Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,81
the door. The places on my waist where he touched me tingle.
It’s a decidedly bachelor dwelling. In the living room is a faux-leather sectional and a massive flat-screen. There’s a beat-up wooden coffee table in the middle. No dining table, just a couple of wooden stools sitting by a counter that juts out from the open wall, which divides the living room from the kitchen.
“Nice place,” I say, walking around the living room.
“Have a seat.” He gestures to the couch and walks to the kitchen sink. “Water?”
“Yes, please.” I hover over his sectional, not wanting to press my sweaty self on it. Instead of sitting, I walk to the kitchen. “How long have you lived here?”
“A couple years.”
“Really? It doesn’t look like it. There’s not much to it.” Rock climbing shoes, a harness, and a bag of chalk litter the floor of what I assume is the dining room.
He hands me a glass of water, and I chug half of it. “What a rude thing to say.” He winks, then raises an eyebrow. The throbbing between my legs commences.
“I didn’t know you lived in a duplex too. Yours is nicer than mine, though. More modern. Mine looks like a tiny red barn from the outside.”
He drains his glass of water in two quick swallows and turns around to refill it. The back muscles poking through his wet shirt are a tractor beam for my eyes. It is physically impossible to look away. Instead I force myself to finish my water.
“I lived here with Natalie until she moved out about a year ago.”
“Did she take all of the furniture with her when she left?” I gesture to the sparsely furnished space.
“Precisely why it looks like this.” He waves his hand around the room. “She started dating the guy who owns this building. They hit it off, it got serious, and he asked her to move in with him.”
I’m floored by how many random things we have in common. We both have sisters who lived with us. We both live in duplexes. We’re both terrible decorators.
He leans against the counter and gazes at me. I try to brush away a chunk of sweaty hair that’s fallen over my forehead, but he stretches out his arm to take care of it for me. He sweeps his hand down my cheek and holds my chin with his thumb.
“What’s going on this weekend?” I ask.
“Nothing major.”
I trace my finger along the tight muscles of his jawline. “This tells me different.” I lightly press the skin around the fresh cut on his forehead. “Let me clean this for you.”
He directs me to a nearby drawer, and I grab peroxide and Band-Aids. I dab a soaked paper towel against the cut, taking care to blow on it to ease the burn. To my surprise, he smiles when I secure a Band-Aid over the cut.
“You didn’t jerk away this time.” I remind him of how he recoiled when I pointed out that speck of paper in his hair all those weeks ago.
“I’m much happier, more relaxed these days. Thanks to you.” A kiss on my cheek seals his compliment.
I inquire again about this weekend.
He sighs. “It’s our high school reunion. Brendan, my sister, and a few other people have been hounding me to go, to catch up with old friends, but I’m not into it.”
“You’re not into spending time with your friends?”
“I spend enough time with my friends. I just don’t want to spend a Saturday evening at my old high school surrounded by people I couldn’t stand ten years ago.”
“Well, it obviously means a lot to your sister and Brendan.”
He leans down, rubbing his face in his hands, then stares ahead. “I wasn’t the most popular person in high school. I was moody and quiet and pissy.”
“You’re moody and quiet and pissy now. What’s the difference?”
“Most everyone hated me. Except for a handful of friends and my sister.”
“So just go and hang out with your sister and Brendan. It’s a few hours of your life. Then leave.”
He leans his head against the cabinet behind him. “They’ll spend the entire reunion catching up with old friends about the good old days while I’ll be the quiet weirdo in the corner.”
His chest heaves when he inhales. I resist the urge to lick his stomach.
“At least you’ll be a hot quiet weirdo in the corner.”
He chuckles and skims his thumb along my arm. “That’s the first time anyone’s called me that. ‘Hot,’ I mean.”
I rest a hand on his shoulder.