A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(5)

She begins tapping the toe of those black boots nervously on the paved driveway, regarding me warily, an internal debate making her mouth turn down in a frown and her perfect eyebrows crease. It’s obvious she wants to bolt and leave me lying here in a heap but is too polite to actually do it.

I mean, I probably just saved her careless neck, and she damn well knows it.

Takin a deep breath of courage before exhaling, her full pink lips emit a long pppuh of air before she cautiously bends toward me with her palm extended.

She’s shaking.

I stare blankly at that unsteady hand a few seconds before grasping it, wrapping my large fingers around her slender ones, and resisting the urge to squeeze. Or pull her back down on top of me.

Her bones are delicate, petite, and feel fragile compared to my rough mammoth palms. I’m overly conscientious of the scraps and callouses marring my battered skin.

The unnamed brunette tugs on my arm, heavy and lifeless, unable to budge me. Biting her quivering lower lip, she yanks at me again before extending a leg and planting her booted heel in the ground to gain better leverage.

She heaves and puffs, inhaling a loud gulp of air, holds it, lets out a out a huff, and eyes me skeptically. “Do you even need my help?”

Withholding a grin, I shake her hand off and lift myself to my feet in one easy motion, unassisted. “Nope.”

All her timid restraint flies out the window in that moment. Crossing her arms and glaring, the brunette purses her rosy-pink lips for the second time. “You! Y-you made me go through all that trouble when you could have gotten up yourself? You are a… a jerk.”

Can’t deny that.

I snort, amused. “Whoa. A jerk? Trust me, I’ve been called worse.” Jamming my hands inside my hoodie, I shrug. “Besides. You had to at least try to help me up…” since I just saved your ass.

The implication hangs between us, unspoken.

“I already said thank you. What more do you require?”

“What more do I require?” Seriously, who talks like that? “And actually, no, you didn’t say thank you.”

“I—” She opens her mouth to argue, then clamps it shut. Her almond-shaped eyes go wide for a few seconds, and she takes another calming breath to steady her breathing. I can see her pretty brain counting to ten. “Thank you.”

Behind us, vulgar voices float from inside the house as my friends stir to life from within. Pretty soon guys are going to start filtering out to leave for work, or time on the ice.

“Listen, I’d love to stand here and chat with you, but…” My sarcastic remark trails off as I dust off my gray athletic pants, glancing around to survey the street, which is mostly void of any parked vehicles. I scowl. “Wait. Do you have a car around here?”

She waves a hand airily and bites her lower lip. “No, but I don’t live far. I can walk.”

“Ah, I’ll call you Walk of Shame. It suits you.”

The brunette gasps, dismayed, and pleads, wide eyes darting to the Kappa O house. “Please don’t call me that.” She takes another deep, calming breath. “For your information, the room I climbed out of was my cousin’s.”

“Seriously? That was your cousin’s room? Wow, that makes the story even better. So very… backwoods Appalachia of you.”

“Backwoods Appalachia! That’s… we’re not… are you implying what I think you are…?” She pauses expectantly.

“Caleb.”

“Your name is Caleb?” she blurts out in surprise, changing the subject.

I accidentally chuckle, the sound coming out in a rich timbre and sounding foreign. “Yeah, why?”

“Nothing. It’s just… you don’t look like a Caleb.”

“Wow, thanks. I’ll let my mom know,” I drawl out slowly.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just. You look more like a—” She clamps her pouty lips shut.

I tip my head, curiously waiting for her response, and prod her on. “More like a…?”

“I don’t know. Like a… like a…” her hand twirls around in the air aimlessly, her cheeks burning up with fire. “Biff.”

I almost let out a bark of laughter.

Almost.

“My friends call me Showtime,” I supply, growing uncomfortable with the intimate direction our conversation is taking. I don’t want to know anything about her, and I don’t want her knowing shit about me. Pretty soon we’ll be sharing childhood tales and favorite colors.

“Showtime?” She rolls her eyes, mumbling to herself with a feminine snort. “Guys are such idiots. Why would he let anyone call him that?”

“Because I’m such a f*cking idiot.”

“How about you watch your mouth!”

Instinctually, I go on defense. “How about this instead: why don’t you tell me why you were climbing out your ‘cousin’s’ window at seven in the morning rather than taking the front door?” Yeah. I use air quotes when I mock the word cousin’s, sounding suitably repulsed.

“How about you mind your own darn business?”

Darn business? Jesus. Doesn’t this chick ever swear?

“I was minding my own darn business, sweetheart, only you were too busy sticking your ass out your boyfriend’s second-story window to notice. Oh wait. I’m sorry. Did you want me to let you kill yourself?”