Page 49 of It's Always Been You
Of course, I argued with him. God works miracles, right? Why couldn’t he work that one? I surmised God must not want me. What a surprise, right? Who does? Mom’s gone, and Dad hasn’t looked me in the eyes since I fled that wedding chapel.
Brandon frowned. “Evie, baptism is a public proclamation,” he said in this snot-nosed, know-it-all tone of voice. “It’s about confessing you believe that Jesus is the Son of God.” He turned to me. “Do you believe that? That Jesus is the Son of God?”
For some reason, I answered yes without hesitation. All those Bible study classes and summer camps Dad forced me to attend as a teenager did their job, apparently. Denying His existence would be like denying that I have birth parents. Illogical. Still, the God of the universe doesn’t want me, and I’ve come to terms with that. I’m used to rejection.
Desperate to change the subject, I leaned toward him and sniffed pointedly. “What is that?”
He frowned and lifted his arm, sniffing himself. “What’s what?”
“That smell.”
“It’s called cologne, Spitfire,” he retorted, taking a swig of the whiskey. He handed the bottle to me again, and I took another gulp, watching as he loosened his tie. Since he works with kids, he’s always wearing these silly, adorable ties, and that one was covered in cute little Jack-o-Lanterns.
I handed the bottle back. “It smells nice. Nicer than nice, actually. It smells like . . . like—sex.”
The bottle he was lifting to his lips froze midair, and he coughed as several drops of whiskey dribbled down his clean-shaven chin. Snickering, I leaned away from him as he wiped his mouth. “Like sex?” he repeated, sniffing himself again.
“Yeah. It’s what you’d wear if you were a lion on the prowl, trying to lure all the lionesses to your den of debauchery.” I didn’t know what the heck I was saying. I was tipsy. Probably more than tipsy.
Drunk. I was drunk.
Brandon grinned wolfishly, sensing my discomfort. That’s when I realized he was drunk, too. And drunk Brandon was apparently an entirely different beast—one I wasn’t sure I was qualified to handle.
“I’d be very interested to know who you’re having sex with if that’s what you think sex smells like,” he joked. He laughed again, then swiped the bottle from my hand and took another hefty swig.
“I’ve never had sex before.”
The words were out before I had the good sense to filter them.
Brandon was quiet for a moment, but I could see he was suppressing a smirk—as if what I’d just said was the funniest thing in the entire world. Mortified, I stood and whirled away from him, but I teetered and almost fell down the steps as a wave of vertigo hit me. He popped up and grabbed my arm, steadying me.
I was going to forgive him and forget it, mostly for my sake, but then his gaze traveled the length of my body as casually as if he was assessing a car at the dealership.
On the inside, I was thrilled. But on the outside? I kicked the tip of his shoe and said, “Hey, my eyes are up here, moron.”
He chuckled. Sitting back down, he leaned back on the porch step, gazing up at me with the smuggest look on his face. If I hadn’t been so embarrassed, I could have slapped him. But there was another feeling simmering beneath my blushing skin, too—victory. It had been so long since Brandon had flirted with me that I’d assumed he’d lost interest. In fact, I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined his flirting.
A stare-off commenced.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I demanded he tell me what he was thinking.
He refused, laughing under his breath. My heart started beating double time. “You’d never look at me the same way again.”
Curiosity burned on my cheeks. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. With each passing second, Brandon’s smirk grew wider, his light blue eyes glinting with dark humor.
I didn’t know what to say or do. I always feel like I’m losing when I try to flirt with Brandon, like an amateur masquerading as a pro in the big leagues. Half the time, I know I come off as silly and clueless, like I’m sure I did at that moment. Especially after the whole virgin thing. And as he continued to stare at me so evenly, so coolly, I couldn’t have felt more . . . stupid.
Sometimes, Brandon makes me feel . . . like a moron.
Finally, he sighed. His loaded smirk disappeared as he broke eye contact. It was as if the sudden gust of air that nipped at my bare legs brought back his clarity of mind. “Evie, Evie,” he cooed, his expression soft and eyes tender. “I was just thinking about . . . how Adam missed out. That’s all.”
Shocked, my heart skipped a beat. What was that supposed to mean?
Then he glanced at his watch and told me it was getting late. That he didn’t want to get in trouble with Maggie for keeping me out.
That irritated me. I’m not a teenage girl with a curfew.
Stretching his arms over his head, he yawned and smiled. He was acting like the conversation we’d just had hadn’t even happened. “Goodnight, Spitfire.”
