Page 39 of Lovesick
But it feels so nice to beseen.
Oddly, Crew is the one to realize the gravity of a skin-to-skin situation because he withdraws his hand a moment later, blood welling under his cheeks. “Let me treat you to lunch. All I’m asking for is an hour, and if you really don’t want to talk to me after that, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
Crew? Leave me alone? That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.
“And what if someone sees us together?” I prod, still not entirely convinced.
“We’re sharing a meal together, not sucking face.”
Come on, Merit. Nothing is going to happen. Aren’t you tired of being such a Goody Two-shoes? Your parents already cross your boundaries. Are you really going to let them dictate who you hang out with too?
I just don’t want to upset anyone.
You always put everyone else first. When are you going to start prioritizing whatyouwant?
And what? I want Crew Calloway? Please.
No, you want to be cared for. Out of genuine interest, not obligation.
Crew’s voice reels me back to the present. “You’re seriously going to turn down free food?”
I’m about to do just that when my traitorous stomach gurgles in resentment, and I slap a hand over my belly.
His eyebrow hikes up. “That’s what I thought.”
Ugh, I am starving. And if Crew’s insistent on paying, I should be grateful and accept his invitation, right?
While I mentally weigh the pros and cons of this “friendly” arrangement, Crew doesn’t give me much of a say before dragging me toward the exit, practically vibrating with excitement. “Come on. I know the best burger joint in town.”
12
TRAUMA WITH A SIDE OF FRIES
MERIT
Crew was right—The Harvest Grillisthe best burger joint in town.
I scarf down the double cheeseburger in front of me, abandoning all my ladylike manners as I manhandle the glorious, greasy monstrosity squished between my fingers. If I wasn’t in public, I’d moan at how crisp the edges of the patty are, how tangy the garlic aioli is, how the sesame buns are toasted to utter perfection, and how the orgasmic cheddar cheese practically melts on my tongue.
Meanwhile, Crew stares at me in silence, hardly having touched his own meal.
When I finally give my poor stomach a break, I set the half-eaten burger back on my plate.
“What?” I ask through a mouthful.
“You just keep impressing me. I’ve never seen anyone put away a burger like that.”
I squint at him. “I could eat you under the table.”
All he does is chuckle, dragging a French fry through a mound of ketchup. “I don’t doubt it.”
This is so weird. We’re not at each other’s throats. We’re notbatting insults back and forth. Even with the continuous lapses in conversation, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence. We’re coexisting. Some might even say we’re—shudder—enjoying each other’s company.
A painful swallow shuffles down my throat. “So…”
“How long have you been dancing?” Crew asks, forklifting his burger to those plump, bitable lips.
In fact, he looks so delicious that I wouldn’t mind devouringhimfor dessert. He’s got an MU hoodie shrugged on, paired with gray, baggy sweatpants that are not only kryptonite to a horndog like me but accentuate his extremely sculpted quads and the…generous…bulge sitting pretty against the inseam.
