The Player Hater (Accidentally in Love 1)

It feels like a wonderful place to be; somewhere I haven’t been in a very long time—enamored with a man.

Impressed by a man.

I’m going to miss him.

“Yes. Is that what this is?”

Erm.

Yes?

“Do you think it’s possible I want to kiss a man that only has one eyebrow? I swear to God, I can still smell the char and frying hair.”

Now why the hell would I go and say an insensitive, stupid thing like that?

Ugh, I’m such an idiot.

“You cannot smell the char,” Davis laughs in the dark.

“You’re right, I’m just saying that to tease you. But for real, I don’t think I’m sexually attracted to men with one eyebrow.”

Even as I say this, I put my hand on his waist, letting it settle into the curve. Move my thumb back and forth near the hem of his tee shirt.

“When have you ever met another man with only one eyebrow?”

I shrug. “Men? None. Women? A few. My mother went through a phase of severely over plucking her brows, which practically rendered them bare. My youth was an age of very thin eyebrows and frosted lipstick.”

That makes Davis chuckle. “It’s going to grow back, I swear.”

“But you only have that one brow now.”

“Are you discriminating?” He pauses to ask, “Wait, do I still only have one brow if it’s too dark and you can’t see my face at all?”

This is an excellent point; a very astute, valid point!

“Hmm, that’s a good question.” My fingers toy with the edge of his cotton shirt, flirting with the skin beneath.

“I’m very smart, didn’t you know that? I should have been a lawyer.” We both laugh softly at that. “Is this entire conversation about my eyebrows a stall tactic, or do you legitimately not want to kiss me? I was being serious when I asked.”

Moment of truth. Time to fess up.

Putting on my big girl panties and asking for what I want, Juliet.

Instead I say, “Truth or Dare.”

Him: “Truth.”

“Were you thinking about kissing me?”

“That one is easy—of course I was, yes.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Davis scoffs. “It’s not your turn to ask another question.”

“Ugh—you’re infuriating.”

“Am I?” His hands go back and forth along my side, hand curving over my backside.

“No.”

“Truth or dare.”

This is an easy one. “Truth.”

“Were you thinking of kissing me?”

Duh. “Yes.”

Silence fills the cabin of the camper, our breathing and breath mingle with the sound of the wind.

“Alright.”

Um. Alright what?

He wants to kiss me, I want to kiss him, so why isn’t he embracing me or whatever dudes do when they’re putting the first moves on a lady?

Do I still have to make the first move, is that what he’s doing over there? Waiting?

I clear my throat.

“So…” my voice trails off in the dark as his hands trail along my rear.

“So…” he lets his voice trail off, too.

Could this be any more awkward?

He still smells fresh, though it’s late; like mint toothpaste and aftershave lotion but also campfire and the woods, the combination causing my mouth to water.

We’re lying facing one another on the bed, both of us on our sides, both of us with one hand on each other. I’m not quite sure what to do with mine—I don’t want to slide it anywhere and have it land where I don’t want it or where it’s inappropriate considering our lips haven’t even touched. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind if his hand slid up my shirt; he’s been toying with the hem of it this entire time while he’s been caressing my butt.

He is being so polite. I think that’s where my hang up is; I’m used to men who go at it hard, who don’t mind having sex on the first date, who could care less what my last name is, where I’m from, what my hobbies are—things like that.

This whole chivalry thing feels slightly foreign.

I clear my throat again.

Davis clears his.

“Would you knock it off,” I laugh.

“You knock it off,” he echoes, being a flirt.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” I finally blurt out—it’s easier when he’s not able to see my face or the blush taking over my cheeks. My face is on fire.

“It’s more fun this way.”

“Really it’s not.”

“And why is that?”

Because of the sexual tension I now have on the brain, and the tingling of my spine. The flutters in my stomach. The urge I have right now to shiver even though it’s not cold.

None of this is fun; all of it is embarrassing.

“Why is this not fun?” I have to ask because I need more explanation. If I was a man, there would be blood rushing from my brain to places I only need for screwing. But I don’t have a penis and can only speak to the wetness growing between my thighs.

Not. Fun. And now he wants me to explain?

Hardly.

“Yeah, what’s not fun about this? I’m having a great time.” He shifts on the bed, his big body making a dent in the flimsy mattress, causing me to roll forward a bit simply from the motion.