Page 62 of The Downside of Love
She sighs, turning her eyes away from me for a brief moment before she points her fingers at me and says, “Okay, but you promised not to judge.”
“Promise.” And in this moment, as I wait for Rory to confess her truth, the corners of my lips turn up. This, right here, this is theusI’ve come to love. The joking, the teasing, the honesty, and it’s why I’m so in love with this woman. With Rory, what you see is what you get. She wears her heart on her sleeve, her pride on her chest, and her humor in her eyes.
She’s brilliantly perfect in every way.
Pulling away, she leans against her car and plays with the hem of her shirt when she mumbles something.
“What?” I ask, stepping forward, placing my hands on her hips. It’s automatic, my hands needing to touch her, needing to be near her. I should keep my distance, but my body isn’t listening to my brain. It’s letting my heart take charge, once again bordering dangerous territories. “You’re going to have to talk a little louder than that.”
Letting out a heavy exhale, she meets my eyes and says, “I thought that maybe you liked staying with Ryan better.” Before I can debunk that thought, she says, “I know, I know I’m stupid, but your departure was so abrupt the other night, and then when I walked in, you looked so relaxed, more relaxed than when you’re at my place, that I thought maybe you liked it better there. And not that it should matter, but it just, I don’t know, made me feel weird.” She buries her head in her hands and shakes it. “God, I hate that I just told you that.”
More relaxed at Ryan’s? Yeah, probably, but that’s only because when I’m at Rory’s, I’m doing my fucking hardest to keep myself under control when I’m around her, to not lose control and give in to my feelings. I’m holding back because if I do relax, then I know what will happen. I’ll lose everything I have with Rory by taking what I want.
And that’s exactly what I can’t fucking have.
God, I hate that I hurt her. Made her doubt herself.
Wanting to ease her embarrassment, I go with the partial truth. Removing her hands from her face so she’s forced to look at me, I say, “Do you really think I like staying at Ryan’s apartment, having to dodge undergarments all the time? Picking up after her? Getting two minutes in the bathroom in the morning because she takes over an hour to get ready?” I shake my head. “No, staying with you is better than staying with Ryan. I left because I thought you might want some time to yourself. Believe me when I say I look forward to the weekends when I get to hang out with you.”
That brings a smile to her face; a beautiful, all-consuming smile.
Unable to hold back, I push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, loving how her cheek leans into my touch and the way her eyes flutter shut for a brief second. Is she . . . it almost makes me . .. does she have feelings for me?
The keyword beingalmost.
No reason to get my hopes up over a brief moment.
“Okay, well, I should let you get going.” I don’t mean what I say. What I really want is to hop in her car and go to her place where I can pull her onto my lap on the couch, sift my hand through her hair, and slowly explore her lips with mine, memorizing the way she feels and tastes on my tongue. “Thank you for dinner. It was really good.”
“Of course, glad you liked it.” Biting on her lower lip, she asks, “So, see you Friday?”
I nod. “Yeah, see you Friday.”
“Okay.” Stepping in closer, she gives me one of her infamous hugs and then steps away, pushing more hair behind her hair. “See you Friday, Stryder.”
I watch intently as she gets in her car, starts it up, and slowly backs away. Friday, just two days away, but as she drives away, it feels like a lifetime.
Chapter Eighteen
RORY
“If you keep biting on your lip like that, you’re going to worry a hole through it,” my mom says when she sets down her menu. Dad is with Bryan, having a guys’ night, so my mom asked me out to dinner.
The distraction is much needed, especially since my mind has been focused on one thing and one thing only lately: Stryder.
I can’t get him out of my head, and I can’t seem to get the feeling of his hand passing through my hair out of my head either. It’s like his hand is permanently there, stroking, threading, twirling, yanking.
“Hey.” My mom pokes me with her fork. “I’m talking to you.”
“What?” I shake my head, clearing my mind, trying to focus.
Crossing her arms over her chest, my mom leans back on her side of the booth in her our favorite Mexican restaurant, Salsa Brava, and says, “Spill. What has you so distracted?”
And just like that, the emotions hit me once again, but there is no holding them back this time. My throat closes in on me, my eyes start to well with tears, and my entire body begins to shake as I try to squeeze the words out past my mouth.
“Mom . . .” I say on a short breath.
Her hand finds mine, worry immediately etching her features. “What’s wrong?”
