Shadow Me (Shatter Me, #4.5)(6)

She dropped her hand and looked away. Looked back at me.

She looked confused.

“Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.”

And then, with a seismic jolt of terror, sense was knocked sideways into my head. I bolted upright in my own skin. I thought I might die. I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. I wanted to. I wanted to melt into the Earth. Evaporate. Disappear.

Jesus, I nearly did.

I couldn’t believe I’d said the words out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d been betrayed by my own goddamn mouth like that.

Nazeera stared at me, stunned and still processing, and somehow—through nothing short of a miracle—I managed to recover.

I laughed.

Laughed. And then I said, with perfect nonchalance, “I’m joking, obviously. I think I’m just exhausted. Anyway, good night.”

I managed to walk, not run, back to my room, and was able to hold on to what was left of my dignity. I hope.

Then again, who the hell knows.

I’m going to have to see her again, probably very soon, and I’m sure she’ll let me know if I should make plans to fly directly into the sun.

Shit.

I turn off the water and stand there, still sopping wet. And then, because I hate myself, I take a deep breath and turn on the cold water for ten, painful seconds.

It does the trick. Clears my head. Cools my heart.

I trip getting out of the shower.

I drag myself across the hall, forcing my legs to bend, but I’m still moving like I’m injured. I glance at the clock on the wall and swear under my breath. I’m late. Warner is going to kill me. I really need to spend an hour stretching—my muscles are still way too tight, even after a hot shower—but I have no time. And then, with a grimace, I realize that Warner was right. A couple extra hours to myself this morning would’ve done me a lot of good.

I sigh, heavily, and move toward my room.

I’m wearing my sweatpants, but I have only a towel draped around my neck because I’m in too much pain to pull a shirt over my head. I figure maybe I can steal one of Winston’s button-downs—something I can slip on and off more easily than one of my own sweaters—when I hear someone’s voice. I glance back, distracted, and in those two seconds I lose sight of where I’m going and slam into someone.

Someone.

Words fly out of my head. Just like that.

Gone.

I’m an idiot.

“You’re wet,” Nazeera says, wrinkling her nose as she jumps backward. “Why are you—”

And then I watch her, watch as she looks down. Looks up. Scans my body, slowly. I watch her look away and clear her throat, and suddenly she can’t meet my eyes.

Hope blooms in my chest. Unlocks my tongue.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” She nods. Crosses her arms. “Good morning.”

“You need something?”

“Me? No.”

I fight back a smile. It’s strange to see her flustered. “Then what are you doing here?”

She’s squinting at something behind me. “Do you—um, do you always walk around without a shirt on?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Up here? Yeah. Pretty much all the time.”

She nods again. “I’ll remember that.” When I say nothing, she finally meets my eyes. “I was looking for Castle,” she says quietly.

“His office is down that way”—I gesture with my head—“but he’s probably made his way downstairs by now.”

“Oh,” she says. “Thanks.”

She’s still looking at me. She’s still looking at me and it’s causing my chest to constrict. I take a step forward almost without realizing it. Wondering, just wondering. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know if I managed to screw everything up last night. But for some reason, right now— She’s staring at my mouth.

Her eyes move up, meet mine, and then she’s staring at my mouth again. I wonder if she knows she’s doing it. I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. My lungs feel too small. My heart feels both fast and absurdly heavy.

When Nazeera meets my eyes again she takes a sudden, sharp breath. We’re so close I can feel her exhalation against my bare chest and I’m overwhelmed by a disorienting need to kiss her. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her, and for a moment I actually think she might let me. Just the thought of it sends a thrill up my spine, a dizzying feeling that inspires my mind to jump too far, too fast. I can picture it with terrifying clarity—the fantasy of having her in my arms, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. I can imagine her under me, her fingers digging into my shoulder blades as she screams— Jesus Christ.

I force myself to turn away. I almost slap myself in the face.

I’m not this guy. I’m not some fifteen-year-old boy who can’t keep his pants on. I’m not.

“I, uh, I have to get dressed,” I say, and even I can hear the unsteadiness in my voice. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

But then Nazeera’s hand is on my arm again, and my body stiffens, like I’m trying to contain something beyond myself. It’s wild. Desire like I’ve never known it before. I try to remind myself that that’s all this is, that it’s like what J said—I don’t even know this girl. I’m just going through something. I don’t know what, or why, but I’m just, like, clearly infatuated. I don’t even know her.