More than Friends - Monica Murphy (8 page)

The classroom door suddenly opens, and I know it’s him. I can literally feel his eyes on me, seeking me out.

“Ah, Mr. Tuttle. So glad you decided to join us today,” Mrs. Meyer says, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Please sit down.”

I want to look back at him. I want to ask him where he’s been. But I can’t. I don’t have the right. Plus, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead I stare straight ahead, trying my best to calm my nerves because I know what’s coming next.

“All right everyone, get together with your partner and discuss who you want as your couple. You’ll need to run your choice by me before you can start, so make sure you let me know who you’re going to use. No one can have the same couple, so the results will be varied.” She rubs her hands together, looking pleased. “This is going to be so much fun! I can’t wait!”

Within minutes everyone’s rearranged themselves and we’re all sitting with our group partners, including Tuttle and me. He settles into the empty desk next to mine, his gaze sweeping over me, taking in every detail, and I practically squirm in my seat, the longer he studies me.

“Cute outfit,” he finally drawls, his eyes gleaming with appreciation.

“Are you just saying that?” I don’t look cute. I look sloppy and comfortable. The longer the day goes, the more comfortable I look too. I’m kind of a wreck, but I don’t care. “I know I look like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Well, you just kicked my imagination into overdrive.”

“Stop.” I shove at his rock hard shoulder, but it’s like trying to move a brick wall.

“You really wear all that to bed?”

It’s the way he says the word bed that reminds me of the night at Ryan’s house. Just last weekend we spent the night together. Jordan and I in a giant yet cozy bed, our bodies wrapped all around each other, my head nestled against his broad shoulder. We talked a little. Kissed a little. Touched a little. And then we eventually fell asleep. We really didn’t do much at all, but somehow it had become one of the most intimate moments of my life.

And then it was ruined by that photo and my insecurities—insecurities that I’m thinking are actually valid.

“Minus the hoodie, but yeah.” My voice is husky and I clear my throat. Wishing I could clear out this awkward moment between us.

“Don’t you get hot?” His fingers trail over my thigh, smoothing over the thin flannel fabric of my sleep pants, and I jerk my leg away from his hand. It was as if he touched my bare skin. “I sleep in boxers. Gets too hot, wearing clothes.”

“Jordan.” My voice is firm, my gaze direct. I will not think of him wearing a pair of black boxer briefs—my imagination goes to that image because I know for a fact he wears black boxer briefs—and nothing else. I can’t. “Why are we talking about what we wear to bed?”

“You’re the one who started it, wearing your pajamas to school.” He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s not one to participate in school activities. “Remember a few nights ago when we slept togeth—”

I slap my hand over his mouth to shut him up and I swear I can feel him smile behind the wall of my fingers. Worse, his teeth graze my skin—lightly yet with just enough force that I feel it pulsate all the way through me. I immediately drop my hand from his face as if I were burned.

“You need to stop,” I tell him quietly. I’m tempted to beg him to stop but that might be overkill. “And we need to pick out our couple for the English project.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

I explain the project details to him and hand over the list. He scans it thoughtfully, and I remain quiet. Impassive. I don’t want him to think I’m excited about any one choice. I want him to make with his own decision.

“You want to work on one of these in particular?” he asks, lifting his gaze to mine.

My breath catches at the gleam in his pretty blue eyes. He has such long, thick lashes. It’s kind of ridiculous. “Not sure yet.” I hesitate. “Do you?”

“Mmm.” He glances over the list again. “Is she serious with the Moby Dick thing?”

I nod, barely able to keep a straight face. “You can take on Ahab and I’ll take on Moby Dick.”

“No.” His voice is firm, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement when they meet mine. “I’m thinking something a little more complex than that.”

“How much more complex do you need to get? There’s a whale and a man in a power struggle. I would say that’s a little odd.”

“True.” He taps a pencil against his slightly pursed lips, his gaze still trained on the paper. This gives me time to look at him, and look I do. My eyes are like greedy little addicts as they trail over him, lingering on his dark hair, that firm, sexy line of his jaw I might’ve kissed once or twice in the not so distant past. His thick brows are slightly furrowed and he’s squinting a little bit as he keeps skimming that list. Yet this all works for him.

Or maybe I’m just unnaturally fascinated and can’t stop looking at him ever.

“I want to do Romeo and Juliet,” he finally says, lifting his gaze to mine. He waits, ready for me to challenge him, and I wonder at his choice and his motives behind it.

I wonder if he chose them for the same reason I did.

Lifting my chin, I say, “I think that’s a good idea.”

Surprise crosses his face, but then it’s gone. “I’ll be Juliet.”

“No, you won’t.” I nudge him with my elbow and he tugs on one of my braids. I sort of melt inside. “We need to run this by Mrs. Meyer. Make sure no one else has chosen them.” My arm shoots up into the air and Mrs. Meyer is standing by our desks within a minute.

“What’s going on? You know who you want to do your project on?” she asks pleasantly, her gaze drifting between the two of us.

“We’d like to choose Romeo and Juliet as our literary couple,” I tell her, and she smiles in response, looking pleased.

“I think that’s an excellent choice, especially considering my sneaking suspicion that you, Jordan Tuttle, are a closet romantic.”

His cheeks actually turn the faintest shade of red. It’s fascinating. Did Mrs. Meyer just embarrass him?

“Bring out the best in each other with these diary entries.” Mrs. Meyer turns to me. “Share them with each other as you work on the project. Maybe even have your characters respond to each other, as if you’re having a written conversation. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” Tuttle says with ease.

“Okay,” I add weakly.

Great. Our assignment just turned into the two of us basically writing love letters to each other.

“Ready to be my Juliet?” he asks the moment Mrs. Meyer walks away from us. He leans across his desk, his fingers going to the end of my braid again. They brush against my chest and I feel that touch through my hoodie, my T-shirt, all the way down to my skin.

And it burns. Tingles. Makes me want more.

“Stop pulling on my braid,” I tell him, ignoring his question. I don’t want to be his Juliet. I don’t want to be his anything.

Liar.

“What? Am I bothering you?” He tugs again, gently this time, before letting my braid go. He trails a finger along my plaited hair. “I think you look cute.”

I say nothing. I can’t. It feels like my vocal cords are paralyzed.

“Your hair is so soft,” he murmurs. “Does it get wavy when you wear your hair in braids all day?”

I give the barest nod in answer.

“Maybe someday you’ll let me undo them for you.” His intense stare makes my mouth go dry and I part my lips, ready to come up with some lame answer. But then the bell rings, and I grab my backpack and bolt out of the room before I say something stupid.

After school I head toward the senior parking lot when I sense someone falling into step beside me.

Livvy.

“Where’ve you been all day?” she asks nonchalantly, like we didn’t have a big blow up this morning.

“I could ask you the same question,” I say coolly. Best to confront the issue and get it over with. “I thought you were mad at me.”

She stops me with a light hand on my forearm and we turn to face each other, people rushing past us to get to their cars and make their escape. “I thought you were mad at me too! You were just so…awful this morning.”

“Honest,” I correct her. “I was honest. And sometimes we don’t want to hear the truth.” I can so relate to this statement. The truth can hurt. “Once you bailed, I figured you were ignoring me.”

“I—wasn’t. I was spending time with Ryan, which you have to admit, you pushed me to do.” She studies me, nibbling on her lower lip. “Want to come with me and watch them practice?”

Yes.
The word hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. Going to see Tuttle for the pure joy of watching him play football is not allowed anymore.

“I can’t,” I tell her, looking away, hating that I have to deny myself this tiny pleasure. What would it matter if he saw me watching him? It’s no big deal, right? I’m being ridiculous. If I want to watch our football team practice, I should be able to. He’s not the only boy on the team.

But he’s the only boy I’m interested in on the team. I can’t deny it, even though I’m trying my hardest.

“Oh, do you have to go to work?” Livvy offers up a weak smile. “I’m so happy for you, that you got the job, but I hate how it’s going to tie up your schedule.”

“I don’t work today,” I start, and Livvy squeals, launching into this weird little dance before she loops her arm through mine.

“Well then, let’s go watch them practice together! It’ll be fun. Like old times.”

Old times? That was only a few weeks ago. Back when I went to watch them practice almost every day after school, claiming I missed being with the band, which was a half-truth.

More like I wanted to watch Tuttle without judgment. He’s such a great player and his body is…a work of masculine art.

God. I sound so cheesy in my head.

It wasn’t just watching him play, though. It was being a part of his life. Seeing him, remembering all the moments we shared, reliving them. He’d become such a huge part of my life in a short amount of time, and I didn’t know what to do about it. He’s overwhelming in both the best and most awful ways imaginable.

I try to cut him off, push him out of my life, yet he figures out how to worm his way back in every single time. It’s so annoying. And exhilarating. I want him close. I want him gone. I want to touch him. I want to shove him away.

Clearly I’m confused.

“I shouldn’t,” I protest, but Livvy drags me forward, surprisingly strong. I didn’t know she had it in her.

“Come on. Please?” She bats her eyelashes at me, and I laugh.

And I also give in. Because I’m weak and I want to see if Tuttle will wear that cropped jersey the boys like to put on when they practice on a warm day, his perfect, flat belly on display. Sometimes, at the end of practice, when it’s so hot and he’s worked so hard, there’s a light sheen of sweat on his skin that—oh my God—makes me want to rub myself all over his damp, warm body.

Yes, clearly I’ve turned into a cat in heat.

I try my best to push all thoughts of a sweaty Tuttle out of my head and focus on the other reason I’m hanging out with Livvy and watching the team practice. I can use this time to talk to Livvy about Em. Those girls have too much history between them for their friendship to fall apart so easily—and over a
boy.

“What do you think of the homecoming nominations?” Livvy asks as we walk toward the football field.

“Not surprising.” The announcement had come the period after English, and I was glad I wasn’t with Tuttle, having to hear them say his name over the speaker. I bet he smirked and acted like it was no big deal while the rest of the class erupted in cheers. That’s how it always is with Tuttle.

“My win prediction is Tuttle and Lauren Mancini. Or—” Livvy’s nose wrinkles. “Or maybe even Brianne Brown. Ew.”

“Dustin’s date?” Oh, I’m mean, but I had to say it. She needs to remember Dustin’s already moved on and she supposedly has too.

“They’ve been hanging out together a lot this week. I see them everywhere,” Livvy says almost bitterly.

“At least he’s leaving you alone, right?” It’s so much easier to focus on her issues with Dustin rather than think about Tuttle being homecoming king and Lauren Mancini possibly as his queen. Ugh. They’re my prediction to win too, though I have to admit it. Those two are a perfect match.