The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(56)

“I’m fine!” I yell, causing a few people sitting at tables near us to turn and look at me. I stretch my arms out in a WTF stance, and they all turn around, back to their own conversations. “You!” I point at him. I’m expecting him to be shocked, to start in with his defensive mode, but instead he smirks again—that same cocked-lip smile that had me feeling dizzy in the hallway by the bathroom. “You were not invited. I disinvited you!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I don’t work that way. You know, taking orders from you?” Houston says, folding his arms, the black shirt he’s wearing stretching tight along his chest. And then I see his arms, and I get lost again. Until he dips his head lower, catching my gaze, and snapping me out of this stupid puppy-crush I seem to suddenly have on his hot arms.

Shit. He has hot arms.

I’m drunk; that’s all. I’m just a little buzzed, and I’m feeling it.

“Dude, you made it. We have a pitcher, come on over,” Ty says, pushing past us toward the table we’ve taken over in the corner of Sally’s. He begins to pour a beer for Houston, but stops short of full when Houston holds his hand up.

“Thanks, man. But I’m sticking with water tonight. I’ve got…some things,” he says, and I laugh under my breath. He has things, like a kid. His head twists fast to look at me, and his eyebrow cocks.

“Sure, whatever man,” Ty says, taking the glass he poured and sliding it over to his brother Nate, who’s just stepping up to our table.

“Awe, for me?” Nate says, winking at his brother and taking a drink from the mug.

“Yeah, well I spit in that one,” Ty says. Nate swishes his sip around in his mouth and swallows.

“I figured. Thought it tasted weird,” Nate says, shrugging and taking another drink. Even though Ty is in a wheelchair and four years older, he and his brother look so much alike.

“Hey, this is Houston. Houston, this is my brother, Nate,” Ty says, and Houston reaches his hand across the table, shaking Nate’s.

“Nice to meet you,” Nate says, looking toward his brother and slapping him on the chest. “Oh, and hey, I meant to tell you—scouts are coming Friday. As in Astros, Marlins, Cardinals, and Nats.”

“Scouts?” Houston asks, waving a waitress over and requesting a water. She looks at him with a smile. I take one step closer, leaning my arms on the table next to his, so our arms are touching. That’s right, bitch—those arms you’re smiling about are touching mine. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Nate plays ball for McConnell,” Ty says.

“I’m the catcher,” Nate shrugs.

“Uh, he bats in the four slot, and he came in with a four-twenty average,” Ty says. I have no idea what any of that means, but it seems to impress Houston.

“Nice! So…scouts. Congrats, man,” Houston says. A silence falls over the table for a few minutes while everyone looks around the bar. Cass has pulled Rowe out to the dance floor, leaving me here—with this.

“So, how do you know Ty?” Nate asks. I catch the smirk on Ty’s face, and I shoot him a warning glance not to f*ck with me.

“He’s Paige’s new roommate,” Ty says, a tiny hint of that smug arrogance he wears all the f*cking time in his tone. He’s loving teasing me. I’ve been hard on Ty; when he started dating my sister, I didn’t trust him—and I told him as much. I trust him a smidge more now, and I was starting to like him. But if he’s going to be a dick about me moving out of Delta, I’ll move him right back into the “*” box.

“Roommate?” Nate asks, glancing at me sideways, then looking back at Houston, who isn’t helping the cause at all. He’s standing there, arms folded, looking all…hot. Have his arms always been that big?

“Yeah, whatever. Deltas were bitches, and I needed out, and he needed a roommate. It’s temporary. So drop it,” I say, pulling Nate’s half-gone beer into my own hands and downing the rest. I smack the mug down on the table and huff, then turn to face Houston’s chest.

“If you’re going to be here, at least dance with me,” I say, tugging on the taut fabric of his shirt, ushering him out to the dance floor. The song playing isn’t really a slow song, but it’s too slow to dance apart, so Houston holds out a hand like he wants to dance-dance. I stare at it like he’s holding a dead cricket.

“You’re the one who dragged me out here,” he sighs. I look up at him, his smile soft, and his eyes tired. “You know what? Forget it. I’m going back to the table…”

“No,” I interrupt, catching his hand before he has a chance to put it in his pocket. I run my fingers up the back of his hands, up his arms—oh my god those arms—until both of my hands meet around his neck. I feel Houston’s hands nervously search for my hips, and when he lets them rest at the small of my back, I let out the air I’ve been holding since I ran into him in the hallway. After a few awkward turns of dancing like eighth-graders, I grow more comfortable, finally resting my head against his chest, and when his chin lays on top, completely cradling me to his body, I close my eyes.

Everything right now feels so nice. It feels more than nice, and I admit that to myself. It’s so different from the chaos and the constant chase of guys for the wrong reasons. This feels simple—the longer the song lasts, the more perfect everything feels.