The Heartbreaker I Adore (When In Waverly 2)

“Am I okay? Are you okay?” she asks. She’s looking at my face with big puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t take it. If I had known she was so jumpy and that she could throw a punch like that, I wouldn’t have snuck up on her. I like knowing that she can knock a guy out if she needs to, but I’d rather not be the punching bag she practices on.

“I’ll be fine. Let me see your hand.” I take her hand in mine and carefully inspect each individual knuckle. Bruises are already forming, and she sucks in a sharp breath as I run my finger over them. Her eyes never leave my face. I can feel them staring into my soul as I look over her small hand. “Do y’all have ice anywhere in this library?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she says. I drag her over to the chairs lined up against the wall, and we both sit, watching each other as we touch our wounds and wince in pain. I’ve never understood the uncontrollable urge to touch bruises, knowing it’s going to hurt, but I can’t help it.

“Was there actually a reason you came here?” she asks. Right. I did come here for a purpose, and it wasn’t to get punched in the face. I don’t know what to say to her, though. Thanks for the ever-so-stylish black eye. And I know you don’t have a second date with Chris. No, that won’t work. I’ll have to ease her into confessing why she lied to me.

“I was just stopping by, and I wanted to say hello.”

“Oh, well, hey!” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. She’s still clutching her hand, and I wish there was something to put on it. I doubt Gertrude would let her leave for ice after punching a patron—if you can even call me that. I’m only here to distract her employee.

“I’m also really curious to hear about your date with Chris. Where did he take you?” Gosh, Seth. Great transition. What happened to easing into it?

“We ate Italian food. I already told you it was great. The best date I’ve ever been on,” she says. She’s no longer looking at me, and she’s suddenly very fidgety.

“Italian? Really? How boring.”

“I love Italian food. Spaghetti is my favorite.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Out of all the amazing foods in the world, spaghetti is your favorite?”

“What’s wrong with spaghetti? It's classic…and it’s pasta. I could eat pasta every single day for the rest of my life, and I’d die happy,” she says with a laugh. I don’t think she’s joking, though, if that dreamy smile has anything to say about it. I might have more competition with carbs than I do with Chris.

“Okay, so he hit the jackpot with that move. When’s your next date?” I ask. Her eyes start shifting around the room, and I move a little closer to her. She moves away, still refusing to look at me. I move in again, and this time, she has nowhere to go if she doesn’t want to fall off the row of chairs.

“It’s on Saturday,” she says, almost shouting.

“Hmm, that’s a long way away… I thought he was going to be working Saturday. He’s trading shifts with Jake so he can go to a family thing.”

“Oh, I meant Friday,” she corrects. I drape my arm on the back of the chair and brush some hair from her face, and she finally looks up at me. Her eyes are impossibly huge, and she’s nibbling on her bottom lip. I clear my throat to cover up a laugh, but I can’t stop the smile from forming on my mouth. Her eyes narrow at me as she sits up straighter in her seat.

“You know, don’t you?” she asks.

“And what is it that I know?” I ask. She scoffs as she crosses her arms across her chest. Her cheeks are turning red, but she won’t give away her secret.

“You came here just to call me out, didn’t you?”

“Call you out on what? I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she says, and she points her finger in my face as she moves even closer to me. I can smell her perfume. It’s not an overly feminine scent, but I really like it. It’s a muskier scent than most women prefer.

I lean down until my face is directly in front of hers. She takes a sharp intake of air, and her breath breezes across my face as she exhales. I watch as her tongue darts out and licks her lips. They’re such inviting lips: plump, soft, and pink. It would take so little effort to dip down and brush my lips across hers. She moves away from me and runs her hand through her hair, ending the moment.

“I want to hear you say it,” I say with a laugh, trying to ease the tension from the room a little.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“At least I’m not a liar.”

“Fine. I lied. My date with Chris was not amazing like I led you to believe, and we’re not going out again. Are you happy?” she rants. She looks adorable, and I could sit here and watch her all day. I mean, it would be more enjoyable if it wasn’t me she was upset with, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“I am happy,” I say before I can think better of it. If I were using my brain at all, I would know that I am leading us to dangerous territory. Hannah’s face sobers. She’s watching me with wide eyes again, and I can see that she’s breathing hard. Have I scared her?

“And why are you happy?” she asks in a whisper-soft voice. Her eyes are glued to her hands in her lap, and I’m itching to nudge her chin up to look me in the eye.

I can’t answer her question. I can’t say what I want to say. I can’t be that vulnerable and lay my heart on the line. She’s not ready for that. She doesn’t feel the same way I feel. And Colby doesn’t want me with her, anyway. He’s my best friend, and his opinion matters to me, no matter how flawed it might be.

I shake my head and say, “I don’t know. I just didn’t see you and Chris as a couple, long term.”

She frowns and sighs, and I get the feeling I’ve disappointed her somehow. I open my mouth to ask her what she’s thinking, but Gertrude comes into the room and glares at us with that disapproving look that seems to be permanently plastered on her face. Right. I’m keeping Hannah from her work. I stand up from my seat and walk out of the room, cringing as I overhear Gertrude reprimanding Hannah for hanging out with friends when she’s meant to be working. That didn’t go how I had planned at all.