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Every Kiss(32)

By:Tasha Ivey


He smirks. “I’ve watched you brush your teeth. Everything you do is sexual, especially to a man who is severely lacking in that department. Put your seatbelt on.”

“You’re kidding, right?” The jeep lurches forward as soon as the belt clicks into place. “What about Allison?”

“I’ve been too busy, and I haven’t been in the mood to deal with her. I haven’t seen her since the night of my birthday. And before you ask, no, I don’t have anyone else lined up. So just so you know what you’re dealing with, it’s been . . .” He trails off, thinking. “About two months. Touching my elbow, at this point, probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Two months. That means, on the night of his party, it had been about five weeks since he’d last had sex. And he still didn’t bang Allison. Nor did he take advantage of me, when he easily could have. I guess the whole deal with his mom was tripping him out more than I realized.

“I know what you’re thinking. It all works properly, to that I can attest every morning.” He waves me off, continuing before I can reply. “But in addition to everything I’ve just told you, I respect you and what you want. You don’t have to worry about me trying anything with you, not unless you give me the green light. Got it? The hot tub wouldn’t have ever happened had I known about your ex using you.”

I don’t know what makes me say it. I feel this incredible need to push his buttons just because he told me he won’t be making a move on me. I’m not sure if I’m trying to prove him wrong or trying to prove my intentions wrong, but nonetheless, I love the look on his face when these words slip from my lips. “I’m glad you didn’t find out about Tanner until the next morning . . . after the hot tub and after you got out of bed naked.”

When the low growl sounds from his chest, I know he’s glad, too.





IT TAKES US a while to get through Tuscaloosa amid the thick evening traffic, probably seeming longer now that Wes is trying to keep from having any conversation with me. Right after my earlier comment, he cranked up the radio, drowning out any possibility of any further button pushing from me.

He sings along quietly, the soft rasp of his voice barely audible above the shrill of the electric guitar. But of course he sings well. He’s one of those guys. The ones that all the girls fawned over in high school and, now, in college. They couldn’t look unattractive if they tried, they never have a hair out of place unless it’s on purpose, and success comes as natural as their undeniable charm. Guys like him excel at everything, and if they don’t, they excel at making you think they do.

Those guys didn’t think I was in their league then, but now that I’ve chiseled a few curves onto my slight frame and started wearing makeup and clothes that actually fit, they’ve taken notice. The only problem is that guys like that don’t like to be challenged. They don’t like the truth thrown in their perfectly rugged faces. They like the lies delivered with a sweet little bow, especially when the truth has potential to mar their seemingly flawless image. They’re drawn in by my appearance, but the moment I open my big mouth, I’m seen as a threat. And I’m okay with that because I feel the same way about them. They may be pretty to look at, but what’s in their narcissistic little hearts is a turn-off.

That’s why Wes is such a paradox. He looks—and sometimes acts—the part of one of those guys, but he throws curveball after curveball, shattering that preconceived idea of him. I mean, seriously, his confidence borders on the verge of being self-righteous, but he can be very sweet and selfless at the same time. Broody and serious can quickly turn into playful and adventurous. He has a seemingly high-profile job, and probably makes a ton of money, but he walks out of the building, peels out of his jacket and tie, and jumps into a jeep instead of an expensive sports car that screams “Look at me!” I may never figure him out.

Noticing our surroundings, I quickly realize that my time with him is nearing an end. The campus is only a few more minutes away. “Uh, I know this sounds a little weird, and if you have something you need to do, I’ll understand, but can we go grab some dinner first? Or if you have some shopping to do, I can ride along. Or I can even go back to work with you if you left too early because of me.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to go home?” He flashes his eyes to me and then back to the road.

“I, uh . . . I don’t much like being home alone.”

“You gonna tell me why?” he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Does someone there bother you?”