The Learning Hours(39)
“Who?”
I peel my eyes open, turning my head to meet his brown gaze. “Your teammates.”
“Jealous? Of me?”
I laugh quietly. “Why is that such a foreign concept?”
“What do they have to be jealous of?”
I sit up, twisting to face him in the chair. “Because you’re the best wrestler on the team. You came from out of nowhere as a transfer and you’re putting their personal stats to shame—or am I wrong about that?”
Rhett’s shaggy hair lobs back and forth when he shakes his head.
“You’re a nice guy—that probably drives them nuts, too. Plus, you’re dating me.”
He snorts. “Out of all the people you could be dating, you expect people to believe you choose me?”
“I mean, don’t you want to? To try?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to date me?” His left brow is lifted. “I have no experience with…”
Is he trying to tell me he’s a virgin? I school my expression so my eyes don’t bug out of my skull. “You mean you’ve never…”
I make a motion near my crotch with my hand, hoping he understands I mean sex.
“Shit, no. I’m not a virgin. I meant I’m not boning a new chick every weekend like some people.” Rhett’s face turns red. “I meant I have no experience with someone like you.”
My heart falls into the hollow in my stomach. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not…”
Like one of his hot teammates. Like Thad, who has more in the looks department than actual God-given talent. Like the overconfident fraternity boys always hitting on me. Like every stereotypical athlete you read about, creating unrealistic expectations for women—and, apparently, men.
We get quiet again, the sound of a motorboat in the background, zooming across the water, reverberating in the dark.
“Maybe that’s what I like about you.” I take a long sip of water, jiggling the ice. “I find it very hard to believe no woman has ever wanted to be your girlfriend. Maybe you just haven’t given anyone the chance.”
My mind strays to Monica and I scowl.
He laughs, the sound echoing in the woods. “Trust me, it’s not like I haven’t wanted to, especially those years when my hormones were raging.”
I lean forward, interested. “Are they raging now?”
“Oh yeah.” He laughs again, relaxed. “So hard.”
Man, he’s cute when he smiles.
Sexy.
The timer on his phone goes off, the notification annoying, coupled with a vibrating tone. We stand. Head into the house, the smell of pizza greeting us.
My stomach growls.
“Want to watch a movie while we eat?”
“Sure.”
“You set up while I do the pizza?”
He nods. “Yeah, I think I can figure that shit out. What are you in the mood for?”
Something that requires us to turn off the lights and sit close. “Um, whatever. You pick.”
I putz around in the kitchen, removing both pizzas from the oven, laying them on the granite to cool. Cut them both, loading two plates with slices of both, surreptitiously watching him fuss with the remote control in the living room.
Turns the TV on. Turns it off.
Bends over to fiddle with the cable box.
I stifle a smile, waiting until he locates the movies on demand and begins scrolling through our options, pausing on a few to read their descriptions and ratings. Stops on a chick flick I’ve seen no less than twenty times, but would watch again. A French docu-series about the king.
He looks at me over his shoulder, pausing on an old comedy. “How about this one?”
“You want to watch Superbad?”
“Only if you want to watch Superbad.”
I know my grin is huge, teeth flashing. “I love that stupid movie.”
“Cool. So do I.”
It’s so freaking dumb and hilarious. I haven’t seen it in years.
I bring the pizza into the living room with a few napkins, eyeballing the couch, strategically trying to locate the best spot. I set the two plates on the coffee table. Pull it a little closer so we can put our feet on it, too.
“I feel guilty eating in someone else’s living room—my mother would kill me.” I laugh. “I’m going to hope and pray I don’t get sauce on any of these pillows.”
Rhett commiserates. “We weren’t allowed to eat anywhere but the table, unless we had friends over—but then again, I have two brothers, so.”
I plop down on the couch, cross-legged. “Your poor mom.”
“My mom is fucking awesome.” He laughs, tearing off a hunk of pizza with his teeth. It rips in half, the gooey cheese stringing off of it—and for whatever reason, I find the whole thing crazy erotic. Especially when his tongue darts out to catch an errant blob of sauce. Licks his lip clean.
“I have to stop feeding you this garbage. It’s not good for you.”
He tilts his head in thought. “Why is it you only feed me pizza? Are you trying to make me slow to start during my matches? I have to make weight, you know.”
His chocolate eyes sparkle.
Guh!
My gaze roams his torso; I bet there’s not an ounce of fat on the guy, and I sincerely hope I get to see him without a shirt later. “I doubt you have a problem staying in shape.”
He tears another hunk off his slice. Chews. “Only because I work out constantly.”
“What’s the most commonly asked question when people find out you wrestle?”
“That’s an easy one: if I enjoy rolling around on the floor with other guys.”
Yeah, even I’ve heard that one, and I know almost nothing about wrestling. “What do you say to that?”
His shoulders move up and down indifferently. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal.”
“I have another question for you: are you going to stand there all night or sit next to me and watch the movie?”
“Shit. Scoot over.”
I move to one end of the couch, leaning against the armrest, facing Rhett, legs sprawled out in front of me, toes wiggling.
He emulates my position.
I bend my knees, match up the pads of our feet, and give a little push. “Now we can play footsies.”
“Is that what that is?” He stares at our joined feet.
“Basically. You don’t have any foot phobias, do you?”
“No.”
“I lived with Alex my freshman year—she has a foot phobia. I’d climb down off our bunk and one morning, I accidentally stepped on her pillow.” I take a bite of pizza. “She freaked.”
“Jesus.”
“It always worked in my favor, because I began to exploit her weakness, right? So if I needed her awake for whatever reason, I would threaten to put my feet on her quilt and she’d bolt out of bed.”
“That sounds…ruthless.”
“So ruthless. I fight dirty.”
“I’ll remember that.”
The movie we started half an hour ago plays in the background, long forgotten. Dim lights, warm quilts, and nothing but quiet for company, we hunker down on the couch.
I pull back my right leg, hook the bottom of his pants, open the leg hole with my big toe. Wedge it inside, rub back and forth along his calf, grateful I thought to freshen up my nail polish with a bright melon color aptly named Lazy Dayz.
Because that’s what this has been: a lazy day. Driving up with Rex, who chattered non-stop the entire way. Spending the rest of the time here doing nothing, really—nothing but adding to the list of reasons Rhett Rabideaux is slowly becoming the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Being here with him is right where I want to be.
No pressure.
Mutual respect.
All the delicious sexual tension…
My brain undresses him from my spot across the couch, wanting to peel back his soft flannel to see what’s hidden beneath. Run my hands under his tee. Down his jeans. Over his erect—
“Laurel?”
“Huh?”
“You wanna keep watchin’ the movie, or…” He clears his throat. “Go to, uh, bed?”
Bed, bed, bed. “Your choice. I could go either way.”
Say you want to go to bed.
The napkin in his lap gets folded in half. “I mean, we’re not really watching it, so…”
There’s nothing casual about the way I shrug. My fake yawn. “I’m tired.”
My feet hit the floor at the same time his do. I rise to stand. Rhett reaches for my plate and napkin. I take the water glasses.
“I’ll put our plates in the garbage. You want to take a shower before bed, or…”
“I took one this morning, so I’m good.” My long hair is shiny and still smells like honey and almonds. “What about you?”
“I didn’t.” Rhett lifts his pit, sniffing. “I’ll jump in real quick if you want to get into, uh…get in your, uh, pajamas or whatever.”
That or whatever holds, lingering in the air.
Rhett clears his throat. “I know you were probably expectin’ to room with one of the girls tonight, so I can sleep in a different room.”
Over my dead body.
“So I’ll just go jump in the shower and then we can figure it out…”
The only thing we have to figure out is which side of the bed I’m sleeping on.
My mind almost immediately goes to that place—you know the one, the space in my brain where I envision him naked in the bathroom, dripping under the warm spray of the shower. Lathering himself with woodsy body wash in all those sweaty, delectable places.