I hear him move next to me, shifting away, and I stay exactly as I am until I finally have to come up for air. I push myself into a sitting position, pulling my knees up and hugging them.
“So…” Soren says from beside me. “That shirt…?”
Crap. What do I say?What do I say?
My best friend thinks I’m secretly in love with you?
No. Embarrassing.
My best friend snuck it in my laundry as a prank?
No. Weird prank; weirder best friend.
Crap, crap, crap.
Finally I sigh. “It was a joke gift from Gemma, okay? It’s hard to explain. Don’t read into it.”
“But—”
“No.”
“I—”
“Drop it.” Then I look at him, exasperated. “And how did you even see that? I specifically buried it in the pile of clothes. Were you digging through my folded laundry?”
“Of course not,” he says, looking affronted. “I was bending over to tie my shoe and I saw my last name poking out of the stack. But you—” He smooths his hand over his hair. “You tackled me.”
“Sorry,” I say with a wince. “It was sort of a survival instinct thing.”
“You should try some different survival instincts,” he grunts.
He’s probably not wrong. Those same survival instincts are screaming at me now that it’s dangerous to ignore what just happened—that I need to make sure we’re good, despite the fact that our lips have now touched. I’m not willing to risk my friendship with Soren just so that I can avoid discussing uncomfortable subjects.
“Uh,” I say into the silence, my eyes fixed with unnecessary focus on my left thumb nail. “So…are we good?”
“About what?” he says, and in my peripheral vision I can see him turn his head to look at me. “Are you talking about how your face smashed into mine?”
“It was an accident,” I say, fanning my cheeks with one insufficient hand. “But yes.”
“We’re good,” he says. He gets to his feet, holding his hand out to pull me up. I take it, my palm sliding warmly into his, and he gives me a little tug. I stumble to my feet, my body colliding with his. My free hand flies to his chest as I steady myself, and he leans down, bringing his face closer to mine until I can count his eyelashes, smell the sharp scent of his aftershave, map the shape of his lips.
“We’re good,” he repeats, his voice low, his eyes fixed on me. “If you and I ever kiss”—he moves until his mouth is no more than a hair’s breadth away from my ear—“and I do believe we will,” he adds, making my heart stop midbeat. “There will be nothing accidental about it.”
My jaw drops unflatteringly, and it’s still hanging wide open when Soren straightens back up. He tucks one finger under my chin and shuts my mouth, his eyes brimming with amusement once again.
“I—you—what?” I say. It’s more of a splutter, actually, and once again—it’s not flattering. But really, how am I supposed to keep my composure when he’s walking around saying things likethat?
“What?” he says, cocking his head as he looks down at me. His eyes flit to my lips so briefly I almost miss it. “Have you never thought about kissing me?”
“You can’t justaskpeople that!” I say, stomping my foot. “No! Of course not. Of course I’ve never thought about it.”
“Mmm,” he hums. He doesn’t seem at all fazed by this; his eyes are still sparkling. He folds his arms across his chest. “And you don’t think you might like kissing me?”
“I—I don’t—I’ve never thought about it,” I say. The words are more feeble than they should be.
He nods, still looking at me. Then he takes one step closer. He uncrosses his arms, lifting one slowly. I watch that moving hand in complete and utter shock, frozen, my eyes wide, my heart thundering out of control.
And it’s no more than the touch of his finger, feather-light, skimming my temple and then tucking my hair behind my ear. But I shudder all the same—doing my very best to look completely shudder-free.
