Page 67 of Unloved

“You promised,” she laughs, peering over my shoulder to see Hello Kitty staring up at us both.

“I know, I know.” Ialsoknow exactly the look I’ll see on Holden’s face. I can nearlyhearthe jokes he’ll throw in the locker room until it washes off.

Something makes Ro pause.

“You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.” I fluff her hair affectionately, smiling at her with a shake of my head. “I want to. Promise.”

It seems to appease her, the smile I’ve been aiming for all day pleasantly back on her face. Making her happy, pleasing her, makes me—

Stop. We’re not doing this again.

Remember last time.

Shaking my head, I stretch and push the nearly empty pizza box away.

“So, where do you—”

“You first,” she blurts before standing and running to the kitchen.

“Okay,” I say, pulling off my shirt and settling back on my forearms. “But you gotta promise to get it perfect, Rosalie. It’s bad enough showing up with Hello Kitty on my chest. Even worse if she’s all mangled on—”

I pause, because Ro has malfunctioned, standing completely frozen in the corner as she was reentering the living room.

Her eyes are wide and round, mouth slightly open and faceblushing rapidly. It’s enough of a change that I press up to sit, anxiety rolling down my spine.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” she says, but it’s high-pitched and squeaky, which means it’s very much not nothing. “I just… you’re—you took off your shirt. I wasn’t prepared.”

I relax a bit and have to swallow down the urge to ask if she likes what she sees. I’m well aware of her weird relationship with Tyler Donaldson, one he’s made distinctly clear to me is none of my business. But it’s second nature for me to preen like a goddamn peacock at the slightest hint of attention.

Fucking pathetic.

“Sorry, Ro. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Because that’s what she’s feeling, right? Discomfort? “I was gonna have you put it on my chest, but—”

“No, no,” she says, stopping me, shaking her head, which seems to work like a reset button for her entire body as she darts forward, back onto our makeshift pallet with a bowl of hot water and a thin roll of paper towels. “Sorry. That was probably so weird. I’m… sorry, Matt. You’re unfortunately very handsome.”

“Unfortunately?” It makes me laugh. I’ve been told I’m attractive more times than I can count, but none of them quite so backhandedly.

“I’m not—” She shakes her head. “Sorry. I probably made you uncomfortable just now. You don’t have to do this to make me happy—”

“Trust me, Rosalie,” I say. “Nothing else I’d rather be doing.”

I get comfortable again, leaning back on my forearms while she kneels at my side.

She snickers, drawing my eyes back to her.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re splayed out like you got injured in a battle. AndI”—she gestures to herself briefly, to the ceramic bowl and paper towels at her side—“look like I’m here to heal you. It’s all feeling very bodice ripper.”

My eyebrows shoot up as I repeat, “What?” But a lot louder, as her cheeks turn crimson.

“The books, with the ladies in dresses on the front and the shirtless men?” She bites down on her lip. “They’re called bodice rippers.”

“They’re sexy books?” I wink, suddenlyveryinterested in this hobby.

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