Page 7 of Attractive Forces
“Hey, you’ve watched me sweat for the last half-hour over stuff you can do in your sleep. You gotta let me have something.”
I snort. “Yeah, when I think of Logan Madison, I think of a guy who has nothing. I feel kind of sorry for you, actually.”
He stares at me for a second. Then he laughs, and it’s a genuine, surprised laugh. His blue-green eyes light up as he grins at me.
My stomach unclenches. Maybe this tutoring thing with Logan could work out okay.
4
Logan
Jake’s a good teacher.
I’m not a very good student, unfortunately. Mainly because I’m easily distracted. On the second Thursday, I try to make myself focus. I stare at the equations Jake writes out like they contain the recipe for defeating Superman. I take deep breaths in and out of my nose like I usually do to calm myself before a big game.
But the fact is, when any part of him accidentally brushes against me, or I catch a glimpse of his smile—where the right side of his lip curls up more than the left—my heart gallops and my mind turns to mush.
Jake’s explaining how to calculate molar mass. “Does that make sense?” he finishes.
I realize I’ve been admiring his long fingers and the way they grip the pencil instead of listening.
“Um, can you run through it again?”
Jake raises his eyebrows. Fuck. The guy probably thinks I have the mental capacity of a three-year-old.
“Actually, can we take a break, shoot some hoops?” I glance over to the closet where the basketball is stashed.
“My ego is still bruised from the last game.” Jake throws me a grin.
I stand up and grab the ball. “Get prepared for it to be bruised even more.” This is what I can do. Chuck out macho bullshit like it’s second nature.
Of course, it’s like beating your opposing player only to find three more waiting to tackle you. Because on the basketball court, there are moments where our bodies press against each other in a way that makes my blood pump faster. To some spots in particular.
Jake drains a nice jump shot.
“Your shot has improved since last week. Did you practice?” I ask.
“Maybe.” There’s that lopsided smile again.
It gives me a thrill to imagine Jake shooting hoops in preparation for facing me again.
Jake’s breathing hard as we head back up the stairs.
“You’re not even puffing a little,” he says in disbelief.
“Nah, Coach makes us run five miles every day. I’m fitter than a marathon runner.”
“I’m pretty sure marathon runners don’t have your biceps,” Jake says.
I’m speechless. Did he just compliment my body?
Jake seems to replay what he said, and a blush treks up his cheeks.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean that how it sounded,” he mutters.
I force out a laugh. “It’s okay, man. I know what you meant. These biceps are courtesy of forty-five minutes a day in the weight room. Coach’s orders.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “How much of your life does your coach control?”
