Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I wonder what the hell that means as I hand him my keys. “Get the books out... and the canvases.” For some reason, I don’t like the idea of him looking at my art again. It feels too personal. Everything about this new arrangement does. Do I like it? Do I hate it? Do I have a choice? I can’t tell. That worries me.

Kellan disappears inside my car, emerging a minute later with the laundry basket, my favorite three paintings, and a small mountain of paperbacks. He packs the items carefully into the rear seats, and I watch the ripple of his back and shoulders in the rear-view.

I must be insane, planning to spend any time at his place. I must be looking for trouble. I must want... I don’t know. Bad thing

s. Also, money. I roll my eyes at myself.

When he slides into the driver’s seat, his lips are pulled into a teasing smile that makes my neck flush, only emphasizing the trouble that I’m in. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of e-readers.”

I square my shoulders and give a haughty little sniff as he starts driving. “E-books are good for reading in class or bed, but in every other scenario a paperback is superior.”

His smile broadens. “Did I see Fifty Shades of Grey beside The Sound and the Fury?”

My lips twitch. I press them flat. “And if you did?”

“I’d say you’re a... ?” He lifts my shawl up and frowns at the symbol on my shirt. “Smurfin?”

“Smuffin,” I say primly, taking my shawl from his hand and smoothing it back down. He looks like he’s about to tease me—eyes mischievous, lips working themselves into a joke—and suddenly I feel a little too exposed. “Where are we going?” I ask before he gets a chance to say anything more.

“You’ll see.” He pulls onto one of the roads that cuts through central campus.

“I have a class in twenty minutes.”

He strokes his fingertips over my knee, casual, as if he’s been doing it for years. “I’ll get you a note.”

I work to breathe around the weight of his hand on my knee. “Why do I need a note?”

He slides his gaze to mine. “You don’t want an unexcused absence.”

Sighing, I move my knee out of his reach. Last night’s showdown with Milasy was pretty draining, so maybe it would be good to skip. I shake my head at myself. “I probably look like I’ve been through the wringer. Maybe that’s a good call.”

He steers through downtown, keeping his gaze on the road. “You look perfect, Cleo. It’s your eyes that give you away.”

I rub my fingers over them. “My eyes look puffy?”

“Your eyes look tired.”

I take a bite out of my croissant and try to work out why it bothers me—what he just said. I’m sure I do look tired. That shouldn’t be news to me. Then I remember what he said before that. He said I look perfect. Somehow, in the moment, I missed that. But now it’s slithering around my head, confusing me.

Or maybe I’m not confused. Maybe I just don’t like it.

I shouldn’t have said he looked perfect. He doesn’t need to know I think that much of his looks. Looks aren’t all that important anyway. It was just me being me, talking before thinking.

But why did he say it back to me? Was it intentional, or coincidence?

He pulls onto Main Street, and we pass the cute boutiques, wannabe coffee shops and so-so bars that make up Chattahoochee’s little downtown. I wonder if he was flirting.

I think “no,” mostly because there’s no reason to flirt. It’s been established that we aren’t exactly peanut butter and honey personality-wise, but at this point, it’s also pretty clear we want sexy times with each other.

Maybe I’m not even bothered that he said I look perfect. I think it’s the way he said it. Yes. Like he meant it. It’s the way he said my eyes look tired, too. As if he cares.

I can live with him, I guess. I can take the free housing he’s offering; not just free housing, but housing I’m actually being paid to occupy. I can swallow my pride and pocket his money.

But I don’t need lines crossed.

Because the truth is, I do think Kellan Walsh looks perfect—even as I know I shouldn’t dwell on that. Because I’m in kind of a weird place right now, and he’s got those eyes—that smile—that make me feel as if he really cares. Holding my hand... I shake my head. That has to stop.

From now on, I need to keep my mouth shut. Try to avoid talking to him. Try to avoid connecting.