After a moment, he added, “I never did get to interview you. I thought it would be a conflict of interest.”

“I don’t think I would have let you interview me,” I replied. “But if I had, what would you’ve asked?” As soon as I said it, I regretted it. What was I thinking putting myself out there? Telling Evan my physical insecurities was not on the top of my list.

“Name one part of your body you’re insecure about and how you would change it?” His expression was calm and attentive. His demeanor was unexpected. I thought this topic would definitely have evoked one of his wide smiles.

I hesitated.

“Okay, I’ll tell you mine first if that’ll help,” he offered, still serious.

“You’re insecure about your body?” I scoffed.

“I hate the size of my feet. They’re huge,” he confessed.

“You’re feet? What size are they?”

“Fourteen and the average size is ten. It’s not easy finding shoes I like that fit.” Oddly enough, he remained genuine.

“I can honestly say I’ve never noticed, maybe because you’re tall. Or maybe because your feet are not what most people look at.” I realized, with a blush, that I shouldn’t have made a comment that he could misinterpret.

“Really?” he grinned, confirming my fear.

“You know what I mean,” I retorted, my whole face reddening.

“What’s yours?” he prodded.

“My lips,” I admitted cautiously. “I’ve always wanted them to be smaller. I’ve even practiced tucking them in in front of the mirror,” revealing more than I intended, as usual.

“Really? I love your full lips,” he said without hesitating. “They’re perfect k-”

“Don’t say it,” I shot back at him, turning redder by the second.

“Why?” he questioned with a crease between his brows.

“Do you want to be friends with me?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

“Then you can’t say things like that. It’s one of the lines you don’t cross. Remember the rules I set if we’re going to be friends? You are not playing by the rules,” I explained firmly, hoping this time he’d take me seriously.

“What if I don’t want to be friends with you?” he challenged, grinning again, staring directly into my eyes. Obviously taking me seriously was an impossibility for Evan.

Despite not being able to breathe, I connected with his taunting gaze and refused to look away. “Then we won’t be friends,” I said flatly.

“What if I want to be more than friends?” He grinned wider, leaning his forearms on the counter, shortening the distance between us.

“Then we won’t be anything at all.” Along with not being able to breathe, my heart stopped, making it harder to keep up my defiant stare when he leaned in closer; but I was determined not to back down.

“Okay, then friends we are,” he declared, suddenly standing up straight, taking a gulp of iced tea. “Can you play pool?” I couldn’t say anything for a few seconds - my head was spinning as I tried to reel my heart back from across the counter.

“I’ve never tried,” I floundered.

I took a deep breath to clear my head before I stood up. Evan was waiting for me patiently, holding the door open for me to follow him.

We entered the large white barn through the side door into a space that could easily fit two cars. There was a door to the right of the stairs that led to another area, unrevealed.

Hung on the opposite wall were shelves displaying tools and other typical garage items. But what caught my eye was the extensive amount of recreational equipment stored beneath the stairs. There were snow shoes, skis, two surf boards, a couple of wake boards and everything in-between. There were bins of basketballs, soccer balls, volleyballs – it looked like a sporting goods store.

“Can’t say you’re bored,” I commented as we climbed the stairs. He let out a short laugh.

I followed him into a full rec room. Along the far wall was a dark wooden bar with a flat stone top, fully stocked and furnished with complementary wooden stools. There was an oversized, dark brown leather couch and recliner set in front of a large flat-screened television suspended on the wall to the left. Abandoned on the floor were several video game components and corresponding gear. I wondered if all of the wealthy kids at Weslyn High had similar set ups to Sara and Evan.

A pool table, lit by suspended chrome canisters, stood on one side of the room with plenty of space to maneuver a pool stick without bumping into a wall. A dart board hung on the wall to the right of the door, and to the left were two foosball tables. There was a closed door behind the tables. The walls’ deep red paint and the barn’s exposed wooden beams along the pitched ceiling, created a masculine tone that was finished with framed rock concert posters, showcasing a variety of bands over a span of a few decades.

“This is my mom’s way of trying to get my brother to come home more,” Evan explained as he crossed the room toward the bar. “So, this room is more for my brother than me. My stuff is in the other room.” He nodded toward the closed door behind the foosball tables.

Music erupted through the strategically placed speakers when Evan turned it on from behind the bar. He lowered the volume so that we could hear each other.

“I’ve never heard this band before,” I noted, listening to the rock band with the reggae influence. “I like it.”

“I saw them at a concert in San Francisco and really liked them. If you give me your iPod, I can download them for you.”

“Sure.”

“Darts first?” he suggested, heading to the corner where the dart board hung. I sat on one of the stools dispersed along the dark wooden bar running the length of the wall while he pulled the darts from the board.

“I think I’ve only played darts once before, and I sucked,” I warned. He handed me three darts with silver metallic wings while keeping the darts with the black metallic wings. He stood behind the black line painted on the dark hardwood floor and threw each dart with ease. I watched them penetrate the pie and rectangular shapes. He made it look so simple, but I wasn’t convinced.

“We’ll warm up first and then go from there.” I approached the line and he demonstrated how to hold the dart for the best control. I attempted to duplicate his example. “Getting used to the weight of the dart is the hardest part in order to determine the angle and speed you want to throw it. Then aim, and toss with a quick, steady hand.” He threw the dart firmly, and it stuck easily into its intended target.

“You may not want to be anywhere around me when I attempt this,” I advised cautiously. He smiled and sat on a stool, giving me my space. My first shot was weak. I missed the dartboard completely. The dart landed low, and stuck to a black board that covered the length of the wall behind the circle.

“Oops, sorry,” I said, scrunching my face. This was going to be a long game, especially if I couldn’t even make the board.

“That’s what the black board’s for. You’re not the first, and won’t be the last, to miss,” Evan assured me. “We won’t play an actual game until you feel comfortable. Try it again.” I threw the last dart with a little more force and it hit the number 20, not in the points area, but the actual number.

“Well, at least I hit the board,” I stated optimistically. Evan smiled and retrieved the darts.

We threw three more rounds until I was consistently hitting within the colored ring. I wasn’t exactly hitting the areas I was aiming for, but I was getting closer. With all of my near misses and extreme misses, I wasn’t embarrassed or self conscious for my lack of dart experience. Evan made it easy with his patience and advice. I was actually enjoying myself.

We played a round of cricket. I made Evan take two steps back from the line, in attempt to make it slightly more even. He still won – it wasn’t even close. During the game, we talked about sports and what we’ve tried, or in my case, never tried.

“So you’re great at everything, huh?” I confirmed, after he shared surfing and kite boarding experiences he’d had in different parts of the world.

“No, I’ll try just about anything,” he corrected, “but I’m only really good at a few things. My brother’s better at pool and darts than I am. I’m decent at soccer, but I’m not the best player - the same with basketball. I think I’m best at baseball. I have a consistent swing and pretty good reaction time at short stop.

“I bet if you were exposed to more experiences, you’d find you’re better than I am at most of them. You’re definitely a better soccer player. I haven’t seen you play basketball, but I heard you have an impressive outside shot.” The heat made itself known across my cheeks as he spoke of my athletic abilities.

“I love soccer, I really like basketball, and I run track just for something to do in the spring. Since I play a sport, I don’t have to take Gym, so I haven’t attempted anything else for a long time. I’m not sure how I’d do.”

“Do you want to find out?”

“What are you thinking?” I asked cautiously.

“Tomorrow, I’ll meet you at the library and then we’ll go from there.” My stomach twisted at the thought of lying. “Or maybe not,” he corrected after observing my pale face.

“I can’t tomorrow,” I said quietly, but before I realized what I was about to say, I finished with, “but I could on Sunday.” Evan’s eyes lit up. My heart leapt into its high speed patter.

“Really?” he asked, not convinced.

“Sure,” I confirmed with a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

“Batting cages?”

“Why not,” I replied with a shrug.

“Noon?”

“Noonish.”

“Great,” he stated with a full-fledged smile that left me lightheaded with the rush of blood to my face. “Ready to eat? You must be after that sad lunch.”

“I could eat,” I stated casually, ignoring his antagonizing remark as he turned off the music.

I watched from a stool at the peninsula while he pulled items from the refrigerator and cabinets and started cutting up celery, mushrooms, chicken and pineapple.

“What are you making?” I asked, not anticipating the huge production. I’d expected something from the typical food groups of pizza and subs.

“Chicken and pineapple stir fry,” he replied. “Sorry, I didn’t ask you if you were a picky eater. Is this okay?”

“Sure,” I said slowly. “You cook?” I didn’t know why I was so surprised. I should be used to the unpredictability of Evan Mathews, but I still couldn’t help but follow the production in amazement as he measured, mixed and chopped with ease.

“I have to fend for myself a lot, so yeah, I cook,” he explained without looking at me. “You don’t, I take it?”

“Not since eighth grade Home Ec.”

Tags: Rebecca Donovan Breathing Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net