him.
What the hell.
Did he just confess that he liked touching me? Kissing me?
I rub my fingers across my forehead, trying to push away the tension building there.
These confusing, difficult, infuriating Thompson brothers.
They're going to be the death of me.
—
"No fucking way," Fallon whisper-yells across from me in the cafeteria at lunch Monday afternoon. "Kyle I-look-like-a-fucking-God Thompson had sex with you? And it was good? I honestly didn't think you had it in you, babe."
I scratch the back of my neck nervously, look around to make sure no one's close by listening in. "Could you try being a little more discreet? Someone might overhear and people can't know."
"You mean Matt can't know," she rolls her jade-colored eyes, letting out an agitated huff.
"Yes," I nod from across the table. "Yesterday we got in a huge fight over the boob-touching thing, and he basically told me he liked feeling me up."
"Duh," she shakes her blond head. "I told you he's in love with you."
"It doesn't matter," I decide, "he's with Audra and I have a bigger dilemma right now."
"Which is?" Fallon asks as she takes a bite out of a banana.
