Page 46 of Falling Like Snow
He slings his right arm over my shoulders. “Get comfy,” he says into my hair, his voice low.
“I’m fine,” I reply. Micah laughs because I am a terrible liar. Or maybe because my self-consciousness is humorous. Or both.
“No, you’re not.” He gives me a gentle push, ending my thigh-balancing act. His grip on me tightens as I nearly fall backward, and my butt sinks into the couch. I maneuver until my legs are folded comfortably beneath me, my knees propped on his thigh, my chest pressed to his side, and my cheek resting on his shoulder. He reaches over, grabs my right arm, and drapes it over his stomach. His very firm stomach. “Better?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, my whole body still tense despite being in a relaxed position.
A while later, we’re watching the comedy playing on the massive television screen, when there’s a loud commotion behind us. Micah draws circles on my shoulder, completely unfazed by his friends’ rowdy game of beer pong. And I can’t focus on anything as his hand slides down my rib cage and eventually lands on my hip. I swallow at the weight of it. Asher is the only guy whose hands have ever been on me, and it makes me wonder what it’d feel like to have not-so-platonic hands exploring my skin.
I shudder at the thought.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“No, I’m okay.” Just full of curiosity about your hands, apparently.
“Bullshit.” He moves his arm from around me, making me sit upright, and takes his hoodie off. “Here.” He slips it over my head, and I slide my arms in and become cocooned in his sweet scent.
His arm wraps around me again, and I settle back into him.
“Thanks,” I say, even though I didn’t need it. I lift my head to look at him. “Honest and chivalrous? Are you sure you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Who says I don’t?” he asks, completely straight-faced.
My eyes widen. With how much he flirts, I’ve never considered the possibility. But if Hannah and Asher were right about the type of guy he is…
“I’m kidding,” he says with a hint of laughter. He squeezes my hip. “Jeez, you seriously do think the worst of me.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why do you think the worst of me? Great question. You tell me.”
“No, why don’t you have a girlfriend? I mean, you had a bunch of girls hovering around you after the game.”
His lips quirk into an arrogant yet somehow seductive grin. “Sloane Sullivan, were you jealous?”
As a matter of fact, I was not. At all. Should I have been?
“I’m just saying it seems strange you’re hanging out with me when you could be with any girl,” I tell him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m cool as shit”—he laughs at that—“but why don’t you already have a girlfriend?”
His shoulder bumps my cheek when he shrugs. “Haven’t met anyone I want to be that serious with.”
I study his sincere green eyes, then say, “I see. So… what is this, then?”
Someone behind us screams, and a few others start chanting. But Micah doesn’t even flinch as he holds my gaze like I’m the only one in the room.
“Not sure yet. What do you want it to be?”
“I don’t know. I barely know you,” I say, realizing our faces are mere inches apart as we practically whisper to each other like we’re telling secrets.
“Then maybe that’s what this is,” he says, leaning in. “Just us, getting to know each other.”
Bright red sirens blare in my head. I can’t tell if they’re a warning, like my internal alarm system’s been tripped, or more like the sirens in a parade, a celebration that comes with cheering and candy.
All I know is this boy is about to kiss me.
I stop breathing, trying to bat away the numbing anxiety and debilitating fear that I’m going to be bad at it.
He cups my face with his left hand as his nose skims mine. Our lips are a breath away from meeting when I’m jolted out of my panicked daze by the weight of the giant goalie landing on me from behind the couch, causing me to unleash a very unattractive grunt.
