Trust (Wrong 3)

Then I stare at him for a while trying to determine what he wants.

And if I want to give it to him.

And then I start to panic a little. What if he wants to have an awkward conversation? Like more awkward than me? Or ask me about my sexual history? Or if I cheated on my third-grade spelling test in Mrs. Kallam’s class?

Okay, I admit that last one is a little specific and not likely to come up. But I’m still a little ashamed of myself for doing it.

“Would you rather eat stale pretzels or stale Cheetos?”

“What?” I look at him, not sure I heard him correctly. He tilts his head in a nod, like, ‘you heard me correctly,’ but repeats the question.

“Um, stale pretzels, I guess.”

“Go a week without the internet or a week without coffee?”

Oh, we’re playing the ‘would you rather’ game. “Internet.” I smile. “I think. Wait maybe the coffee? No, the internet.”

“Play Quidditch or use the invisibility cloak for a day?”

“You did not just Harry Potter me.”

“I did.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s even answerable.” I shake my head and groan a little. “Who wouldn’t want to play Quidditch? But the invisibility cloak, wow.” I sigh, a dreamy expression on my face.

Boyd just stares as if he’s not moving on until I answer.

“Quidditch.” I finally relent.

“Why?”

“It looks like fun. Plus the invisibility cloak is basically spying, right? And I don’t really need to spy on anyone so it would be a waste.”

“No point in being wasteful,” he agrees.

“Plus I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I’d be really good at Quidditch.” And I can’t help it. This tidbit comes out a little smugly. Boyd lasts two seconds before laughing at me.

When the food arrives my mouth drops.

“Boyd, this is enough food to feed four people. Why didn’t we split one sandwich?”

“We might need the leftovers. Laundry is serious business.”

He says laundry, but I’m not sure he’s talking about laundry. I pull half the turkey off the bread so that it will fit in my mouth and take a bite, but my eyes drift sadly towards the bakery case we passed on the way in.

“You can still get dessert if you don’t finish your sandwich, Chloe.”

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” I object.

“Yes, it was.”

He’s right, of course.

“How do you do that?”

“Read your mind?”

“I don’t think you can read my mind.” I tilt my head and look at him skeptically. We wouldn’t have made it out of his apartment if he’d been reading my mind.

He just raises one brow and smiles in that way that he does. It makes my heart race and my nerves flare. Time to change the subject.

“Too bad you don’t have a cat.”

“A cat? Why?” He nabs a fry and stuffs it in his mouth in one bite.

“All this leftover turkey. Plus those windows at your place. A cat would love those windows.”

“What would I call it?”

“The cat?”

“Yeah.”

“Snoogledoralicious,” I offer.

“That’s pretty specific.”

“Yeah.” I nod and take a fry for myself. “But your cat would be special. You wouldn’t want to call him something ordinary like Tom. Everyone has a cat named Tom.”

“Of course they do,” he agrees with a single nod.

We finish eating, both of us with half a sandwich packed to go—and a black and white cookie for me—and start the walk back to Boyd’s.

“Tell me a crime story.”

“A crime story? Is that like a fairy tale for girls obsessed with crime shows?”

“Exactly!” I bounce a little with excitement and swing the bag with our leftovers. “You get me!”

“That I do,” he agrees. “Okay, let me think of one that’s not classified,” he says and, well, obviously that turns me on. Plus he’s got scruff today. I’m not sure I’ve seen him unshaven. It’s a good look for him. Clean shaven is a good look too. Oh, hell, I imagine he’d be hard pressed to look bad. And I can’t help but check out how well his jeans fit when we pause to cross the street at the corner of South and 5th. And then I wonder if we’re going to have sex again because last weekend was… I want to do that again. I’d half given up believing that sex was more than an awkward exchange that resulted in feeling sorta good. But Boyd made me a believer that there might be something I’m missing out on. I wonder what that scruff would feel like on my skin and if I’m the only one of us thinking about all this stuff.

“Chloe.” He’s a couple of steps ahead of me and he’s turned back, his expression questioning. “The light is green,” he says.

Okay. I might be the only one of us thinking dirty thoughts in the middle of South Street. Also, pretty sure he just caught me looking at his ass.

Nineteen

Boyd

We get back to my place and head upstairs to toss her towels in the dryer and start a new load with her clothing. I wonder how long it will take her to bolt. I figure I have until her clothing dries before she tells me she needs to leave.

I stand back while she drops her clothing into the washer, letting her handle her garments since that seemed to bother her. Besides, this gives me the chance to stare. And I like looking at Chloe. Her hair falls around her face as she reaches into the basket to pull things out and then sways against her back as she stands. I wonder if I can have sex with her today without disturbing the friendship between us. Because I’d really like to have sex with her again. And I have no interest in being just her friend.

But this is Chloe.

I can’t read her mind, but I can read her body perfectly. The subtle walls she throws up. The way her pulse increases over the simplest social interaction between us. The way her hand trembles when she rips up a sweetener packet. Or how she blinks then looks ninety degrees to the left when she’s second-guessing herself. She blows out the tiniest puff of a breath then sucks her bottom lip into her mouth when she’s thinking about talking herself out of something and she’s a little bit snarky when she’s intimidated.