Page 51 of Personal Foul

Instead, he barks out a laugh. “I guess you have a point.” He holds up a finger. “Though you’ve hated me for years. I could understand if your hatred of me started with the blackmail. But you told me at game night a few weeks ago that you never want to see me again, and at that point, we’d barely spent any time in each other’s company.” He spreads his hands. “You’ve always thought I’m the worst. I guess I felt the need to live up to it.”

My eyebrows climb my forehead. “So it’smyfault you decided to blackmail me?”

Another bark of laughter. “No. Geez. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to figure out why you’ve always hated me. I didn’t pick on you in high school or anything. I barely even interacted with you, and the couple of times I tried, you ignored me. Are you this angry at everyone from Skyline?”

My mouth drops open. “You think …” I jerk my head back and look away. “Oh my god. You’re oblivious, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you not remember your girlfriend, Mia?”

His brows furrow together. “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“Ah, okay. Sure. I love playing tonsil hockey with random dudes too.” I nod like it all makes sense.

He splutters out a laugh. “Oh my god. I can’t even remember the last time I heard someone use the phrase tonsil hockey unironically. But maybe you should try making out with someone just for fun. It might help you loosen up.”

Glaring, I shake my head. “I don’t need to loosen up. I’m plenty loose.” That has one of his eyebrows ticking up and the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting off a smile, but he doesn’t say anything. “And how am I gonna go out and make out with some rando anyway? I’m supposed to be dating you. Wouldn’t that be cheating?”

A slow smile spreads across his face and he holds his hands apart, palms up. “I guess that only leaves one option.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and looking away again. “You’re the worst.”

“So you keep saying. And yet, you haven’t left yet.” He sits back in his seat, propping his feet on the coffee table again and resting his arm on the back of the couch, the picture of smug satisfaction. “You know what I think?” Not that it matters if I know what he thinks, because he’s going to answer his own question. “I think you like me more than you want to admit to yourself. I think you find me attractive. And I think that little peck we shared the other night wasn’t enough, and you’d like to find out what making out with me would be like.”

I let out a sound that’s half snort, half scoff.

“Deny it all you want, but we both know the truth. But if you don’t want the distraction of a make out session”—he shrugs—“we could watch a movie or something.”

Sighing, I shake my head. As nice as a distraction sounds—the movie, though, not the make out session—I need to figure out what I’m going to do. “I don’t think so. I need to go see my sister.”

“She’s local?”

I nod and fill him in about my sister and her family. “I babysit for them pretty regularly, but I either need to make it an every afternoon thing and basically become their nanny, or I need to find some other job. Because even if I scramble for scholarships and loans for next semester, I’m going to get screwed no matter what. I need actual money pretty soon. Even with that, I might have to take a year off.” I bury my face in my hands, hating the fact that tears are prickling the backs of my eyes again. I’ve already cried in front of Dylan Thompson enough for one day.

He draws in a breath like he wants to say something but lets it out again with a nod. “Alright.” I get the distinct feeling that agreeing so easily wasn’t his first reaction, but at this point, I appreciate his restraint. As much as this has been a nice reprieve and release from everything else, battling against Dylan takes more energy than I have to spare.

Standing, he moves in front of me and holds out a hand.

Confused, I hesitantly place my hand in his and let out a yelp when he hoists me to my feet with one quick yank. He grins down at me, pleased with my reaction. His eyes roam my face, his smile turning more intimate. “Ask me for help when you need it, Charity.”

“Uh …” I’m so confused right now.

“Seriously.” His tone matches the word. “If you need help with anything, let me know.”

I smirk—it’s forced, but it feels like the only defense left to me—and pat him on the chest, which is waaaay too close right now. “Alright, Dylan. If I’m absolutely desperate, I’ll let you know.”

His soft chuckle is close enough to disturb the baby hairs that have worked free of my ponytail. “As much as I like the idea of riding in to the rescue like a knight in shining armor”—he’s murmuring the words, and something about this entire exchange feels even more intimate than our celebratory kiss on our date. Maybe because there’s no audience here, no one to see him tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear and trail his fingers along my jaw—“I’d rather you didn’t wait until you’re at the point of absolute desperation. Let me show you I’m not the asshole you think I am. Let me help.”

Unable to withstand the onslaught of all of this, I scoot to the side and step away from him. “I’ll, um, I’ll think about it.” It’s the best I can do right now. I don’t understand where any of this is coming from. Why does he care about my opinion? Why does he want me to think better of him? Why does he want to help me at all?

He nods once, crossing his arms, accepting my answer. “See you tomorrow?”

“Uh …” I lift one shoulder and hold out a hand palm up. “Maybe?”

A half smile on his face, he shakes his head. “I guess I’ll have to take that.”

“Guess so.”

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