Page 15 of No Interest in Love

I lean back and swipe my face free of puddle water. “Guess we can’t wrap it,” I say like a genius.

Shay’s wide, panicked eyes slowly fall. Her mouth sets into a firm line, but I don’t think she’s pissed anymore even though she has every right to be. The loose gravel under her shoes crunches as she gets to her feet. I automatically reach out to help her, my hand clasping the crook of her elbow as she uses mine to steady herself. There’s not a wince in her expression, not a tear or shred of panic, and I’m wondering if she’s transferring that all onto me, because I sure as hell feel it.

Once she’s steady, she loosens her grip, unclasping her fingers from my arm one by one. I push up on my knee, ready to hoist her over my shoulder and set her back in the car, but she starts limping toward the side of the road. Her arms are straight lines, parallel to the angle of her spine.

“What are you doing?” I call out.

“I’m hitching a ride!” She jabs a thumb out even though there is not a car in sight, and then starts marching down the side of the road, limping every other step.

She’s lost her mind. It’s disappeared with her stuff, and because I don’t think she should be on her own—and I feel somewhat responsible for her breakdown—I snatch her ID from the center console, grab my carry-on, and drag it behind me as I catch up to her.

“You shouldn’t walk on it if it’s killing you.”

“I am not in the mood for a lecture.”

“You lecture me all the time. Eye for an eye.”

When she doesn’t respond to my obvious teasing, I grab her upper arm and spin her toward me. Her watery eyes blaze hellfire at me.

“Let. Go.”

I do, slowly. Like she’s a flight risk. “Damn it, Shay. I’m sor—”

Honk honk!

The horn makes us both jump, but I go backward while Shay leaps toward the road. She waves her arms at the semi, but I doubt the driver notices anyone that small through the rain and lack of light.

I see it seconds before it happens. The warning is right on the tip of my tongue. There’s a puddle the size of Texas in front of her feet. The trucker doesn’t see a damn thing other than the curve of the road in front of him. And the eighteen-wheeler barrels through that puddle at about forty-five miles per hour, sending that water twelve feet into the air.

Her hands fly up to protect her face, and the water splashes across her entire body. I reach out, getting my finger into her back belt loop, and I pull her to where I’m standing. She trips on her bad foot and topples backward into me before she rights herself.

She’s covered. Mud from bottom to top, dripping down her hair and off her chin. She slides her glasses off, and her eyes and mouth pop open. The smallest sound escapes her lips, almost like a dog realizing that it’s not getting any table scraps. And something kicks mehardin the stomach. It nudges at my chest and makes it incredibly difficult to see straight. The corners of my mouth turn up, and a gutful of laughter pushes from my throat.

“Stop!” she says, and her lips fight to stay in a straight line. She runs both her hands over the front of her hoodie, splashing muddy water at our feet. My stomach gets kicked again with another round of laughter…though as I let my gaze drift over her body, up and down across the muddy splatters and the clinging wetness of the oversized hoodie, I think more than just amusement is beating my gut.

I’ve never seen anyone look so damn adorable.

The thought catches me off guard. Almost pulls me down the storm drain with all her stuff.Adorableis the most terrifying adjective in the English language, especially right here, right now.

Adorablemeans athousandtimes more thansexy.

Sexy women I can handle. Sexy women are the ones I want to charm the pants off of. Sexy women are like Carletta Ocean—I can see them under me, backs arched and hair spread out against the sheets.

But adorable women…

I avoid adorable women. I run for the hills, leaving Jace-shaped holes everywhere I go. Adorable women hypnotize you with their innocent-looking grins and big doe eyes. They’re the ones that catch you in their snares, holding on to your heart and squeezing it too tight when they cry or get hurt. Then squeeze it even harder when they’re happy or excited.

They squeeze it the hardest when they are frustrated as hell.

And I can almost feel Shay’s hand wrap around my ticker, nails digging into the organ as it drums louder and louder in my ears.

I have got to get my ass on a plane. Now.

Dropping her belt loop, I take three steps back. The rain pelts the top of my head, beating against my skull while I try—and fail—to think of anywhere for us to use a phone. My eyes keep drifting over her muddy oversized clothing, and I see that tidal wave on repeat, making a laugh rumble up through my gut again.

“Stop laughing!” she says, lips twitching and pulling…beating my stomach to bits as she fights a smile. Shay’s always tryingnotto laugh around me. She told me during our third scene together.

SHAY,SCENETHREE:Setting: opening-night party my sophomore year at NYU.We’d kept our distance after she thwapped me across the head during scene two. She was a junior-year business major, and I was a freshman theater major. So we didn’t run into each other much outside the one class we shared. She was all work and no play while I sailed in the opposite direction. So it came as an entertaining shock when I spotted her across the room.

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