Page 39 of Double Trouble

I raise a brow and swallow my heart whole. “I think I know you pretty well, actually.”

“Really?” she teases, pressing gently against my chest, urging me toward the couch. “You don’t want to know my favorite color?”

“It’s red.”

She tilts her head, surprise twinkling in her eyes. “All right. Favorite music.”

“You don’t listen to music,” I say with a smirk. “You prefer audiobooks.”

Her eyes narrow, and a playful grin crosses her lips. “Favorite trick.”

“Kickflip.”

“You know why?”

The backs of my knees hit the couch, but I don’t let her push me down just yet. Call it my arrogance, but I want to have the upper hand in this impromptu challenge, and if she sits on me, I won’t be able to get a word out. “You picked up a board when you were twelve, practiced for a year, and finally landed your first trick—the kickflip—when you were thirteen.”

My smirk fades into something a bit more serious, less flirtatious. I swallow hard and tell myself that she doesn’t mind it when I touch her. Some way, somehow, I became someone a little more important to her, someone she trusts. So I reach up and lightly push her hair from her face. “The scar on your left knee came from a stray thumbtack on a course in the park. You gave up soda when you were eighteen, and every time you steal some of my Dr. Pepper, your nose wrinkles from the carbonation. You got your board from a trash can. You’ve been through three helmets. Your favorite Star Wars character is Chewbacca. You hate coffee but love the smell. Your favorite animal is a horse, and the day Candace offered you the job at her farm, you landed a 360 hardflip like it was nothing. You love your job, and you work with a guy who intimidates the hell out of me. You’re learning sign language to communicate with him better, and you have no idea just how damn beautiful you are.”

The air buzzes around us, and panic rolls strong and hard through my gut. Shit, that all just spilled out there, and I can’t take it back. Mad stares up at me with her big hazel eyes, and I know I just bragged about knowing this girl, but I have no clue what she’s thinking now.

“Sorry,” I blurt, wincing against my word vomit, bracing for the “too fast” speech.

“Why?” she says, her voice a breathy whisper.

“I’m freaking you out,” I say, running a palm down my face. “Aren’t I?”

A smile teases the corners of her mouth, and she shakes her head. “No. I’m just… jealous.” She drops her gaze to my shirt and traces the words written across my chest. “I wish I knew that much about you.”

“My favorite color is black.” I say it like a joke, but she nods, pursing her lips like she’s locking the information in her brain for eternity.

“Your favorite trick?” she asks.

“That I can do? A grind.”

“Favorite drink.” A laugh pops from her lips when I give her a look and gesture to all the empty Dr. Pepper bottles. “I’m teasing, silly boyfriend.” Her eyes follow her fingers that are still playing with the print on my shirt. She takes her forefinger and presses the center of my chest, and I follow her prompting, slumping into the couch. She slides easily onto my lap, her knees pressing into the cushions on either side of my hips. My heart stutters, my breath somewhere above me where I left it when I was standing.

She blinks up to my eyes, the pad of her thumb stroking down my jaw, tickling my five o’clock shadow. “Why are you so hesitant?”

“Huh?” Yeah, she’s shut my brain off.

Her body shakes with silent amusement. “Every time we touch, I have to move first.” She emphasizes with another long stroke across my jaw, stopping at my chin and prodding my mouth open. “Or if you move first, it looks like you put a lot of thought behind it. Are you just not a touchy person? Because if that’s the case, I’ll try really hard to resist.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “No, that’s not it.”

A frown replaces her playfulness, and she drops her hand. “Were you… abused?”

“No.” I wish she’d go back to those sweet caresses, but I’m too chicken to ask her to. My gaze drifts to her hands between us, and it takes everything in me to convince myself that taking her hand won’t be too fast. She is sitting on me, after all.

But she crosses her arms, lifting a brow, and waits for me to answer her initial question.

I scratch at the back of my head. “You know I told you I was notorious for moving too fast?”

“There is no evidence to support that, but go on.”

“I’m trying really hard not to move fast with you.”

“Because…?”

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