Page 16 of Lovesick
“You don’t know anything about me,” she shoots back, curling her hands into fists, that one vein in her forehead pulsing with a mind of its own. She looks like she’s a second away from ending my entire bloodline right here.
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“God, I forgot how infuriating you are.”
Maybe Coach Lawson was the perfect catalyst. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. I mean, sure, she hates my guts, but at least I was gentleman enough to rearrange hers first. Knowing that she goes to the same school as me is lethal information, and I’m going to misuse the hell out of it.
I hazard a step closer to her, mere centimeters away from “accidentally” brushing her shoulder, reveling in the hitch of her breath that suggests maybe some close proximity is exactlywhat the doctor ordered. “Oh, really? You definitely weren’t thinking that when you were screaming my name the other night.”
She blushes the most adorable red, but like everything I’ve learned regarding Merit, it’s simply an act of deception. A venomous-fanged serpent lying in wait underneath the dip-dyed petals of a lotus.
She pinches my arm and I yelp, rubbing at the target zone. Even though it was prompted with murderous intent, I’ve finally felt something since the strange stasis she left me in. I know I should be treading carefully, and I really do respect Coach Lawson, but playing with fire scratches an itch that I didn’t even know I had.
I’d let her fucking burn me just to be near her.
“We’re never to speak about what happened that night, capiche?” Tone colored in a vibrant shade of hostility, she looks up at me with the hatred of a thousand fiery suns, deciding to throw some kerosene on the situation by shoving her pointer finger straight into my chest.
I flex my pecs. “Why? Afraid it’ll bring up some repressed feelings?”
Even with her veneer of unconvincing disgust, she never severs contact. “Actually, I’m just trying to get through dinner without puking,” she snarks, fully aware—or unaware—of the fact that she’s still touching me.
I can’t fucking shake this girl. I don’t know what it is about her. It’s not because I’m some thrill seeker chasing what I can’t have. It’s because, deep down, I think we’re more alike than we both realize. She’s leeching on to every sensible brain cell ping-ponging around in my skull, and dead set on overseeing my calamitous downfall.
She finally goes to tear her arm away, but not before I use my hockey reflexes to keep her in place. When my fingers gently encase her wrist, I’m swaddled by the heat from herbody, and I can feel her winged pulse beating erratically against her skin like a bird trying to escape from an iron-wrought cage.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I tell her, dropping the rival act for a split second, hoping that she does the same. My voice softens, and I can’t exactly explain it, but a saw-toothed chasm seems to open in the cavity of my chest, swallowing my heart whole.
In that terribly long minute when we’re both acquaintances reunited under a guise, I can push aside the fabricated hatred to unveil that vulnerable underbelly I saw when we were lying together, naked, trusting each other with more than just our bodies. It’s still there, thawing under the surface of ice, just waiting to be unearthed.
And I won’t stop until I see it again.
Her wrist tenses—a reflexive response rather than a defensive one. “And how are you so sure I’m lying?”
“Because I can feel your pulse race every time you look at me.”
Caught in the act, she evades my eyes, her whole body turtling in on itself. There’s no resistance. No smear campaign. I don’t expect a complete concession, but I’m slowly chipping away at her not-so-impenetrable earthworks.
But right as she’s about to say something—probably at my expense—my stomach interrupts us with a loud, impatient growl, dissolving whatever unspoken peace treaty we had going on.
Aaand…moment ruined.
Merit chuckles softly, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that it sounds like the choir of a hundred angels descending from the heavens. I release her arm due to sheer embarrassment, but to my surprise, she just reasserts her dominance by latching on to my wrist and pulling me sideways.
“Come on, big guy. Let’s not keep my father waiting.”
6
A STRICTLY PLATONIC LOVE AFFAIR
MERIT
Crew Calloway is an enigma.
As much as I (sort of) hate him, I have to give him credit where credit is due: he’s one persistent bastard. I was expecting to coast by dinner completely unscathed, yet here I am, sitting across from the only man who’s ever made me come while simultaneously sitting adjacent from my bull of a father who would rip the world to shreds if he found out that his goody-two-shoes daughter wasn’t so…good…anymore. I never thought I’d see Crew again. I honestly didn’t want to. And right now, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
If my life wasn’t already a labyrinth of dead ends and steep bluffs, this just makes things a thousand times more complicated. If my father sniffs out even thefaintesttrace of amicability between the two of us, it’s game over. Not that hating Crew is difficult in any aspect. Does he seriously think I’m such a priss that I wouldn’t have slept with him if I’d known he was a hockey player?
Is he wrong, though, Merit? You wouldn’t have.
