Page 36 of The Equation of Us
“Now,” he says, pressing a light kiss to my forehead, “we order food, because I’m guessing you skipped dinner, and then you go home.”
“That’s it?” I’m surprised by the simplicity of it.
“For tonight.” His eyes meet mine. “Unless you want to stop completely?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly, maybe. “No, I don’t want to stop.”
“Good.” He tucks me closer against him. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”
We order Thai food and eat it on his couch, talking about classes and hockey and my research interests. It’s surprisingly normal, comfortable even, this transition from intimacy back to friendship. I find myself laughing at his dry humor, enjoying the way his mind works when he talks about his projects.
It’s only when I’m getting ready to leave, pulling on my scarf and coat, that the intensity returns.
Dean catches me by the wrist as I reach for the door, turning me to face him. His expression is serious again, focused.
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
“We have tutoring on Tuesday,” I remind him.
“Not for tutoring.” His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending small shivers up my arm. “For this.”
The directness of the question, the clear desire in his eyes, makes heat bloom in my chest.
“I’m free Thursday night,” I offer.
“Thursday.” He nods once, as if confirming an appointment. “Come here. Nine o’clock.”
It’s not quite a question, but there’s room for me to decline if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
“Okay.”
He leans down and kisses me, a slow, thorough kiss that feels like a promise.
“Until then,” he says when he pulls back, “I want you to think about what else you might want. What you’ve fantasized about. What scares you a little but excites you more.”
The suggestion sends a thrill through me. “And if I don’t know?”
He smiles, that rare, transformative smile. “Then I’ll help you figure it out.”
As I walk back to my dorm through the chilly night air, I feel different somehow. Lighter, maybe. Less constrained by my own expectations and limitations.
For the first time in years, I don’t have a plan.
And I’m completely okay with that.
Chapter Twelve
Girl Code
Nora
“Hold still,” Sadie commands, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she applies another coat of glittery polish to my toenails. “If you keep squirming, you’re going to look like you let a kindergartner do your pedicure.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, forcing myself to stay motionless despite the ticklish sensation. “Just not used to people touching my feet.”
“Well, get used to it.” She dips the brush back in the bottle—something called ‘Midnight Rendezvous’ that’s way more dramatic than anything I’d pick for myself. “This is what happens at girls’ night. We drink wine, we paint toenails, we talk shit about men. It’s tradition.”
