Page 57 of The Downside of Love
I gulp.
No.
Not going to act on this attraction.
Not even a little.
This is just a crush, that’s all.
Harmless.
“What happened to my good-night hug?” he asks, his voice so deep, almost rough to the ears.
Acting dumb, I say, “Oh yeah, duh. Forgot about that.”
I didn’t. Because I look forward to this moment every single night. Crave it.
Knowing there is no way of getting around this, I try to harden my heart as I step up to him. I will my body to act normally.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in close, his skin soft against my cheek, his arms protective. It’s as if when I’m around him, nothing could ever harm me. In an instant I’m brought back to the park, the memory of our intimate position hitting me in the chest, his voice filtering through my brain on replay. Soft and so sweet.
Instead of stiffening, I release a long breath and melt into his hold, eyes shut, arms firmly clasped around him. I hold on to him for longer than I should, getting lost in his warmth, in the feel of his velvety-soft skin against mine. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to the top of my head and says, “Sweet dreams, Rory.”
Letting go, he gives me a gentle smile and retreats to his twin air mattress.
My heart spasms in short palpitations, watching him get comfortable, the covers only going up to his waist as he stretches his hands behind his neck, his biceps like boulders, flexing with his movements. Slowly, I get into my bed, forcing myself to turn away, to look anywhere besides the golden bronze of Stryder’s perfectly chiseled chest.
Turning to my side, I stare at my nightstand, and note the soft hum of my fridge filling the silence. Usually I don’t notice the sound as much, but some reason, tonight I’m hyperaware of the silence between Stryder and me.
There is so much going unsaid, so many things I want to talk about, that I want to ask him. When he sang to me—saying he wants to hold my hand, and then gripping it for the rest of the night—I wanted to knowhow long. How long has he wanted to hold my hand? Since my operation?Since he moved in?
On the drive home from the park, we didn’t speak of the intimacy we shared, or the way Ryan eyed us curiously. What we did talk about was the concert and the genius idea to make s’mores. He was relaxed, carefree, laughing, and so freaking happy that it stunned me he could be so easygoing when there was chaos raging inside me.
My thoughts scream for answers, my body itching to crawl in under the covers next to him.
Just when I think Stryder might be asleep, he says, “I don’t think I like Brad for Ryan.”
Okay, that came out of nowhere, but I’m grateful for the conversation, grateful for the pull from my thoughts.
“Why?”
He shifts on the bed and when I give in and look over to him, he has his head propped up by his hand, his torso flexed, the sheets kissing the hem of his shorts that are slung incredibly low on his hips, making it look like he’s almost naked under the covers.
Sweet Jesus.
Lie back down, Rory.
“She can do better than him, that’s all. He seemed like a douche.”
He did seem like a douche. A nice douche, but a douche nonetheless.
“Ryan has always had a hard time picking the good guys.”
Stryder makes a noncommittal sound and lies back down, the soothing sound of the mattress moving a familiar noise I’ve come to know by now.
“I texted her earlier, to let her know I’m staying at her place tomorrow.”
My breath stills as I try to process his words.
