Page 35 of Off Limits

This is everything I’ve wished he would say to me in my deepest, most private wishes. But I can’t quite believe it’s real. I swallow hard and force myself to ask the question that might blow all of this up. “What about Cal?”

He makes a face. “What about him?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

His eyes dart back and forth between mine like he’s looking for the right answer. “Do you want me to?”

That gives me pause. Do I want him to? Do I want Cal to know? I mean … “Maybe eventually?” I hedge.

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a sigh of relief. “So you’re okay with keeping this just between us for a while?”

My brows come together. “I mean, I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty little secret, but keeping it from my brother just seems like a smart idea for now.” Who knows how long this will last? Why complicate Simon’s living situation and my own relationship with my brother—not that it’s smooth sailing on that front anyway, but no need to make it worse on purpose—when this might not last more than a few weeks?

He nods. “For now.”

* * *

After getting my confusion about what Simon wants cleared up, the rest of dinner is delightful. Good food, good company, and a side of homework help before we leave.

I glance around the restaurant as Simon stacks our dinner dishes off to one side to make room for me to lay out my textbook. “This is an unusual homework venue.”

Simon just shrugs. “So? You need help. I want to help. We’re here. Let’s get it over with now, because when we leave I don’t want you distracted by homework worries.”

The look he gives me is so rife with heat and promise that I clench my thighs together and almost tell him to forget about the homework, let’s get out of here now.

“We’ll really splurge and get dessert, maybe then you’ll associate statistics with something more pleasant.”

I don’t need dessert to make statistics more pleasant if he’s the one helping me, but I keep that thought to myself. Moving the little oil lamp to the far edge of the table, I lay out my book, opening it to the chapter we’re working on and turning it so Simon can see it too. Then I pull out my syllabus, my notebook, and my latest quiz with its embarrassing grade—made extra embarrassing by the fact that Simon actually gets this stuff.

I’ve always been The Smart One. My brother was The Athletic One, and yeah, he does fine in school, but his grades have always been more of a mixture. I was the straight-A student, so running up against a subject I don’t understand is extra painful. Combined with the fact that being The Smart One isn’t enough anymore—I also have to be focused and driven and know what I want to do with the rest of my life at nineteen, because that’s not a ridiculous expectation or anything.

Or maybe it’s not, because looking around, it seems like everyone else has it figured out, and I’m over here flailing and unable to pick a direction.

For his part, while I’m mentally spiraling and having my own pity party, guest list of me, Simon looks over the syllabus, textbook, and my dismal quiz. “Oh, I see where you’re going wrong,” he says, unaware of the knife in my guts he’s giving a firm quarter-turn with those words. I’m not supposed to go wrong anywhere. Having all the right answers is my claim to fame.

But he’s matter-of-fact and calm as he puts the quiz on top of the textbook, his blunt, capable finger tapping the problems I messed up and the appropriate explanation in the textbook that he then translates into words that make sense to my brain. Soon I’ve forgotten about not living up to my assigned role or my parents’ expectations, and I’m actually following along and able to make sense of Simon’s explanations. When I do a few problems for my current homework, I’m gratified to get them right on the first try.

“Oh my gosh, thank you so much,” I gush, almost in tears from the relief of statistics finally starting to click. “You’re seriously a life saver.”

He chuckles, brushing aside my gratitude. “I’m happy to help you, Ellie. If you need more help, I’m just a text away.”

I gather up my things as the waiter brings out the chocolate ganache cake we ordered for dessert. “You might regret that offer,” I warn him, “because I’m definitely taking you up on it.”

He grins and waits for me to get a bite of cake before taking his own. “I hope you will. And I hope that won’t be the only reason you text me.”

Once again that heat rises to my cheeks, but this time it’s a blush of pleasure more than embarrassment. “I definitely will.”

The slice of cake is fortunately on the smaller side—which is not something I’d normally be grateful for, especially since we’re sharing. But in this case, I’m glad that it doesn’t take long to finish, and that Simon asked for the bill as soon as the waiter brought out dessert. Simon signs the credit card slip as I scrape the last of the ganache off the plate and suck it off the tines of my fork. He looks up, his eyes growing noticeably darker as he watches me pull the fork slowly out of my mouth, and I can hazard a guess about what’s on his mind.

I give him a tiny, knowing smile, which only makes his nostrils flare in the most delicious way. “You ready?” he asks, and that question feels extremely loaded, like he’s not just asking if I’m ready to go, but if I’m ready for him.

And the answer is a resounding, “Yes.”

* * *

I lied.

I was not ready for Simon at all.

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