Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(36)

I finish Tobi's foot and reach for her other one. The color she chose is a beautiful dark gray. I think I'm going to want to use the same color.

"But speaking of boys, Rhett couldn't take his eyes off you tonight," Carrie says, her focus on Willow's foot.

It always comes around to Rhett. Like I'm cursed. Where's my fairy godmother to sort this shit out?

"Frey?" she asks. I sigh.

"Look, Rhett and I are not a thing. We're not going to be a thing. He asked if we could be friends, but then he didn't say anything more about it, so I think he dropped it." I'm 100 percent sure that he hasn't dropped it; he's just stepping back and seeing what I'm going to do. I don't like it when he does that. It makes me feel like I'm under pressure even though there is no actual pressure.

"You're glowering," Tobi says as I try to concentrate on applying the polish without messing up. 

"I know," I snap.

"Touchy," she says with a laugh.

"Why don't you want to go for him?" Willow asks. I look up at the ceiling and try to compose my words so they'll understand.

"Because I don't want to. Because I don't think he's doing it for the right reasons. Because I have too many other things to do. Because I don't need a boyfriend." Not right now. And definitely not Rhett Miller.

"Those sound like lies and excuses," Tobi says. "But I can't really talk, because I won't date anyone until grad school, maybe. It's fine if you don't want to be with him. I just don't think you should deprive yourself of something and then end up miserable because you never took a chance." I open my mouth and snap it shut. I don't have anything to say to that.

I sigh again and finish Tobi's other foot. She pulls her toes back so they can dry and motions for me to give her my foot.

"It's confusing," I finally say.

"What relationship isn't?" Carrie says, giving Willow a wink. "But sometimes it's worth it. You'll know when it is. You just . . . you feel it."

Have I been feeling it? Is that what that moment was with Rhett on Sunday? I don't know. How do I know?!

* * *

We eat tons of snacks and watch a terrible movie and finish our toes and giggle a lot. It's nice. I realize how much fun I'm having, and I'm pissed at myself for not doing this more often. I'm going to now. I'm going to let people in. Or I'm going to try to. I'm always going to have my walls up, but maybe I can let a few people get closer to them.

Willow and Carrie are having a fight about the best kind of chocolate, and Tobi is trying to referee. I lie back on the crisp hotel sheets and sigh.

Rhett is right down the hall. If I wanted to (which I don't), I could text him and . . .

Nope. Not going down that path. There's no way. I'm not doing anything with Rhett. I'm not kissing him, I'm not fucking him, I'm not being friends with him.

I'm not doing anything other than being his stunt partner and maybe having dinner with him once a week. Because I get a free meal out of it. Yeah, free food. Who could turn down free food?

Not me.





9


Freya

We get back to campus around dinnertime on Sunday. We're all tired as fuck and grumpy, and all I want to do is sleep forever. I did sleep in the hotel and on the bus, but it wasn't enough. I'm also starving. I try not to look anywhere near Rhett because I know if I make eye contact with him, he's going to ask me if I want to come over and have dinner.

"Hey," a deep voice says behind me. It's like I called his damn name in my head.

I turn slowly and there he is.

"I was just gonna ask if you wanted to have dinner." He leans down and pitches his voice low so people around us can't hear.

I bite my lip and think for about five seconds.

"What are you making?"

* * *

Turns out he's making steak, asparagus, and smashed potatoes. Pure comfort food. I fade in and out of sleep on the couch, lulled by the sounds of pots and pans clanking and Rhett whistling.

"Hey," his voice says as he taps my shoulder lightly. I crack my eyes open and yawn.

Rhett has a plate for me, as well as silverware and a paper towel.

"Thanks," I say, taking the steaming plate of food from him. It all looks amazing and my stomach shrieks in agony that I haven't fed it in hours.

Rhett returns to the couch and sits with me, our plates balanced on our knees. He isn't talking much, but it's okay. It's not weird silence. It's just . . . quiet.



       
         
       
        

I mow through one entire plate (he knows what kind of portions I eat now) and set my empty plate on the coffee table.

"Fuck, that was good. Thanks," I say. I didn't bring any dessert tonight because I came straight here from where the bus dropped us off in the parking lot at school.