Every Kiss(35)
Of course, my books and binders are still scattered on the end of my bed, which is all wrinkled from when I jumped on Makenna earlier. Aside from that, everything seems as it should be. “Don’t touch anything. I mean it.”
He draws an imaginary “x” over his heart. “Scouts honor.”
“Were you even a scout?” I shove all of my books back in my bag and set it by the door.
“Nope. But that doesn’t mean I can’t keep a promise.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Stay here. You’re not coming with me into my closet, and I’m standing firm on that.”
He holds his hands up in resignation. “Yes, ma’am.”
I nod and step inside, pulling a duffel bag from the top shelf. I’m suddenly stumped, though. What do I wear? I’m sleeping over at Wes’ house. Why did I agree to that? Remembering the morning after his birthday, I think of the black running shorts and Breaking Benjamin t-shirt I had on when he told me I looked good. Definitely not wearing that. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going down that road again.
Instead, I throw in some jeans and a touristy Panama Beach t-shirt. To sleep in, I grab some yoga pants and a sunny yellow racer-back tank, and of course, I add the black shorts and band t-shirt, just in case. You never know when you might need an extra set of clothes. I’m only being practical.
When I come back out, I find Wes lying down, practically dwarfing my twin sized bed. I drop my bag beside his legs. “What the hell are you doing?”
He unfolds his hands draped across his chest and wiggles his fingers at me. “Not touching anything. Your bed is surprisingly comfortable, and it smells good. Like your hair.”
“Hmm.” I have nothing else to say. I can feel heat creeping up into my cheeks, so I turn toward my dresser, trying to figure out how I’ll get my panties and bra out without him seeing anything. I look back over my shoulder to my bag, then to him, then into my drawer. I could just walk back to the bed and bring the bag back over here, but what the hell. He deserves some payback for making me think he was going to kiss me.
Instead of opting for the more sensible cotton variety of underwear, I decide on what will have the most impact. The most bang for my proverbial buck. I won’t be as comfortable, but it’s a small price to pay. I dig to the back of the drawer and strike gold. I bought this set at Victoria’s Secret because I fell in love with it, but I haven’t ever worn it. It’s lingerie that requires a very sexy occasion, and I haven’t felt the need to break it out yet. I think shock value trumps sexy today.
“Hey, put these in my bag, will you?” I toss the wad of lace at him. “I have to get my stuff from the bathroom.”
He catches them deftly, not realizing what it is he’s catching until it all unfurls in his hands. “Sure, uh . . . sure.”
“Thanks.” I wait for him to blush. To stare into his hands as if the lace is burning into his skin, but aside from his momentary stammer, he recovers coolly.
He holds them up inspecting the sheer, black fabric, both trimmed in fire red satin. “Well, color me surprised. As tight as you wear your jeans, I had you pegged for a thong kind of girl.”
I groan and storm off, calling to him from my bathroom. “Just put them in my bag, jackass.”
He can so easily get to me, even though guys rarely do. I think so much like them that I don’t usually fall prey to their games, but Wes . . . he keeps me off kilter, and it pisses me off. Especially when I can’t beat him at his own game. I’m not used to that. To think that I actually thought throwing sexy underwear in his face would get him. This is the guy that watched me strip, shower, and dress, all from his bed, and he never flinched. Yeah, he admitted later that it messed with his head a little, but I need that outward proof. That sure sign that he’s flustered, for even a second.
But like he said, I’m stubborn. I won’t give up. I’m going to make that stone exterior crack. Even rock eventually gives way under enough pressure.
I zip my toiletry bag and step back inside my room to find Wes still lying on my bed. Mr. Hilarious has my bra draped over his eyes like a sleep mask. “You’re an idiot,” I say, snatching it away and stuffing it in my bag.
He gasps in mock offense and pretends to cry. “Why are you so mean to me?” He dabs at the corner of his eyes with my panties before his fake sobs are overcome with deep laughter.
I hold out my duffel bag with a deadpan expression until he drops them inside. As much as I want to hate him, as much as I want to be angry with him, I just can’t. I like this Wes. The playful, teasing one. This Wes doesn’t have a permanent furrow in his brow like Tall, Dark, and Moody or Sexy Suit CEO does. This Wes looks younger, happier.