shrinks down when a gust sweeps through the street, her shoulders slouching, arms wrapping around her middle, giving herself a hug.
I war with myself—I don’t have a jacket to offer her, but I do have arms, and my body is warm. I’m a hotbox, sleeping only in a pair of boxer briefs, usually waking with my sheets wrapped around my legs.
Tempted to throw an arm around her shoulders and pull her in closer, I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans, shrinking down a few inches myself.
Misery loves company.
I’m not cold, but if I don’t occupy my hands, they’ll end up on her body to commiserate about the cold, and the last thing I want to do is send the wrong signal.
Although.
Touching a pretty girl wouldn’t be the worst way to end my Friday night. She’s beautiful and seems to like me, but would Charlie accept my arm around her, or would she nail me in the gut with her pointy elbow?
“You cold?” I roll my own eyes because the question is so fucking dumb; the answer obvious.
“Yeah.”
“I’d offer you my jacket if I had one.” Instead I’m wearing a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt with the Iowa logo on my chest. Worn with jeans, it’s not dressy, but for once, what I have on coordinates somewhat. Sort of.
Not that I wanted to impress Charlie or anything.
Pfft. Whatever.
Why would I?
Suddenly I feel like a goddamn teenager. Unsure and insecure, as if she can read my mind and is going to judge me for pussing out on her.
“It’s all right. We’re almost to my house anyway, but thank you for saying so.”
So polite. Shit, almost painfully so—she’s measuring her words carefully.
“Uh. You’re welcome.” For nothing.
I can feel her sidelong glance. “Jackson, it’s not a big deal. It’s not your job to keep me warm.”
No. Maybe not, but I want it to be.
Wow.
Holy shit—wow. No.
Just no. I did not just utter that shit to myself inside my own head.
I do not want to. I fucking don’t.
Liar.
I am not having this conversation. Jesus, get out of your own head. She’s just a girl—one you only just met.
Fuck that, it’s been four weeks.
Wait, five? Or six Fridays—get it straight, dipshit, can’t you count?
Still. You don’t actually know anything about her.
Stop talking to yourself, psychopath.
“I’m sorry, did you just say, ‘Stop talking to yourself, psychopath’?”
Yes. “No.” I punctuate the lie with a snort then groan.
“It definitely sounded like you said something.”
“Hmm. Nope.”
Another sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth tipping up into a smirk. The brat.
“You’re so full of…” She hesitates. Pauses before, “Shit. You’re full of total crap, Jackson Jennings.”
“I really wish you’d stop using my full name.” It sounds ridiculous.
“Why? It’s your name.”
“Right, but…it sounds stupid when you say it like that. Can’t you call me Triple J like everyone else?”
Charlie’s smile widens. “Why on earth would I do that? That’s not your name.”
“So? Charlie isn’t your name.”
“It kind of is. It’s not like people call me Lil C or whatever, like Tiny or something because they’re pretending to be my friend.”
“You’re not tiny. Why would anyone call you that?”
“It was an example.”
“A bad one—because you’re not tiny.”
“Would you stop saying that? It’s insulting.”
“But you’re not.” Shut your mouth, Jackson. She’s getting irritated. I don’t know why I’m arguing with her.
“Yes, I’m aware I’m taller than tons of other girls in the room, and no, I don’t play volleyball for school, but I do intramurally, and no, I don’t play basketball.”
Damn shame—bet she’d look fantastic in those tight shorts they wear on the volleyball court.
“Maybe I want to be called Tiny—ever thought of that? Huh? Huh?”
“You want me to call you Tiny instead of Charlotte?”
“Well, no.” She sounds disgruntled. “Maybe not.”
I laugh, so confused. “Fine then, I won’t.”
“You’re so annoying,” she scoffs, a puff of steam from her lips fading into the night air.
“You started it.”
“What are we, five?”
No, but I’m starting to feel like I am. Wanting to tug at the cute girl’s braids and flirt and say all kinds of dumb shit to impress her.
We walk another hundred feet.
Charlie stops. “This is me.”
This being a dinky little shit-hole, set back from the road roughly fifty feet—but aren’t most college rentals shitty and in disrepair?
The place is yellow, that much I can see, with dark green shutters and a red door. It looks like something out of a children’s television show, but…dilapidated?
No lights are on inside.
“Do you live alone?”
“No, I live with my friends.”
“Where? It’s so ti—”
“Don’t you dare say tiny.” Charlie