In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(22)

“I bet it’s worse,” she laughs, standing and moving toward her small trashcan where she drops the strip inside.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s bet.”

She turns to me, her lip quirked on the side, her eyes narrowed. Her feet are bare, and they’re tiny and cute. Her toes are painted pink. I need her to listen to this demo before I forget why I’m here and start hitting on her.

“You put one of those thingies on my face, and if I have less pore junk on it than you did, you have to listen to the demo I made,” I say.

This is a stupid bet. I sound desperate, but I don’t think I care how I sound. I may very well be desperate. She holds my sightline for a beat, her mouth twisting, and her tongue pushing into the inside of her cheek.

“And if I win?” she asks.

“Then I’ll head out of here and quit popping in for surprise visits like this,” I say, knowing full well that I won’t stop, but also secretly hoping that my morning shower cleaned my face good enough to win this really weird bet.

“Lane!” she yells, her eyes still locked on mine. I start to smirk, because she’s going to take my wager, which means I’ve got at least five more minutes to talk her into trusting me.

A few seconds pass and soon I hear footsteps coming down the hallway along with a slight pant. “I was watching my show. What do you want?” Lane says, sniffling into his sleeve.

“Casey and I have a bet, and I need you to be the judge,” she smirks. I nod, because it’s fair. I also know there’s no way I’m leaving without getting my way.

“I can do that,” he says, moving into the room and sitting on the floor between us.

“We’ll be right back then,” she says, standing and nudging over her shoulder for me to follow.

I start to, but stop at the inside of her door when she’s just out of earshot, and lean down toward Lane. “We got this one, right buddy?” I say, holding out knuckles for Lane to pound. He does and laughs, but my plan falls flat instantly.

“You’re on your own. I’m the judge, and we have to remain impartial,” he says.

Shit.

“Right…right,” I smile, tongue in cheek while nodding.

I turn back to the hallway where Murphy is waiting for me, a hand on her hip, at the bathroom door.

“My brother is not a cheater,” she says flatly.

“So I’ve learned,” I admit.

Her eyes narrow on me, and she puts her small hand on my back, pushing me into the bathroom. Her fingers are cold through my T-shirt, enough so that when she pulls her hand away, I can remember where every single finger touched me.

“Sit,” she says, pointing to the edge of the tub.

She turns on the sink, running hot water for several minutes over a small washcloth as she pulls out a new strip from the box. She lines everything up, then shuts the water off, stepping in front of me with the cloth in her hand.

“I need to steam open your pores,” she says, moving toward my face.

“How hot is that…ah…oww…never mind,” I wince as she holds the cloth over my nose, pressing into the skin as her other hand cradles the back of my neck. The smile on her face is slightly sinister, and I think she might enjoy torturing me.

This process is deeply clinical, but I’m also enjoying her hands firmly on me. I tell myself it’s because she seems comfortable, which is ultimately good for me getting her to listen to my demo. But that’s not it at all. I just like her hands on my neck, and her eyes on me. And I like her pink toes and twisty hair. I think maybe I’m smitten.

She releases her hold briefly, and I watch every movement of her hands as they pick up the strip and press it against my skin, her fingertips massaging it around my nose. I don’t care how ridiculous I must look. I hope it’s crooked and she has to do it again because I like the way her touch feels—which goes completely against my mission.

I stand quickly when she gets the strip in place and move out from the front of her, toward the mirror, toward fresh air. My head feels weird, and I’m definitely not in control. She is. That much is probably evident by the piece of plaster I let her slap on my face. I’ve gone from less Casey to * Casey.

“So how long does it take?” I ask, glancing at her reflection. We stare at each other like this for a breath, and I’m the first to have to look away.

Yep. Not in control.

“Five, maybe ten minutes,” she says, busying herself with cleaning up after our facial experiment. She pauses in front of me, the small box in her hands, and I reach for it on instinct, my fingers tangling with hers.

“I can put it away,” she says, shaking her head quickly and blinking again. That’s her nervous trait, and she’s done it twice since I’ve been here.

We both walk back to her room, neither of us dominant. Lane is now holding the headphones to his ears and bouncing on the bed just as Murphy was when we walked in on her. She moves to take the spot next to him and leans her head against his, just enough to hear the beat in the earpiece, and she begins to sing.

“Hey, hey, trolley, come on pick my brother up. Hey, hey dolly, how’d you like a buttercup?”

Lane laughs, and it’s deep and lengthy, and just the sound of it makes me smile, too. Murphy laughs with him, running one of her hands along the side of his face and cupping his cheek, her eyes raking over him with the most beautiful adoration. Something stabs me internally—I’m pretty sure it’s envy.