A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(47)

So, yeah. We basically spent the entire rest of the evening fending off hockey fans and puck bunnies wanting to take selfies and pictures with Caleb, while his teammates laughed their butts off from the side. As in side-splitting, bent-over, gut-holding laughter while they watched Caleb ward off strangers.

Some friends he has.

Poor Caleb.

Despite how far out of my comfort zone I was earlier, I actually laughed harder tonight than I have in my entire life. Sure, there were some cringe-worthy moments, like when a touchy-feely blonde came over, wanting to pose with Caleb as she cupped his, uh, package. That pissed him off. He started yelling at Miles, shouting obscenities about the “f*cking Twitterverse,” and the blonde walked off crying—sans selfie.

But for the most part, tonight was awesome. I normally wouldn’t admit it, but my friends help me not take life too seriously.

Just go with it.

Cecelia’s advice has been resonating with me a lot lately. I’m normally so regimented. It’s the only way I know how to behave, planning things down to the smallest detail and organizing my week, day in and day out. Studying constantly. Tirelessly.

Here I am at the tender age of twenty-one, almost having all but forgotten what it means to be uninhibited and have fun. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, rarely go out.

Caleb and I gravitate toward each other because we have those things in common.

“So, tonight was…” Caleb starts beside me, his sentence trailing off in the dark cab of his pick-up truck as we drive toward my house. He stops at a red light, waiting patiently for it to turn green, in silence.

It’s late, and I give the clock on the dash one more glance: one thirty in the morning.

“Tonight was fun. You probably didn’t think so, but I’ve never laughed so hard,” I say with a crooked smile and a yawn, and he rests his elbow on the center console in between our seats. His fingers tap on it but he stares straight ahead, concentrating on the road.

I know what he’s doing—I’ve seen this move before. He wants to make a move on me but is hesitant.

Emboldened by the two cheap beers I ingested at the bar, my hand slides over his and our fingers automatically interlace. Content, I lay my head back on the headrest, my face angled so I can watch him while he drives.

Study him.

He threw his baseball cap on in the parking lot of Lone Rangers, and his eyes appear obsidian cloaked under the gray bill.

I wish I had more time to watch him, concealed in the shadows of his truck, but it doesn’t take us long to reach our destination, and before I know it, we’re driving past Omega house, more rentals, then pulling into the driveway of my house.

He releases my hand reluctantly to put the truck in park, and we both unbuckle when he cuts the engine.

I glance at the house. It’s dark inside, and only the glowing light above the stove in the kitchen can be seen through the window. Caleb reaches into the back seat of the truck and pulls out the canvas he painted tonight. It’s a sunset with reds, oranges, and a leafless, silhouetted black tree.

“Here. You take mine and I’ll take yours?” He gives me a shy smile, unsure, the tiniest sliver of his gap visible between his lips.

Oh my god. Swoon.

Nodding dumbly, I fumble with the keys inside my purse and glance at him in the dimly lit cab. The planes of his face are nearly unreadable, his mouth and brows set in a thoughtful line as he watches me raptly.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” His deep voice rumbles close enough to my ear that I drop my keys while digging through my purse, then nervously trip my way to the covered back porch.

As I fumble to put the key in the lock, Caleb pushes on the doorjamb with the heel of his palm, testing and jiggling it under his weight. He looks up into the overhang then gives the porch steps a good, solid kick. They rattle from the impact and a wooden board pops up. “Structurally, your house is as bad as your cousin’s. Do you have the same landlord?”

“Um… I’m not sure? My roommates and I are always joking about how easy it would be for someone to bust the door in,” I joke, pushing the door open.

His scowl is back. “It’s not funny, Abby. One well-placed kick, right above the deadbolt, would splinter this whole doorframe. Easy access.”

I turn to look at him, ignoring his ominous warning and wanting to invite him in, but… not knowing how. He stands slouched, hands stuffed into his pockets, waiting.

I inhale a breath. “Do you… want. Uh, to. Inside? I mean. Do you want to, um…” I flick my wrist above my shoulder, indicating behind me to the dark pit that is the kitchen.

Caleb is grinning from ear to ear, gap tooth and all. I want to melt into a puddle of mush at his feet.

“Are you trying to invite me in?” he regards me, amused.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean. Only if you want.”

He watches me for a few heartbeats, searching my face, his astute gaze lingering on my eyes. “I want.”

“I don’t think anyone has made it home yet,” I blurt out, flipping on the light switch in the kitchen when he enters behind me, and kicking my shoes onto the floor mat by the door.

Caleb does the same, pushing the door firmly closed behind him, sliding the deadbolt into the lock and setting his painting on the counter by the fridge.

“You can probably just leave that unlocked,” I say, shrugging off my jacket.