Charlie attempts to lift the hem of his T-shirt, but comes toan abrupt stop without making much progress. “Can’t,” he says, glancing up at her from where he has his head bowed over the back of the chair.
She reaches for him, then her hands drop again as if the memory of his rejection in the bar parking lot last Friday swats them away.Better ask first.“Do you want me to... Can I...?”
He puffs out a breath. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”
What is the least sexual way to take someone’s shirt off? Should she start at the back or the front? Gretchen’s hands are up in the air as if she’s found herself in the middle of a stickup. “Okay, I’ll just—”
“Okay.”
But she doesn’t move.
“Acorn.” Her name comes out as a frustrated growl, which is familiar enough to snap her back into reality. Right. This is Charlie, and he doesn’t even particularly like Gretchen. He literally tried torun awaythe other day rather than have a conversation with her. So she has to touch him—big whoop. It’s not exactly the scene of a grand seduction. He’s hurt, she’s helping, it’sfine.
She makes a decision, grabs both the front and back hem of the shirt and jerks it up, revealing his muscular, lightly furred torso and that strong but apparently troublesome back of his. “Arms,” she says, “like this,” and adjusts his hands so he’s clasping the back of the chair, making the shirt easier to peel off with minimal movement on his part. Charlie lets out another groan once it’s done, and Gretchen finds herself spilling apologies and placing a hand in the middle of his bare back before taking it away as if he were a cast-iron pan she forgot was still hot.
“No, I—” He swallows. “That actually felt kind of nice. Can you... put your hand there again for a second?”
“Like this?” she asks, trying to find the same spot.
“Yeah.”
“Would it make it worse if I pressed, very gently?” Gretchen adds light pressure into her fingertips as she talks, and Charlie’s groan sounds slightly less pained in response.
“Oh, that’s... that’s actually kinda good,” he manages.
She adds her other hand and uses her thumbs to trace either side of his spine, pressing more when she feels some resistance. Massage therapy has never been one of Gretchen’s skills, but she recently absorbed a bit of information about the human muscular system thanks to Yolanda’s tendency to talk to herself while studying for the physiology portion of her in-progress yoga teacher training, and she tries to remember the names of the muscles she’s kneading as a way to make this more clinical. Because this touch feels too intimate, and Charlie’s responding noises are way too reminiscent of the ones he made when he had his hand up her dress outside Tipsy Lou’s, and she needs something—science, she needsscience—to get her back into the right headspace.
“Yes,” Charlie sighs as she makes her way down toward the waistband of his jeans.
“Yes?” she responds, and her voice comes out equally breathy.
Oh no.Where is Everett to kill a mood when you need him?
“A-again.”
Gretchen closes her eyes tight, as if she’s the one in pain. The right thing to do here is to take a large step back and suggest Charlie try the ice pack now. Instead, she lets her fingernails drag lightly up the length of his back, her thumbs starting the journey downward again from his neck this time, the place where his gold-brown hair meets his skin, and when she presses harder there it prompts an actualmoan.
Gretchen finds herself leaning forward until only an inch of space remains between her and the hunched expanse of Charlie’s back. “Yeah?” she whispers, and watches as his skin responds to the sensation of her breath on it.
“Please,” he says.
Gretchen isn’t sure when or how she makes the decision; it doesn’t register at all. It’s as if her mouth simply finds its own way to that spot on his spine right between his neck and shoulder blades, like a bird coming to rest on a power line.
He inhales sharply before whispering an exhale: “Gretchen.” It’s so quiet she would doubt her own ears, believe she imagined it, if she hadn’t felt the vibration of her name travel from his body to her lips.
“Hey, hey, party people!”
Well, if quickly jumping as far away as possible from a man’s bare back that you were previously kissing were a sport, Gretchen Acorn would definitely now hold the world record.
“Jesus!” she shouts, her hand flying to her throat as if she might somehow hide her pounding pulse.
“What?” Charlie attempts to look over his shoulder, lets out a small whimper when the movement causes him pain, and returns his head to the cradle of his arms on the back of the chair as Everett simultaneously points at Gretchen and says, “Oh, shoot, did I interrupt? Sorry, carry on.”
“I... There’s nothing... Go away, please. Just go,” Gretchen snaps, extending a finger toward the doorway.
“Um.” This from Charlie.
“Not you.”
