More Than Everything (Family 3)

“Hey,” I answered and grinned.

“I love kissing you, Charlie.” He nipped my chin. “But we have to take a rest and work, okay? I have a calculus test tomorrow, and I got through the last one by the skin of my teeth.”

“You got a 90 percent,” I scoffed.

“I know,” he said with a solemn nod. “One more wrong answer and I’d have missed my A.”

One corner of my mouth tilted up, but I held back my laughter. To me, a C was good enough, but Scott had a 4.0 grade average, and in his mind, if he got less than an A on anything, he might as well have failed. We were a month into the new school year, and he was busy with football again, so his studying time was limited as it was. He didn’t need me to make it worse.

“Okay,” I said as I scooted off his lap. “I’ll take off and you can call me when—”

“No.” He grasped my knee. “You don’t have to go. Don’t you have homework? Bring it over and we can study together.”

“I was just gonna practice a little.” I had moved just about everything other than my bed out of my room and Scott had helped me screw a pole into the wall horizontally so I could use it as a dance bar. We hung a bathroom mirror someone had pulled out of their apartment behind it and I was set.

“Perfect.” He beamed. “I’ll pack up my books and come over to your apartment.”

My heart thumped harder in my chest. It happened every time I was reminded that Scott wanted to be with me. “Yeah?” I asked quietly, feeling pleased deep down.

“’Course. You know how much I love watching you dance. It’ll be perfect.”

I did know. Scott had always been supportive of what was quickly turning into my obsession. He would sit and let me show him some moves I’d learned, listen to me talk about what I thought would make a great show, and sometimes I’d walk out of class to find him waiting for me outside the windowed wall. “Thanks, Scotty,” I said.

We packed up his books and walked out of his room.

“Where are you heading, boys?” Lauren, Scott’s mother, asked.

“We’re going to Charlie’s. He’s gonna practice and I’m gonna study.” Scott walked over to his mom, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. “What’re we having for dinner?”

“I was thinking taco night,” she said, and then she looked over to me. “Are you joining us for dinner, Charlie?”

“Yeah, he is,” Scott answered before I could. He came back over to me, rested one hand on my lower back, and led us toward the front door. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

My mother worked nights and my sister had gotten a job waitressing at a local bar, so she rarely got home before three in the morning. As a result, I was usually home alone in the evenings, and Scott’s parents had taken to including me in their family dinners.

“Does it bother your mom that I’m always eating your food?” I asked as soon as we closed the door behind us. “I can stay home tonight.”

Scott had his backpack flung over his right shoulder, and he wrapped his left arm around me. “My mom loves you. No way would she let you stay home alone instead of eating with us.”

I pushed my key into the first of the locks on the front door. “You sure?” I bit my bottom lip nervously. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Scott pressed his front to my back and dipped down, nuzzling my neck as I finished unlocking and opening my front door. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he whispered roughly. “Besides,” he added, “you’re not exactly eating us out of house and home. I’ve seen birds with a higher caloric intake.”

I walked into my apartment with Scott right behind me. And I mean that literally—he stayed close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. I shivered and swallowed hard. “Caloric intake? Is that one of those fancy terms you learned in AP Bio, smarty-pants?”

He skated his hand over my ribs, down my side, and over my ass. Then he pinched me and bounced away, raising his hand in front of him protectively.

“Hey!” I yelped and rubbed my abused butt. “What’d you do that for?’

“Well, mostly because you were teasing me, and also because I could.” He was grinning, his eyes twinkling. He was so damn cute I couldn’t even pretend to be mad.

“Nutball.”

“I’m a nutball, am I?”

“Yeah.”

“And what, pray tell, is a nutball?” he teased.

“Shut up.”

“Is it like one of those cheese balls coated with nuts that Hickory Farms sells at Christmastime?”

“I’m going to smack you,” I said, feigning anger.

“What if I like that?” He waggled his eyebrows at me.

I shot forward, trying to get to his ribs, knowing how ticklish he was.