I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on by jewelry before, but here we are.
The weight of the couch shifts beneath me as he plopsdown beside me. He rests his arm casually over the back of the cushion, and sprawls out his legs comfortably in front of him.
The movement pulls me from my thoughts and I clear my throat. “Did she just call you beautiful?”
Another little smirk.“No. Beauty. It’s kind of like the good guy in hockey.”
“Oh, no,” I groan, dropping my head to the seat behind me. “You’ve gotmyChloe on your ‘good guy’ agenda too?”
“Hey.” He puts his hands up, smiling. “She said it. Not me.”
I lift my head and pull one leg up onto the couch, turning to face him.
“Sorry I’m late, by the way.”
With the effortless way he came in and turned my brain to mush, I had almost forgotten. I open my mouth, ready to give him a lesson in punctuality, but all thoughts abruptly fall away when his hand that was resting on the back of the couch reaches up to my shoulder. His thumb strokes lazily against the soft material covering my skin and I fight like hell not to melt into the touch.
“I like this.” His voice is soft and silky.
A direct contrast to how dry my mouth is as I try to swallow past the lump in my throat. “My… shoulder?”
He doesn’t move, save for his thumb that’s still rubbing back and forth. “Well, that too, but I meant your sweater.”
Of course he did.
“I um—” I clear my throat and with it comes clarity of mind. I jump from the coach. “The table,” I blurt out.
“What?” Noah scoots to the edge of the couch, looking up at me through his lashes and—dear god, the image of him below me is unbearable.
“The table,” I repeat, pointing to the small piece of furniture behind him. “We should sit at the table.”
I slink around the couch and it takes Noah a beat longer tofollow. The small round table and chairs are still practically brand new, since Chloe and I eat every meal and do most of our school work on the couch. I move the vase of artificial flowers and the fruit bowl, which contains my last two oranges, a s’mores Pop-tart, and a discarded Sharpie.
I sit down and motion for him to follow, and run my damp palms down the front of my jeans. He plants both hands flat on the table, and I’m trying to focus on anything else besides his face, but I don’t miss the slight wince in his eyes as he sits down.
“How long has your aunt been teaching this course?”
“Umm.” I purse my lips, thinking. “I feel like she’s been teaching my whole life, but at LCU? Probably, like, five years.”
“What’s she like?”
Like my mom. The spitting image, which makes sense, considering they’re twins. They’re exactly the same in every way that matters. No one on the planet has bigger hearts or louder laughs. Their only differences lay with their families. My mom chose to get married and have twins of her own, while Aunt Lo chose to live a single, child-free life.
“Is that a question on the sheet?” I ask, avoiding the thoughts that are now swirling.
“Nah, I just wanted to know how seriously she grades.” He winks and I relax a little in my chair.
“Alright, so how do you want to do this? I ask a handful of questions and then you get to go? Or do you want to go back and forth?”
I shift a little in my seat, looking over at his papers. Between getting ready this morning and playing the waiting game, I somehow misplaced my copy. “I guess back and forth, so that we’re never in the hot seat too long?”
“Cool.” He rubs his hands together and cracks his knuckles. “Let’s get into some hard-hitting questions here.”
Prior to losing my packet, I spent the last two days goingover some of the questions—and while sharing that my favorite meal is fried chicken and waffles doesn’t seem difficult, other questions, like my favorite memory from childhood, feel almost unbearable.
Noah clears his throat, holding an invisible microphone to his mouth. “Ms…”
Perfect. I already want to deny his questions and we haven’t even started yet. If he hasn’t put two and two together yet about who my dad is, I’m not going to be the one to do it for him. Instead, I roll my eyes and answer, “Savannah.”
