A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(48)

I'll take holy fucking damn.

"We have to pick up Levi, back at my house. He's bringing some girl on  your team. Bria, I think?" he says, driving slowly, his eyes keep  glancing over at me, and I cross my legs to try and get the tingling  sensation to stop.

"Your legs look really good in boots," he says, his grip now on his neck  as he looks at my bare knee where the dress has slid up just enough. I  tuck it tightly under me and cross my legs tighter, my body warm with  his attention.

"You look nice too," I say lightly. He only smiles in response, giving his attention back to the road.

He's wearing a gray button-down shirt, black pants, and a thin black  tie. I notice his shoes-the way they look barely worn, and I smile to  myself. I don't ask him if they're new, but I'm pretty sure they are.  And it makes me think back to when he was a boy.

We pull up in front of his house, and Wes's family is waiting in the  driveway for us. Bria's parents dropped her off, and she's standing with  her hands wrapped around Levi's arm. Levi is dressed just like his  brother, and the thought that TK probably looks exactly the same warms  my heart too. My suspicion is confirmed when Taryn pulls up behind us,  and Wes's brother steps from her car.         

     



 

"Gah! I don't think my boys have ever looked so handsome," a short,  red-headed woman says, pushing her way from behind Bruce, her phone  poised in her hands ready to take a picture.

"That's my mom," Wes whispers in my ear.

"Boys, come on. Just one more photo," his mother says, urging her boys  to stand next to the truck with their arms around each other's  shoulders. "TK, knock it off. No flipping the bird secretly. I see it  every time you do it."

"Bah, you do not!" TK laughs. "I slipped one in the Christmas card photo last year!"

His mother drops her hands and juts her hip out to the side, staring at  TK. "I know. I couldn't send the damn things out, and I ordered a  hundred. Now knock it off, and do it right," she says, that special  quality added to her tone that means business. Wes smacks TK on the back  of the head, and the three of them finally pose without any pranks.

After she takes a few pictures, she urges us all to gather for one  together, then asks her boys to all gather with their dates for couple  shots. She asks Wes and me to stand on our own last. She steps close to  me, and her fingertips find the fringe at the bottom of my dress. She  pulls it out a little before letting the fabric fall back in place.

"This is lovely," she smiles.

"Thank you," I say, my voice coming out a bit hoarse. I clear my throat,  my hands gripping the sides of my dress, bunching it while I try to dry  the sweat from my palms. "It's … it's new. I don't really do dresses."

"That's what I hear," she says quickly, smiling. She runs her palm down  my arm and squeezes, then offers me her hand. "I'm Maggie. And Wes  hasn't been able to shut up about you for the last two weeks. He … he  doesn't talk about girls. Ever. So I figured you were pretty special."

I'm blushing-hard. I whisper, "Thank you," then tilt my head up to look  at Wes at the feel of his hand squeezing mine. Maggie snaps a picture at  that very moment.

"Do you think you could send me one? We didn't take any at my house," I ask.

"Sure. Here, just type in your number," she says, giving me her phone.

I look at the image she captured for a second before sending it to  myself. When I give the phone back to her, she snaps a few more, but I  know there won't be one I like any better than the image of me looking  up at him and Wes staring down at me like I'm beautiful. For the first  time ever, I feel that way.

"Okay, people. We're going to be late," Taryn says, motioning toward her  car and Wes's truck. I laugh because Taryn is always late, and she  shoots me a look. I shrug it off, following Wes to the truck. I climb in  and slide close to him, making enough room for Levi and Bria to slide  into the bench seat with us. Levi insists that Bria and I wear the lap  belts, and he goes without.

The school isn't far from our home; we pull up to the outside of the  gym, and the boys let us out, TK pulling Taryn's car into a spot down  the hill. We wait at the curb, and when the boys leave the truck and  car, they climb the hill back to us. It only takes a few seconds, but  the scene feels like slow motion-like a glimpse into the future. The  Stokes boys are lean and muscular, and I could watch them saunter toward  us in the moonlight for hours and never get tired of looking.

After a second or two, though, Wes is all I see. His eyes never leave  mine-not when he reaches me and threads my arm around his, not when he  guides me through the balloon arch decorating the main doors to the gym,  and not when he walks me through the rows of tables to the middle of  the dance floor where everyone can see us-touching.

All. I. See.

"I still have my purse," I say against him, his arms heavy around me,  cradling me as we sway off time to a song that I'm pretty sure is meant  for fast dancing.

"I know, but one, that's not really a purse, and two-if I had let you  sit down, it would have been hell trying to get you out here to dance  with me," he says, his chin steady along my head. He won't break our  hold because he knows if he does, I'll retreat to the safety of the  tables. He's right.

"Good point," I say.

"You're a pretty good dancer, Jose," he says, the deep chuckle in his chest rumbling in my ear.

I kick him softly in the shin with the toe of my boot.

"Owwww," he says, faking to hop on one leg. I pull away, but only as a  test. He tugs me back in close, his lips just above my ear. "You can  kick and scream all you want. We're not leaving this dance floor until  I've held you through three cheesy R&B songs."         

     



 

"I know, right? What's up with today's R&B lyrics? They don't do it  like they used to. Smokey, Marvin Gaye … that was good shit," I hum  against his chest. He pulls back and looks at me, his hands still  holding my waist tightly, though. "What?" I ask as he gazes down at me,  one brow arched.

"You're like this perfect freakazoid girl," he laughs lightly with a shake of his head.

"Nice. Freakazoid. Real nice Wes," I roll my eyes.

"No, that's not what I mean. It's just … you can throw a ball harder than  most of the guys on our team, and you can hit my best pitch-"

I interrupt him.

"Is that an admission? Did you just admit that I can hit your pitching?  Oh my god, did I … did I break the Wes Stokes ego code?" I tease.

"You broke it when you sent my best curve into the weeds at the  elementary school weeks ago," he says, his lips an adorable half smirk  with a deep dimple. I stand on my tiptoes to kiss it, then snuggle back  into him to continue our sway while the song overhead raps loudly, the  thump of the speakers vibrating near us.

"It was a changeup. Now, go on then, how am I a freak?" I ask.

"You throw out things like Marvin Gaye and Smokey Robinson, while most  girls at our school would be singing along with the latest graduate of  Disney's marketing machine or some winner from a pop-star reality show."

"Don't make fun of Kelly Clarkson. I love Kelly Clarkson-chick can  belt," I say, my palm flat against his chest, my other finger pointing  at him. He pauses our movement and looks at me, his lips slowly curling  with his light laugh as he pulls my hand from his chest and kisses the  knuckles.

"Got it, Kelly kicks ass. But you know what I mean," he says, his hands  sliding to either cheek as his lips press a soft kiss on top of my head.  I'm so very lost to this boy, it isn't even funny. I've given over my  control, and as much as it scares the shit out of me, I'm more afraid of  missing out on him-anything with him. I cede willingly, and I am racing  to the next kiss, the next dance, the next touch of his hand. I've  never felt my heart beat before like it does when I'm with Wes.

I melt into him again, and the music changes into an actual slow song  meant for whatever it is we've been doing out here on the dance floor. I  catch Taryn's eyes as she and TK move to a darker corner of the floor,  spending more time kissing than actually dancing. I watch the lights  shift around the floor, the reflections bouncing off overstuffed  balloons and streamers and the rows of bleachers that have all been  pushed in. It's the same gym it always is, only we've dressed it up to  be something more. Kind of like me-a freakazoid dressed up like a  western princess, dancing with the cute boy, while she slides around in  her momma's boots.

I step back from Wes again and look him in the eyes, my hands finding a  comfortable place around his neck. He looks at me like I matter.

"I'm just who I am," I say, his lips quirking up on one side with his  raised brow. "Before … freakazoid? I know what you mean, that I'm  different. But … I just … I never really fit into the right box. I like  driving fast-not that I have a car to drive-but when I do drive, I drive  fast. I like running through the street barefoot. You can't feel things  through shoes, and I'm faster without them. I like winning. I hate  losing. And when I lose, I front about it-I make up excuses and tell  people I don't really care. But I do … care? I care so much when I lose  that I find somewhere dark to cry. And then I lie about that too-about  crying. I like the popular things too. I like movies where the guy gets  the girl in the end, and songs that play on repeat ten times a day."