A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(22)

Jesus Christ, it’s like Grand Central Station during Rush Hour.

Realizing this could take all night, I rationalize that it’s not my job to stand here keeping Abby company while she waits to clean off her wet shirt, even if I did spit beer in her face.

I can leave her here and return to our friends.

On one hand, girls are used to waiting in lines at parties, right? Aren’t the lines for the ladies’ bathrooms always twice as long as those for the guys’ bathrooms?

On the other hand…

A blonde in a purple camisole—or whatever you call those silky-looking pajama tank top things—stops in front of me, red lips parting as she devours me with her eyes. “You’re Caleb Lockhart, aren’t you?” Her smile is one I’ve seen before: smug, assured, self-confident, and meant to have me eating out of the palm of her hand.

Coldly, I gaze silently back at the blonde, my eyes flicking briefly to Abby, who’s taken a sudden interest in counting flowers on the wallpaper.

“Cat got your tongue?” the girl flirts, her bare arm reaching for the sleeve of my shirt and giving it a playful tug with her long fingertips.

“Don’t,” I mutter, the unfriendly tone reaching my eyes.

The blonde assesses me, not ready to give up the chase, and titters at me. “God. You’re even better looking up close.” She leans in, and just as she’s about to press her perky tits against the front of my shirt, one word crosses my lips.

“Abby.”

“Um, no.” The blonde gives her head a shake with a frown. “My name is Francesca.”

“Not you. Her.” After debating, I make a decision. Side-stepping the pretty co-ed, I give Abby a curt nod and demand, “Follow me.”

We move through the crush; classmates, teammates, and strangers greeting us as we make our way back through the living room, some of them sizing up Abby with open interest. Bodies are everywhere with little room to easily navigate, but it’s my damn house and I throw a few elbows as we weave our way through.

Just as I round the living room and charge into the foyer, I feel fingers graze the palm hanging at my hip and pause briefly to gape down as Abby slides her delicate hand into it mine.

“Is this okay?” she yells. “I just don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

Pleased, I give her delicate hand a squeeze. Latching on to the finial post at the bottom of the stairs, I give Abby a tug, pulling her tight against my side and propelling myself up the staircase.

“Move!” I thunder, paving a path for us to ease our way up, step by step, to the second story.

I stop in front of my bedroom, which is the master and the last room on the right, punch in the combination for my lock, and pull her through the door, flipping on the light switch before locking the door behind us. I point to the door in the far corner of the suite. “Bathroom’s over there.”

Real suave, I know.

Abby nods, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings: the dark forest-green walls that my parents painstakingly painted, with their pennants and hockey posters; the large oak desk and computer; the science-fiction book collection methodically arranged by height on a built in bookshelf.

She pauses before the bathroom door, biting her lip. “I’ll only be a minute.” Abby taps the doorframe twice, then walks through, shutting the door.





Abby

Bracing myself against the counter in Caleb’s bathroom, which is apparently the master suite, if the double vanity sinks, ginormous jetted bathtub, and spacious walk-in closet are any indication. Masculinity assaults my senses. The entire room smells like guy—aftershave or cologne or whatever guys use to smell amazing permeates the air, and a few bottles of Polo sit on the countertop.

I reach over and carefully pick up a blue bottle of cologne, lift the cap off, and close my eyes, inhaling its musky, outdoorsy scent. Very gingerly, so it doesn’t make a clanking sound, I replace the cap and set the cologne back in its rightful place.

Resting both hands on either side of the sink, I exhale and stare back at my reflection.

I’ll admit, I don’t exactly look terrible.

In fact, the alcohol-induced courage has added some much-needed luminosity to my skin, my eyes glowing vibrantly. Running my fingers through my hair, I fluff it a bit, tossing it over my shoulders.

A stack of clean green washcloths sit neatly arranged on a shelf, and I grab one, turning on the cold water to dampen it. I wring out the excess water, blotting the washcloth against my sticky skin—down my neck and into my décolletage.

You never really understand how sticky beer is until it gets spilled—or spit—directly on your skin and left there to dry. Well, I understand it now, and it’s freaking gross.

Studying myself in the mirror, I focus on my chest and the way it looks in the push-up bra I reluctantly put on under my shirt. Well, I’ll admit I didn’t really need a push-up bra, but it does display my perky, full b-cup breasts nicely within the deep neckline of the pale blue wrap shirt, and even though I’m embarrassed at having my boobs on exhibit, I can’t help acknowledging they look pretty darn good.

Actually, my boobs look great.

Encouraged, I turn this way and that, checking out my boobs and ass in the mirror. The dark-wash skinny-jean capris are a pair I haven’t worn in ages, so I was thrilled tonight after discovering they actually still fit my size five/six frame.