“You want some more?” he asks, turning toward me. For the first time this morning, I look at him, really look at him. As usual, he’s sex personified, his hair is perfectly tousled, his body is toned, his grey t-shirt clinging to the muscles in his arms. And that’s when I notice his shirt. It’s got a little pinata on it and under it is the caption,I’d hit that.
“Are you staring at my chest, Luce?” he says, piling more pancakes on my plate. I restart my butter and syrup process.
“No. I’m staring at your shirt. It’s a little juvenile, don’t you think? I just can’t believe you paid actual money for it.” Maybe I’m being a little snarkier than necessary, but that’s easier than admitting how I really feel.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t buy it. I made it.”
“You made it?”
“Yup. I have a Cricut, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“You have a Cricut?” I can’t keep from laughing. “Oh, my God. You’re a suburban housewife. How have I never figured this out before?”
“I’d take offense to that remark, but I did just make myself a shirt that saysBlessed, so maybe I should shut up.”
“You did not!”
As though I’m challenging him, he whips off his shirt and flings it across the room. Good Lord, he’s beautiful. And he has zero compunction about nudity. “Catch,” he hollers, heading toward the steps, and I snag it out of the air and fold it as he bounds back into the room. This time, his tight shirt is a charcoal gray, and, sure enough, the wordBlessedis emblazoned in curly script across his chest. And I have to admit, it’s an accurate description. His pecs are holy.
Mentally, I shake my head as if to rattle some sense into it. “Do you even own a shirt that fits?” I say. And if my tone is a smidge more judgmental than necessary, I’ll blame it on the aftereffects of seeing Whit’s bare chest.
“Ouch. Way to try and wound the fat kid,” he pouts, lifting the hem to examine his six-pack.
“You’re not a fat kid, and you know it,” I say, feeling remorse for my harsh words.
“Maybe not now, but I used to be. Remember when we met, Luce? I was more Truffle-Shuffle than Abs of Steel.”
He’s not wrong. The summer we were thirteen, Whit hadn’t shed his baby fat yet, hadn’t had a growth spurt. We were in that awkward phase of adolescence when puberty had hit some of us harder than others. I knew that better than anyone, being the girl who showed up to camp with hips that forced me to shop in the women’s section in middle school. Whit was rounded edges rather than hard planes. Whereas most of the boys were skinny, and a few, like Booker, were muscular thanks to sports, Whit was chubby. But instead of hiding his body, he flaunted it. I envied that bravery. But honestly? The extra pounds he was carrying did nothing to detract from how cute he was. Over half the girls at camp had massive crushes on him. He still had that dimple, the killer smile, that perfectly rumpled hair. And if he looked more like a teddy bear than a Ken doll? Well, that wasn’t a bad thing.
“Please,” I scoff. “You’ve always been good looking, and you know it.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve revealed.
“Hold up. What did you just say?”
“I said you’re not a fat kid, and you should know that size and beauty are not mutually exclusive.”
“Never said they were,” he strides toward me, and I find myself scooching back in my chair as he takes the seat next to mine. “Size and beauty have nothing to do with each other. You’re right. But that’s not what I’m referring to, Luce. Repeat the part about me being, what did you call it? Yeah.Good looking. Say that part again.”
I stack my utensils on my now empty plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“The hell you don’t.” His arms are braced on either side of my chair, his face mere inches from mine. We’ve been here before, at the party, at the restaurant. A dozen other times over the years, even though we were just kids. Tension arcs between us, and not the argumentative kind. That’s still there, of course, but it’s superseded by the sexual energy pinging from his body to mine and vice-versa. Unbidden, my lips part. I can feel my nipples hardening and heat flooding my center just from proximity. His body makes my body do the most sinful things.
“You like the way I look, Luce?” His voice is husky as his breath ripples over my skin. His thumb traces my lip and dear God in heaven, I think he’s about to kiss—
“Whit! Lucy! We’re home! Come help us unload.”I hear Kristy’s melodic voice in the entryway and leap out of my chair, shoving his arm aside and nearly hurtling over the table in my haste to put distance between us.
Instead of looking contrite or shocked, Whit just looks sad, but I don’t have time to dwell on that as I head out to the garage to grab grocery bags.
* * *
Two hours later,I’m sitting in the food court, sipping an iced Chai, and mentally dissecting every moment I’ve spent with Whit since we met.
“He makes me crazy,” I vent to Alyssa, my best friend since childhood. Technically, I’m not sure we're really best friends anymore. She dragged me to that party a few months ago, and then we didn’t talk at all until I got her text earlier today. She needed to pick up some last-minute gifts, and I needed to get out of the house, so here we are, at a mall on Christmas Eve.
This is not my scene. I like to have all of my shopping done before Thanksgiving. The looks of desperation and frustration on all these shoppers’ faces is heightening my anxiety.
“I think it’s more accurate to say he makes you horny,” Alyssa tells me before taking a drink of her smoothie.“At least, he did when we were teenagers.”
“He can’t make me horny. He’s my stepbrother,” I say quietly, but firmly.
