Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(102)
“Good,” he nods, looking down. When he glances back up, he gestures to the second box. “Go on. Open it.”
I tuck both bears under my left arm and move to the second box, working with one hand to unwrap it. I finally get the lid off the top and when I look down, I notice a pair of pink and white ice skates that look to be my size. I flash my eyes back to Andrew’s, smiling.
“Holding your hand on the ice is the one memory I turned to when my cloud got really dark and heavy and hopeless. I’d like to take you skating tonight, at the rink, so I can hold your hand…if you’ll let me?”
He’s not breathing as hard as before, but he still sucks his bottom lip in, anxious for my answer. I nod yes quickly, then move to the third box. Before I can dig into the paper, though, Andrew places his hand on top, stopping me.
“This one comes at the end. It’s…well…it’s sort of important that I keep everything in order. When we get back from the rink, I’ll let you open it up,” he says, his head leaned to the side, his eyes pleading.
“Okay,” I say.
He’s close enough that he could kiss me. I want him to. He never does, though. Instead, his eyes dance over me, following the curve of my face and line along my shoulders. For class, I changed into one of my turtlenecks and jeans, but I crave the warm feeling of being in his clothes again.
“You look nice,” I say to him, my eyes moving to the top of his head, to the hair that’s usually stuffed under a hat or twisted in all directions. He runs his hands through it, smoothing it back again, but messing it up just enough that a few strands fall forward over his brow, somehow making him even sexier.
“This is the best I’ve got,” he says, arms outstretched. “I’m not really a suit-and-tie kind of guy.”
It’s my turn to let my eyes roam down him, his wide chest and thin waist, his arms filling the fabric of his shirt, his jeans tight around his muscular legs. I bite my lip on one side and smile through the other.
“I like this look better anyhow,” I say, peering up at him.
His lips fall open with a breath, and I hold mine, thinking that maybe now he’ll kiss me. But he closes his mouth quickly, smiling and taking a step back.
“We should get to the rink. I managed to find a half an hour that it’s not being used, and the guy doing me a favor will be pissed if we’re late,” he says.
“Okay,” I say softly, holding my bears tightly.
Andrew picks my backpack up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder, then tugs at the bears in my hand. I resist at first.
“You can’t skate with these,” he chuckles. “But…I’ll put them with your things. You can have them back the second we get home.”
Home.
How strange that he feels like home. And yet, how very not strange at all.
“Okay,” I say again. I’m unable to do anything but agree with him. It’s not that I owe him. It’s that I want to go along with him. I meant what I said last night—I trust Andrew Harper…with my life.
I let him guide me back outside after he deposits my things in his room, and when he opens the door of his car for me, I force myself to keep my thoughts ahead—to focus on the future and possibilities rather than the past. Andrew’s careful with me, taking my hand as I sit in the low bucket seat. He leans forward through the door as I buckle the belt, his head cocked to one side, silently asking me if I’m all right—the last ride in this car flooded me with painful memories.
I smile at him when my belt clicks, and his eyes skim down my body, down my legs, then back to my lips, and they quiver under the heat of his stare. Nothing about the way he’s looking at me feels threatening or possessive; it’s adoring, and it makes my palms sweat. Adored is exactly how I always wanted to feel, and I haven’t felt it since he left my life five years ago.
He exhales slowly, backing away from the door and nudging it closed with the tips of his fingers, bringing both of his hands up to his mouth and closing his eyes as he continues to back away, shaking his head and smirking underneath it all.
When he gets into his seat, sliding in, buckling, and starting the engine, I question the soft chuckle and grin he’s still wearing. He looks into his rearview mirror, almost like he’s working extra hard not to look at me again. The tension causes my heart to speed up.
“What is it? Come on, Andrew…don’t tease,” I say.
His eyes shut; he laughs once again, his head falling forward, then his eyes open as he leans to the side, resting his head on his steering wheel.
“You have no idea how you bewitch me, Emma Burke,” he says, his teeth dragging his bottom lip, his tongue caught in their snare next. “No idea.”
His eyes wander around my face, and in that instant I see it—Andrew Harper is worshiping me. My heart drums louder, and I tuck my hands underneath my legs, holding my own breath.
The trip to the rink is short, and we spend those few minutes both blushing and taking small peeks at each other, like grade-schoolers who’ve passed notes back and forth and have just gotten thrown together in some playground tunnel. I don’t know what to do or how to act—only that I know I want to leap onto his lap right now and never let go.
I stay put, and wait for Andrew to round the car to open my door for me on his insistence that I let him play gentleman for the night. He walks me up to the back door of the rink, and hands a guy a fifty-dollar bill before we slip inside. I wince at the amount of money, knowing how he earns it, and how little he has to throw away. But the slight smile he gives me keeps me from protesting. He’s proud of this date—and I am going to love every second of it.