A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(23)

I didn’t even have to lie down on the bed to zip them up—there is a God!

I’ve strapped on some nude summer wedges, the leather straps wrapping around my ankles and buckling with gold hardware in the front. Very sexy. Very cute.

You know—sexy-cute. (Wink.)

Once I’m done wiping myself down, I neatly fold the washcloth in half and drape it over the towel bar next to the bathtub. Spinning back toward the sink, a pair of glasses catches my eye. I move to pick them up, biting down on my lip as I inspect them.

Thick black Ray-Ban frames with prescription lenses.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to visualize Caleb’s pensive, dark-chocolate gaze framed by these glasses, and I give a little squeak, followed by a wistful sigh. I catalog sexy black glasses, mentally filing it in the same category as gaps in teeth under: Abby’s Kryptonite.

Setting the glasses back on the counter precisely where I found them, I take a calming breath and stare at the doorknob before inhaling and pulling the door open.

Squaring my shoulders, I walk back into Caleb’s bedroom. He’s lying across his bed, head resting on a ton of pillows—way more pillows than any guy should have and bordering on feminine—and feet hanging over the edge as he stares a hole through the bathroom door.

He straightens hastily when I walk out, runs his palms up and down his upper thighs a few times, and scoots himself on the edge of the large king-sized bed. “All good?”

“Yup. All good…” I answer absentmindedly, my eyes once again scanning his room.

First thought: it’s much cleaner than I would have guessed. His bed has been made, a navy-blue duvet-covered comforter folded neatly at the foot of it. The many throw pillows of grays, blues, and greens are stacked in an orderly fashion at the headboard. On his nightstand is another pair of black-rimmed glasses, a water bottle, and a small stack of novels.

Silently, I read the titles from where I stand: American Sniper, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Shit My Dad Says, and… is that Harry Potter?

Talk about a diverse collection.

Secretly pleased, I give a furtive smile.

Caleb stands, smoothing down his jeans and rumpled shirt, but I’m not ready to walk out into the party mayhem—not just yet. He watches me intently as I walk over to the desk, trailing a fingertip along the solid wood, glancing up at him briefly from the corner of my eye, resting my hand on a hardcover copy of Gone Girl.

I pick it up, flipping through the pages, the familiar smell of freshly printed paper assaulting my senses. “I haven’t read an actual book for pleasure in months,” I say, twisting my wrist as I hold it toward him. “But I did read this one. What did you think of it?”

Caleb pauses, gathering his thoughts silently. “I think… the ending was f*cked up.”

I laugh and set the book back down. “I guess I thought so too, although I wouldn’t have used those exact words.”

“Sorry.”

The dim light from his bedside lamp glows, casting a warm light in the cozy space.

“You’re really quiet. What are you thinking right now?” I ask, because I’m still tipsy and because I really want to know what he’s thinking.

“You’re not supposed to ask guys that,” comes his low reply.

“Why?”

“It’s basic Guy 101. Even I know that.” He’s quiet for a few more seconds, eyebrows furrowed, concentrating hard. “Besides… you probably wouldn’t like the answer.”

“But maybe that’s where you’d be wrong,” I say, walking idly over to the bookshelf and studying the titles so purposefully arranged there. I glance over my shoulder before adding, “Maybe I would.”

I hear him grunt, but he doesn’t reply, so I momentarily turn to face him.

“Well?”

His mouth opens, then closes, and I can sense his internal debate. Whatever is going on inside his beautiful head, he’s afraid to say it out loud. And here I thought I was the awkward one…

With my back still turned to him, I continue studying the shelf—the books, the collection of hockey trophies and medals, the random knickknacks and about a dozen framed photographs of himself in various states of hockey play. Photos with his parents at his high school graduation, a picture of him wakeboarding, and one with a gray-haired old lady that we’ll assume is his grandma.

Everything is lined up and displayed orderly.

I pick up a Wayne Gretzke bobble-head, give it a gentle shake, and watch the head bounce back and forth on the small spring inside the neck, then quietly set it back on the shelf. “Hmmm,” I mutter.

He hesitates. “Hmmm what?”

I chuckle as I continue my inspection. “Nothing. Just hmmm.”

Caleb crosses his arms and scowls with a pout. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Why did you say hmmm?”

I walk toward him—toward the door—and smile up into his frowning face. So serious, this one. “You probably wouldn’t like the answer.” I mimic his earlier response sarcastically, embarrassed to have even asked in the first place, and reach for the door handle.

I paste an uncertain smile on my face, and my long, lithe fingers slowly but deliberately turn the handle, then give the door a gentle tug. “We should probably get back to the party,” I state.

Suddenly, Caleb’s large calloused hand is on my upper arm, stopping me from turning the knob further, and I glance down, staring at the loose grip he has on my bicep but making no move to back away. Nevertheless, he yanks his hand back like I just singed him with a branding iron, and apologizes. “Shit, sorry.”