Page 107 of Eye of the Beholder
Miserable. And panicky.
Because once you kiss someone, you can’t come back from that. And that scared me. Because I so desperately don’t want to lose what we have.
Is it possible thatthat’swhy he was upset?
In which case…maybe he does care about me. Or, in the words of my junior-high self, maybe he “likelikes” me.
I would say it’s not possible, because hello—he’s Cohen. Funny and kind and confident and soveryout of my league.
But he is not looking at me like he’s out of my league.
All right. Let’s figure this out. I need to know how he feels about me. So how do I do that? Lydia never really covered this. But body language will be an indicator of attraction, if not actual romantic feelings. He was flirting earlier, but that was probably on purpose—I think he was messing around.
So I try an experiment. I bite my lower lip, watching him closely.
His eyes dart to my lips again, and they linger. His body is pressed against mine as we sway with the music, and when I lean in the tiniest bit, I feel his breathing quicken.
I lean back again, trying to make the movement seem natural. A glowing warmth spreads through my chest. At the very least, he’s attracted to me. He’s said as much, but seeing it in action is more proof than words could ever be.
“What are you thinking right now?” he says, his voice low, seductive. Does he use that voice on purpose?
I blink, surprised. “What?”
His lopsided lips crook into a smile. “You have this look you wear when you’re analyzing something. You sort of get this crease between your eyebrows,” he says, his voice more normal now.
“Huh,” I say, tilting my head a little. “I didn’t know that.”
He nods, still smiling. “You do. So what is it?”
I debate, but only for a second. The best way to get answers to questions is to ask them. My heart thunders in my chest as I say, “I’m thinking about you.”
He raises one brow, and his smile turns into a smirk. “Good things?”
“Mostly,” I say. Without thinking about it, I start running my fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s always mussed, but his hair is also soft.
He exhales slowly, closing his eyes. Then he opens them again and meets my gaze. His eyes are suddenly intense, and they flit from my eyes to my lips and back again. Slowly he moves his arms, and they wrap more fully around me. I give a start as I feel his hand on my bare upper back, and I see his eyes widen too.
“I forgot the back was so low,” I say. At any point now, I’m going to have a heart attack from how fast my heart is racing.
“I didn’t,” Cohen says, and his arms tighten further around me. We’re not dancing anymore; we’re just standing here. Cohen’s eyes are having more and more trouble staying on mine; they keep straying to my lips. I realize that I’m tilting my chin up, that I’m leaning toward him, my eyes drifting shut—
“We need to talk,” he says.
My eyes fly open, and I feel my face heat. Please tell me he doesn’t realize I was about to kiss him.
His face is mere inches from mine. “Are you ready to go?” I feel his breath on my lips as he speaks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he steps away from me, his arms releasing me. My arms fall limply to my sides, and I feel like I’ve missed a step going down the stairs.
This is happening. We’re going to have this conversation.
I follow him out of the tent, and we make our way to the car and get in in silence.
“Where are we going?” I say. I’m not sure how I know we’re not going home yet, but I’m certain.
He looks at me sideways and smiles slightly. “You’ll see.”
