Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(43)
Girls can’t have guy friends. I’d heard people say it. But had never believed it. Mase was my friend. So was Ben. Stood to reason I could be friends with Darren too.
Only I couldn’t. Because Darren was…well, Darren.
Unable to form any useful plan to get me out of my uncomfortable predicament, I spun around and walked the last few steps to my nightstand. Without turning, I answered his question about music. “Bose SoundDock.”
“Will it fit?” The sound of his voice had grown closer.
Not sexual. His comment was not sexual. My heart picked up speed anyway. I blew out a steadying breath, forcing my body to chill.
With laser-beam focus, I studied the phone, examining the port on the bottom. “Not sure. We both have iPhones, but mine’s older.” After I popped open the rubber cap at the bottom of his cover, I shook my head. “Your receiver is too small.”
“Did the Bose come with any adapter cords?” He pressed in, watching over my shoulder.
The heat of him being right behind me fried my brain. I inhaled a slow breath through my nose, savoring his masculine scent. Then I blinked, shocked at how easily I fell prey to him.
I yanked open the nightstand drawer. “Help yourself.”
Stuffed inside was a tangle of power cords. To everything. Laptop. Tablet. Phone. If there was one for the Bose, it’d be there. Thankfully, my vibrator was in the other nightstand.
Darren stared into the drawer, brows drawn slightly in concentration, as if unaffected by the mess. He plucked the end of one up, shook his head, then tried again. “Got it.”
As he worked to untangle the cord, I kicked off my slippers before settling on the far side of the bed. He organized the remaining cords: pulled them out one by one, rolled each around his four fingers into a bundle, then tucked the ends and replaced it before grabbing the next.
I watched him, captivated by the focus etched into his face: the stern brow, the pursed lips. He was strikingly handsome in the dimmest portion of my room, shadows defining his dark features, emphasizing his strong jaw and high cheek bones.
My private observation time vanished once he shut the drawer and plugged in his phone. He scrolled across the screen a few times, then pressed the control button.
“This one should be familiar.”
The song that had played at his house—when he’d been thumping a rhythm on my back—streamed its deep haunting bass through the speaker. “‘Jungle’ by…” I paused, unable to remember the artist.
“X Ambassadors. And it’s my way of apologizing. Again. I didn’t mean to make it sexual.”
But it had gone there nonetheless. And so much more. From my end, anyway. I stared into his eyes, searching for a clue. It was there in the softening of his eyes. The intimate moment had been much more for him too. Whether or not he wanted to admit it. It made me wonder if it was the real reason why he’d come tonight.
“Don’t. It’s cool.” And it was. For now. At least what I kept trying to believe. I’d made myself safe for the moment anyway: me on the far side of the bed, body turned upside down with my ass just below one pillow and my head near the middle.
He swept his gaze from my head up to my planted feet on the wall. “Uhhh…this how you listen to music?”
“Is tonight.” I didn’t elaborate, merely stared at my bent legs as I slid my socked feet farther up the wall. Nothing sexual…or more…could happen that way. I intended to make certain of it.
He pressed his lips together, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Okay.”
I watched as he toed off his shoes, sat on the edge, then in one motion, swung his body around to mirror mine. Of course, with his long legs, his feet reached a good foot higher than mine, white socks pressed against my cork wall.
Unthinking, I stared at his large feet and blurted, “What size shoe do you wear?”
He bent his legs slightly. “Thirteen. You?”
My face flamed, but he appeared oblivious to my faux pas. He simply bent his legs further, pressing his feet flat on the wall and lowering them. I lined my heel up with his, trying my damnedest not to think about his broad forearms, large feet, and various other body parts that were bound to be correspondingly sized.
“Six and a half.”
The song shifted. He began to drum his thumbs and pinky fingers onto his thighs. Every strike he made gave a muffled thump on the faded denim.
“This is a great example of drag rhythm,” he explained, diving right into the topic of music. As if we hadn’t been comparing body parts. As if my mind hadn’t guttered.
Several other songs played. With each, he gave a blow-by-blow commentary of the rhythms and where they dragged.
A long pause happened after the most recent song ended. His quiet voice filled the sudden silence. “You know, you don’t have to be afraid of us. Of you and me.”
“I don’t?” I pressed my hands up my pajama pants as “The Trouble With Love Is” by Kelly Clarkson began to play.
“No.”
“What makes you think I am?” Had the word CHICKEN been stamped on my forehead?
“I don’t think anything.”
“Oh.” My heart began to thump harder. I took a deep breath, trying to calm it.
“I know.” He turned his head toward me.
I didn’t reply. Couldn’t really refute the truth. Instead I met his penetrating stare, searched his eyes for some sign that he really was a good guy. I felt he was. I sensed a girl could surrender, become engrossed in him—yet never truly lose herself. And still, I hid behind the enormous protective wall I’d erected years ago.