All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

After that, everyone disperses, going their separate ways: Weston to Molly’s apartment, Blaze and Shelby to argue in his room, Jenna back to our place, and Cubby… well.

Cubby is down in the living room, eating a burrito, watching Mean Girls, and I’m not entirely positive, but I think he may have just shouted, “You can’t sit with us!” with what sounds like a mouthful of food.

I mean, if I had to take a wild guess…

As I follow Caleb up the dimly lit stairwell to his room, the dusky daylight outside has long faded into night and the house is quiet. Save for Shelby’s bickering and Cubby shouting lines from the movie, everything is still.

How I ended up staying here and on this climb up to the second-floor master bedroom, I couldn’t say. We didn’t exactly discuss a plan of action when the living room was still crowded with our friends.

We just drifted toward the stairs when Blaze and Shelby started arguing, and scaled them without a conversation. Like it was the natural thing to do.

I don’t regret it, won’t regret it, and I refuse to have second thoughts.

Any second-guessing fades when Caleb punches in the keypad on his bedroom door and turns to face me with a hesitant, questioning smile, bending his lips.

We enter, and he pushes the hood down off the sweatshirt he’d thrown on over his flannel, removes his hat, and tosses it onto his desk. Caleb fans his fingers through his hair and gives his head a shake. My eyes follow the action of his fingers as they tug at the hemline of his sweatshirt, pulling it up and over his head, the action lifting the flannel shirt underneath and giving me a glimpse of hard white washboard abs.

I try to look away, but I can’t.

If Miley Cyrus came crashing through the wall on a wrecking ball, I still wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes away from his solid athlete’s stomach. I freeze, clutching my purse, face flushing as my brain processes the sight of him and devours that dark happy trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

I’m sure my eyes have gone wide, because Lord, he is so rugged. Rough around the edges. Unrefined in the best possible way.

Handsome.

You might think it’s too soon. and I know this behavior isn’t me. Contemplating jumping into bed with a guy after only knowing him three weeks, barely a single official date, and no history is not—nor has it ever been—my style. But… I want to stay.

I want to spend the night with Caleb more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. Maybe even because it goes against everything I’ve been taught: like no sex before monogamy. Or maybe because it goes against everything I believe in: like no sex before monogamy.

Because, like Cecelia said, “when you know… you know.”

And I know I want this.

I want Caleb in my life and in my body.

Crap. Did that sound sleazy?

As inappropriate as that sounds, I have to admit, it’s the truth.

Yes, I’m scared—scared witless. But I’m done being safe. I’m done being cautious. I’m done being scared, for once in my life. So what if I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing? I want to be here anyway, and I’m determined to fumble through it.

As long as it’s with him.

This obviously isn’t a fling. I can feel it when he looks at me. When he touches me. When he’s watching me from across the room.

He wants me too.

For keeps.

Caleb

Abby is watching me from the doorway, a play of emotions etched on her pretty, flushed face. In the short time I’ve known and grown attached to her, I’ve come to recognize that look of determination, mixed with a whole lot of uncertainty.

It’s just one of the many reasons I admire her.

We’re both socially awkward, yet here we are.

I stroll into my room and pull the hoodie off my head, removing my hat in the process, and run a hand through my thick black hair. Pausing, I drum my fingers against the solid wood surface of my desk, stare out the window for a few seconds, and chew on my lower lip.

I glance down at the digital clock next to my computer: eleven o’clock.

Not an unreasonable time to call it a day. Shit. How do my friends do this every weekend—bring an endless parade of women home and bang them without a second thought? Without knowing them.

All hours of the day or night.

Sometimes in the common bathroom. Sometimes repeatedly.

Loudly.

You get the picture.

I run a hand down my face in frustration and force myself to turn toward Abby just as Cubby’s muffled shout booms up from the living room downstairs, causing Abby to softly giggle.

“Who’s Glen Coco?” I ask, confused.

She giggles again. “It’s from a movie.”

“A chick flick?” I shrug cluelessly, sitting on the edge of my bed and then reclining all the way back.