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As I gasped for breath all those years ago, clung to whoever saved me, a dark pair of eyes looked at me with concern, and asked me if I was alright.
I tighten my grip on the box of Fruit Loops, the same pair of eyes stand across from me in the kitchen, boring into mine, silently asking me if I'm alright again.
Kyle.
Chapter 20
His eyes remind me of chocolate fudge. The kind mom picks up when her two sisters visit once a year. They gorge themselves on expensive wine and chocolatey goodness and lots of conversation followed by giggles and cackles and belly laughs. Then they fall asleep on the couch, glasses of Pinot Noir still in their hands. Dad always shakes his head, removes the long-stemmed glasses from their grasps, covers them with blankets and mutters under his breath that they're lucky they didn't stain the white carpet.
I want to ask Kyle what he's doing here. Why he’s standing in my kitchen on a Monday morning when he should be in Boulder.
I also want to run to him, let him wrap his arms around me, and comfort me.
Maybe even kiss me.
Then I remember he's a man whore.
I've always been especially good at giving the silent treatment. So, I look away, pretend he isn't standing there, and grab a bowl from the cabinet. Then a spoon. Dump the cereal into the white porcelain, listen to it rattle out of the plastic bag and settle at the bottom of the bowl. I pour in some milk from the fridge.
He watches my every move, his eyes never leaving me.
And I hate, I hate, that I can feel the current building between us. The electrical spark I keep trying to extinguish, but he just refuses to let me. I don't want to be this aware of him, of his body angled in my direction, the soft breaths falling from those kissable, delicious lips of his. The way his tanned arms cross over his white T-shirt clad chest while he waits for me to look up, say something.
Looks like he'll be waiting all day.
I sit down at the kitchen table, my back to him, drop my spoon into the bowl, slosh it around.
I can feel him moving closer to me as I take a bite, drowning out the sound of his footsteps with the crunching sound of the cereal while I chew. I ignore the way my heartbeat seems to pick up speed and my face heats and the hairs on my arms raise in anticipation that he might touch me.
He better not touch me.
Not after he touched that girl that answered his phone while he was taking a shower.
"Jenny," he says as he moves closer, stands right behind me, places his hands on the back of my chair. My heart flips in my chest and I have to use every weapon at my disposal to remind it that we aren't that important to Kyle.
He slept with you, then he told you he wouldn't be around for two months.
But you can text him.
Just don't call because one of his lady friends might answer and tell you he's taking a shower after having sex with her.
When he realizes what I'm doing, ignoring him, he exhales, and leans forward so his lips graze the shell of my ear. My body flames with heat.
From anger.
Definitely not from the desire to tackle him and kiss him and rip his clothes off and let him do things to me and touch him in that forbidden area that makes—
Wait, anger. Focus on the anger, Jenny!
"Why are you mad at me?" he whispers in my ear.
I shudder from the closeness of his body, the warmth of his breath as it falls on my cheek, the sound of his deep voice.
I straighten my back, take another bite of cereal, try to appear unaffected by his presence.
He keeps his lips on my ear. "If you don't answer me, I'm going to march up those stairs, knock on your parents’ bedroom door and tell your mom I fucked you in my bed last month."
He wouldn't. Mom would kill him. Possibly Dad, too.
