The Hating Game(58)
“Yes . . .” He is not helping me out at ALL.
“I’m hungry and I have no food. And I haven’t got any tea, and my apartment is cold. And I’m bored.”
“What a very sad little life.”
“You’ve got lots of food and tea. And your heating is better than mine, and I . . .”
There is nothing but silence.
“I’m not bored when I’m with you.” I’m mortified. “But I’d better just—”
He cuts me off. “Better come over then.”
Relief floods through me. “Should I bring something?”
“What would you bring?”
“I could grab some food on the way.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ve got something to cook. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’d better drive myself.”
“Probably safer.” We both know why. It’d be too easy for me to stay the night otherwise.
I’m already holding my purse, coat, and keys. My feet are in shoes. I’m locking my door and jogging down the hall to the elevator.
“Will you show me the muscles you worked on?”
“I thought you wanted me for more than that.” I can hear a car start. At least I’m not the only impatient one.
“Race you there. I want to see you all sweaty. We need to get even.”
“Give me half an hour. No, an hour.” He’s alarmed.
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
“Do not leave now.”
“See you soon,” I reply and hang up.
I start laughing when I start my car and pull out into traffic. It’s a new game, the Racing Game, with two cars at different points on a city grid, speeding toward a central location. It’s scary how I want to be in his apartment on his couch so badly I’m jiggling my knee impatiently at red lights. I’d bet anything he’s doing the same.
When I’m jogging up the sidewalk to the entrance to his building, I’ve basically exhausted all of my weak excuses, caveats, reasoning, and we’re down to this. I run into the lobby.
I haven’t seen Josh all day, and I miss him.
The elevator has an up arrow above it. I hold my breath. It bings.
He couldn’t imagine you with anyone but himself.
The doors snap open and there he is.
Chapter 16
He’s ruffled and sweaty, weighed down by gym gear. His brow creases when he spots me, his eyes unsure. He puts a hand out to hold the elevator door.
My. Heart. Bursts.
“I won!” I scream as I run at him. He has enough time to put out his arms as I jump. He hits the back wall with a grunt as I manage to get my arms and legs around him. The doors slide closed and he manages to hit the button for his floor.
“I think technically I won. I was in the building first.” I hear him say over my head.
“I won, I won,” I repeat until he laughs and concedes.
“Okay. You won.”
His sweat smells like rainwater and cedar, leaving a faint rosemary-pine tingle in my nostrils. I press my face against his neck and breathe in, again and again until the elevator bings, and we’re on the fourth floor. I try to muster up the strength to let him go, but the addictive press of our bodies together is stronger than my willpower.
“Okay then.” He begins to walk down the hallway. I’m clinging like a koala to his front, coat flapping, my bag bumping against his gym bag. I hope he doesn’t bump into any neighbors. I lean back enough to see his face and see amusement shining in his eyes as he puts down his bag beside his door and begins sorting through his keys.
“Every man should get a welcome home like that.”
“Don’t mind me. Go about your business.”
I hug harder. His collarbone fits nicely under my cheekbone. He’s wearing a hoodie and his body feels humid and damp.
I hear him drop his gym gear into the basket. He toes off his sneakers, which seems a little bit more difficult, and he takes my bag. He presses a button on the heating control.
“Seriously, just pretend I’m not here.”
He walks us into the kitchen and bends to look in the refrigerator, making me grip tighter. He fills a glass and I press my ear to his neck to listen to him swallow.
I tighten my legs around him, and he slides a hand to my butt and squeezes it once in a friendly way. Then he gives it a slap. “Ow, what’s in your pocket?”
“Oh.” I remember now and feel like a nerd. I slither down to my feet. “It’s nothing.”
“It hurt my hand.” He pulls the lumpy shape out of my pocket and cranes to see what he’s found “It’s a Smurf. Of course. What else would you fill your pockets with? Why does it have a bow on it?”
“I have, like, ten of him. It’s Grouchy Smurf.”
“If I didn’t know how much you adore Smurfs, I’d be insulted.” His mouth quirks and I know I’ve pleased him. “So what’s with the Smurfs, anyway?”
“My dad had a regular delivery over the state line. He’d leave before dawn and be back after I went to bed. He always bought me a Smurf at the gas station on the way home.”
“So they remind you of your dad. That’s nice.”