A Kiss Like This (12 page)

Self-conscious in what I consider skimpy shorts and a sheer top, I feel his dark eyes on me, lingering on my legs and arms from under the brim of that ever-present ball cap.

His enormous bear-sized palms rest on his steely, athletic thighs, and every so often he runs them up and down the length of his athletic pants, like they’re sweaty and he’s trying to dry them off.

Feeling him regard me now under that gray brim of his hat, I take a deep breath and angle my head to face him. Trust me, it takes every ounce of courage I possess to turn toward him. Every bit of nerve. This small act that might be so frivolous to some—but not to me. To me it’s an act of bravery.

What I want to do is get up and run. Run out of the room, out of the cabin, and go home. Because I’m scared. Scared shitless, pardon my French.

Having been caught staring, Caleb jerks his jet-black eyes back to the television, and he feigns interest while casually letting his hands—the ones so tensely resting on his knees—idly slide to the couch on either side of his legs, palms flat on the cushions.

Inches from my legs.

Inches from my bare skin.

His chest heaves in and out like his breathing is labored, and I automatically wonder if:

1. He’s as nervous as I am.

2. He’s as out of practice as I am. And by “out of practice,” I mean
inexperienced
.

3. He’s trying to make a move but doesn’t know how.

The thought softens my resolve and I coax myself into motion.

My arms, which have been crossed in self-preservation during the movie so no one can see my breasts, now slowly lower, uncrossing themselves of their own volition.

I gingerly finger the hem of Jenna’s lace sleep shorts, and from my peripheral view, watch as Caleb’s solid fingers begin gently massaging the corduroy couch cushion. Slow, slight circles with the tips of his fingers. The sight of those fingers tensely stroking the fabric is kind of driving me insane as I imagine them on my skin—can’t
help
but imagine them on my skin—when all he’s doing is stroking the
couch,
for crying out loud.

I hold my breath and exhale before letting my own hands slide down from my bare knees, limply thumping down onto the corduroy fabric next to Caleb’s.

Our hands are so close—almost touching—and from the corner of my eye, I can see and feel Caleb’s fingers inch closer to mine
, tap-tap-tapping
nervously on the fabric, as if debating, before closing the space between our hands and sliding his hand, inch-by-inch, over mine.

I let out the breath I’d been holding with a sigh.

His hand is warm, and coarse, and I can feel rough callouses on my knuckles as he skims them with the pads of his fingers. His feather-light touch isn’t soft, but is almost enough to make me sigh again—and I would have, were our immature friends not present.

He holds perfectly still, gauging my reaction and breathing deeply, stoically staring at the TV in a trance.

With my heart fluttering in rapid palpitations within my chest, I flip my palm over, giving Caleb leave to trail his fingers over the sensitive pads of my palm.

He obliges.

He obliges, and I fight the urge to tip my head back and lean it against the back of the couch in a euphoric haze. I bite my lower lip and glance around the room at our friends; they are none the wiser.

Seriously though, it takes every ounce of willpower not to shout,
A boy is touching me. Caleb is touching me! Caleb. Is. Touching. Me
.

Idly, his index finger continues torturing me with its lazy little circles, until finally, I bridge our connection and lace my fingers through his, blushing when his body visibly relaxes next to me. His broad, tense shoulders sag as he gently squeezes my hand.

We sit like this for the next half hour or so, holding hands, his thumb absentmindedly stroking mine, while
The Mighty Ducks
plays up on the big screen. Caleb’s teammates criticize the film’s depiction of hockey, and how it is inaccurately being portrayed.

“What!” Miles shouts at the screen. “I call bullshit. That is
not
how a foul is called.”

“Duh, it’s Hollywood, dipshit.” Weston throws a Dorito at Miles from his spot in the recliner where he’s snuggling with Molly. “Calm down.” He gets a few snickers. “Rookie beyotch.”

Beside me, Caleb quietly chuckles, giving my hand another squeeze. “Come on, McGrath. You can’t throw down a cop movie reference during
The Mighty Ducks
. Not cool.”

He chuckles at his own remark, and in the dark, someone coughs.

I turn my head in shock and gape at him. “Was that a… were you
laughing
? Did you just make a… a
joke
?”

He shakes his head, his firm lips drawn in a straight line, but it’s his eyes that give him away.

“Seriously. You thought
that
was funny?” I whisper, giving my head a shake in mock disappointment, and he gives my hand another squeeze. “Of all the things you could laugh at, you choose that.”

“Hey. What are you two whispering about over there,” someone asks from out of the semi-darkened room, the only light being cast by the movie and the moonlight.

Suddenly the lights flip on, and Stephan—one of the hockey players I hardly know at all—stands by the outlet, staring over at the couch. It takes me a second to realize who he’s gawking at, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Me.

Caleb.

Us
.

Holding hands like two fifth graders under the jungle gym on the playground.

“Well, well, well, Showtime
does
know how to make a move. And here I was beginning to think you were homosexual. Check it out, guys.” He points at us like he’s just discovered a rare breed of animal, his laughing eyes wide with wonder. “Watch out, you two.” He laughs at us. “Don’t get carried away over there—that’s where babies come from.”

Caleb’s grasp on my hand tightens.

Blaze rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, would you, Randolph? And turn the damn lights off and sit your ass back down.” I hear him mutter “idiot” before the room is dark again, and at the same time I hear Stephan’s girlfriend, Chelsea, ask him what he was even turning the light on for to begin with.

“I wanted to catch someone doing something nasty.” I hear him laugh.

“
Ugh
, you really
are
an idiot,” Chelsea hisses at him angrily from their spot on the floor. “You’re so embarrassing sometimes.”

Stephan scoffs, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It doesn’t
embarrass
you to be seen with me when I’m winning trophies, so why don’t you stop nagging me.”

I watch as Chelsea pushes herself up on her elbows and glares down at Stephan, who’s lying flat on his back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she all but screeches.

Oh boy
.

He shrugs on the floor. “Take it however you want.”

“I’m not such a
nag
when I’m blowing your tiny dick, am I, douche?” Chelsea spits out as she scuttles to a stand. She doesn’t even scan the room before storming out. Her departure is punctuated by the front door being pulled open, then slammed shut, the floral grapevine wreath swinging back and forth.

“Yikes,” Cubby says from his spot on the recliner, and he bites down on an entire handful of chips. He crunches noisily in the dark. “You know they have special pumps for small dicks, Randolph? It’s called a cock pump. You should look into it.”

“Shut
up
, Cubby,” Stephan shoots back.

“Um… dude. Aren’t you going to follow her?” Weston asks tentatively.

“Fuck that shit. Chelsea’s been a bitch all week,” Stephan responds but contradicts himself by rising to his feet.

“Okay. But was it really necessary to call her out in front of everyone? That was kind of harsh…”

Stephan stares at Weston with narrowed eyes. “What the
fuck
, McGrath?” He rudely flicks his gaze at Molly and dismisses her. “It’s not on me that you’re a domesticated little pussy.”

Oh
… shit
.

Abruptly, Caleb drops my hand and pulls himself to a stand. He leans over and hauls me to my feet. “We’re out of here,” he announces to the room, tugging me gently behind him, across the living room and toward the patio door. “Come on, Abby.”

CHAPTER 13

Caleb

It wasn’t my intention to drag Abby outside to the porch, but I wasn’t about to sit there and have her watch my good friends get into a fight, either.

Leaning against the railing, without giving it any thought, I pull her in closer and we both turn to face the sliding glass window, toward the scene unfolding inside the house.

Stephan and Weston yell at each other in the middle of the living room floor, fingers pointed in each other faces, chests posturing. Molly’s in on the action, arms flapping up and down and she’s yelling, too.

Cubby, clearly entertained, sits on the couch in the seats we just abandoned, stuffing his face with more chips. It looks like he’s watching a movie.

“
What
just happened?” Abby asks softly, her back pressing into my front, the loose strands from her braid blowing in the slight breeze.

“Truthfully? This kind of thing always happens.”

“Why would Stephan pick a fight with Weston if he’s mad at his girlfriend? I don’t get it.”

I consider this. “Because he needs someone to blame for his problems? He’s a hot head.”

“
Oh
, is that why he has no teeth?” she jokes.

I almost give her an all-out grin, but stop myself. “Yeah, that’s why he has no teeth.” I pick a fallen branch off the wooden patio railing, peel the bark back, then toss it into the darkness to the woods beyond the cabin. “He’s tried instigating shit with me in the past, but so far, I’ve managed to avoid it.”

“Not a fan of conflict, are you?” she asks curiously, turning her head to study me.

“No. Not
this
kind of conflict. It gets too… ugly.” I pause. “I don’t mind a brawl on the ice, but that swagger bullshit going on inside? No thank you.”

Another breeze kicks up, and Abby visibly shivers. Crap, how could I have forgotten that she’s wearing next to nothing while I stand here in shorts and sweatshirt?

Instinctively, I close the space between us, pulling her into me and folding my long arms around her. Briefly stiffening, a few seconds pass before Abby lets her body relax in my arms. “Shit, sorry,” I mutter the apology into her hair, relaxing my grip on her waist. “I just thought you’d be cold. Sorry for dragging you out here, but that whole argument was heading south.”

She grabs my hands then, holding them steady about her trim waist. “No! I mean, I don’t mind. My body is actually on fire. Wait, that’s not what I meant. I meant that I’m not cold.” She covers her face with her hands and groans through the fingers over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so bad at this.” Even without seeing her face, I know she’s blushing furiously. “I’m so out of practice.”

“Thank god,” I let out a laugh. “Seriously. I’m so bad at this I’m probably going to start chasing you around the woods and pulling your hair.”

Abby’s light giggle makes my stomach flutter, giving me the courage to keep talking. “You’re so pretty I hardly know how to act around you.” I look off into the yard, making light of my ardent confession. “You scare me shitless.”

She spins to face me, her large blue expression gazing at me in wonder. The dim light from the porch casts a shadow on us both, and only her lips are visible in the dark. My hands, which now hover near her ass, just above the waistband of her lacy boxer shorts, itch to inch lower.

“
I
scare
you
shitless? Abby scares Caleb.” Surprise etches itself across her face from this novel information, and I can see her clever brain processing the data, turning it around and around, the play of emotions evident on her pretty face. Unlike most girls, who would take my confession and use it to their advantage, the idea that I’m vulnerable seems to make Abby uncomfortable. “How is that even possible?”

“Believe me, Walk of Shame, it is,” I tease.

Abby smacks my bicep and tries to give me a sullen pout, lip jutted out. “Why did you have to go and bring that horrible nickname up?”

“Because I have no concept of what’s appropriate?”

An owl hoots somewhere in the woods, its creepy low melancholy bellow echoing through the crisp night air. It might be spring, but the last of the snow just melted, leaving behind chilly, autumn-like temperatures.

“We should probably go back inside. It looks like they’re done bitching at each other.” I nod toward the large sliding glass door to the living room, where our friends are dispersing, the fun having come to an abrupt halt.

“Do you, um…” She clears her throat nervously.

“Do you want to watch a different movie or something,” I ask, at at the same time she says, “Are you up for another movie?”

Abby laughs nervously as we walk to the sliding patio door, and I watch as she begins twisting a finger on her right hand, presumably the spot in which she normally wears her ring. Reaching around her, I slide the door along its track just wide enough to squeeze through, and we both shiver again as we step over the threshold into the warm, cozy living room.

Abby runs her hands up and down her bare arms. “Brrr, I didn’t realize how cold I was until we came back inside. I’m kind of glad they built a fire.”

“Here, grab a blanket,” I say, grabbing a fuzzy blanket from the couch and holding it open.

“Thanks,” she says somewhat breathlessly and beams up at me with her beautiful, smiling blue eyes, before stepping into my open arms—into the blanket. My heart swells with pride, because I’ve finally done something right.

My arms fold around her, encasing her in the thick wool, and linger on her shoulders before she eases herself away and down onto the couch.

“Do you want anything from the, uh, kitchen?” Self-consciously, I stuff my hands inside my hoodie. Abby’s eyes go to the pocket, then back up to my face.

She nods slowly with a shy smile. “Water, please?”

“Water? That it?” What I don’t say is,
I’ll gladly get you anything you want
. “Okay. So, uh, want to find us a movie while I’m grabbing drinks?”