Page 5 of Riding the Pine

“And Kevin Costner,” I half mumble as I check my rearview mirror.

“Have you seen Terminator?”

A snort is the only answer he gets to that stupid question.

He hums. “I bet The Princess Bride is another obvious one.”

I try not to react but my nostrils flare just enough to give me away.

“Yeah, I thought so. Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

My brow twitches this time, it’s not one I’d have thought to ask about, but I can’t say I don’t like it. “An underrated classic.”

He hums his agreement again. “Is When Harry Met Sally too sappy for you?”

My cheek sizzles under the weight of his stare.

“Huh. A closet romantic, are we Ms. de la Peña?” Amusement is laced into his curious tone. He nudges me, making me take my eyes off the road to look at him for a fraction of a second. “I won’t tell anyone. And just to keep the playing field level, I’ll confess that I am too. You can’t beat a good love story. Flashdance, Romancing the Stone, Pretty in Pink, and who could forget the cult favorite Dirty Dancing?” He covers his heart with his hand.

“Swoon-worthy, am I right?” He tosses another piece of candy into his mouth. “Cocktail, The Karate Kid, Risky Business...”

I glance at his thighs to make sure he’s not reading these from a search engine of top romance movies of the eighties on his phone to make fun of me, but it seems to be tucked out of sight.

“Believe me yet? Or should I keep going?”

The corners of my lips tug upward. “You’re good.”

“I get it. Lots of guys pretend to be into things just to impress a woman.” He shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, a girl will either like me for who I am, or they won’t. Pretending to be someone I’m not will only lead to disappointment and heartache. I am who I am, that’s either good enough, or it isn’t.”

He turns to look out the window, his voice taking on an odd tone, disappointment and sadness intertwined, like he’s walked that road before. He’s too young to have such a jaded view of relationships already, though. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s a story there of someone he knows, maybe his mom or an older sibling even. I imagine if it was lighter in here I’d see an embarrassed redness staining his cheeks.

“Anyway.” He slaps his thigh. “I thought you might pick a fight with me over listing Karate Kid as a romance movie.” He shovels more M&Ms into his mouth, and I make a mental note to do some restocking of my snacks stash.

The rest of the drive is spent discussing ‘80s movies, then movies from the ‘90s, and the differences between the two, and why the ‘80s is the superior decade for pop culture.

I find myself yearning for him to suggest we watch a film together sometime, but he doesn’t, and neither do I. We both know he’s friends withallmy brothers, not only friends, but their teammate, so essentially like a brother to them. And, whilethat doesn’t make him anything to me, it does kind of make him off limits, something I think we’re both hyper aware of.

As we pull into the parking lot of the rink, someone cuts me off. I slam on the brakes, my arm shooting out to protect Scott’s body from snapping in half and cracking his head on the dash, or getting whiplash, or whatever other injury could come from someone punching the brake pedal with force.

My hand presses flat against his chest. Since he stripped off his coat when we started our impromptu road-trip, the rhythmic thump-thump of his heart flutters under my palm through his hoodie. “Are you okay?” I pull into a space next to the door, cut the engine, and turn to check on my passenger.

He doesn’t say anything, after a long, intense moment of staring at me in silence, he glances down at his chest where my hand still lingers over his heart.

Well, now it’s just fucking weird.

A moment ago, in context, I was saving him from an imminent concussion, but now, now I’m just fondling his pec. His really firm, sculpted, athletic pec.

My heart does a weird jumpy thing, and our breath starts to fog up the quickly cooling interior of my car. His heart’s racing faster now than it was when we almost got side-swiped by an idiot. And yet, I still don’t move my hand.

After what feels like an eternity, he reaches up with both hands to take mine from over his heart. The warmth of his hands seeping into me, little zaps of energy zipping from his skin to mine, or mine to his. I’m not quite sure.

Usually, the intensity in people’s stares doesn’t make me flinch, but here and now I’m feeling oddly vulnerable, exposed, like Scott can see inside me somehow. The more he holds my gaze, the more my skin prickles, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad feeling.

The harder he stares, the more the breath leaves my lungs, tightening my chest, and making my pulse race, thumping in my wrists and ears.

My mouth goes dry, and as soon as my tongue snakes out to wet my parched lips, his eyes drop to my mouth.

We lean into one another. I’m not sure if it’s on purpose, if our bodies are simply drawn to each other’s heat, or it’s something more inherent, like magnetic poles unable to be separated.

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