The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(49)

She pauses for a second, but then carries on with her stirring, whisking at something in a pan.

God, she’s something else. I can’t bear how fucking beautiful she is. It cuts me down to the quick. I don’t even hide the fact that I’m staring at her. I’m never going to hide that she fascinates me, not ever again. “Good morning.” I can hear the amusement in my tone as I prop myself up against the kitchen’s door jamb. Stands to reason, since I’m highly entertained by the way today has started out—the two of us, together, in the middle of nowhere, alone. Feels fucking strange.

Aside from last night, we’ve never been alone like this. There have always been plenty of people within shouting distance. Other students. A teacher. Silver’s father. Here, there’s only me. Only her. She takes her sweet time turning around, and I can barely wait to see her face. God, I’m turning into such a fucking lovesick asshole puppy, I’m almost making myself sick. If Monty could hear me now, he’d drive his hand between my fucking legs, grab hard and squeeze, just to make sure my balls were still hanging there.

She's not wearing any make-up. Her eyes are bright and filled with nervousness, but the reckless grin she fires at me tells me that she's not going to kneel to her own apprehension today. “I'm making French toast and Crème Anglais,” she informs me. “Though you're probably a bacon and eggs guy. Scratch that. You probably down a quart of engine grease for breakfast, don't you?”

I smile, scrubbing a hand through my hair, trying to make it lie flat. I know it won’t, it never does, but it’s worth a shot. From the crooked smile and the hiked-up eyebrows, Silver’s not too sure about my crazy bedhead look. She prods a whisk in my direction. “You can eat, but then you need to leave. My parents will flip if they find a guy up here.”

I try not to notice the fact that she isn't wearing a bra and her nipples are peaked beneath the material of her shirt, but I am a guy, so that's basically impossible. My poker face is unrivaled, though. “Fair enough,” I tell her.

She looks deflated. “Fair enough?”

“Yeah. I plan on claiming most of your spare time, Silver. I don't want your parents ready to run me through with a pitchfork on day one.”

“I thought you might put up a bit of a fight.”

I give her a devilish smirk. It’s fucked up how easy it is to change gear on her. Stalking into the kitchen, I approach her, keeping my thoughts from my face. Still, I’m cautious as I place my hands on her hips. “You want me to put up a fight? You got it. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you until Monday night. And when we go back to Raleigh, I’m going to kidnap you, and have you sleep at my place. I’m keeping you for myself, Silver. I’m never letting you out of my fucking sight. Don’t bother arguing. You’ll only be wasting your breath.”

She stares up at me with unfocused eyes, her lips slightly parted. Neither of us has commented on the fact that the whisk she's still holding in her hand is dripping some kind of yellow liquid onto the cracked linoleum floor.

“Uhhh. Okay,” she says on an exhale. “Fine.”

It’s my turn to repeat her. “Fine?”

A quick nod. “Sure. I mean…” She shrugs. “What my parents don’t know won’t kill them. And my dad liked you for some reason, even though you showed up at the house uninvited.”

Slowly, I lean down and kiss her. It's the lightest kind of kiss, the barest suggestion of one, our lips hardly making contact, but it seems to have a wild effect on Silver. Her eyes dance, alive and feverish. “Seems I have a bad habit of showing up uninvited,” I say.

“Are you handling me like I’m a china doll now?” she asks. “You can kiss me properly. I won’t break because of a kiss.”

I run the tip of my index finger lightly over her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, over the biteable swell of her lips, and then trail all the way underneath her chin and down the slope of her neck until I reach her collar bone. I've wanted to touch her so many fucking times in abstract, weird ways like this. She stands still, patient, maybe a little tense, as I stroke the pad of my finger into the small hollow at the base of her neck. I pull my hand away. “There are people out there who poison themselves on purpose,” I tell her. “Small doses, every day.”

She’s quick—doesn’t need me to explain how this piece of information is relevant to our situation. “You think I’m going to build up a tolerance to you? If you feed me small sips of you? You’re not poison.”

I nod, wetting my bottom lip, my eyes roving hungrily over her face. “Yes. I am poison. And yeah. I’m a staunch advocate for too much too quick. That’s always been my M.O. but I’m willing to develop an iron will in patience to make sure I don’t fuck this up.”

She crooks an eyebrow at me, and I mirror her expression, making her smile.

Fuck. Me. Dead.

I made her smile.

This is the first time I've made her anything other than angry, and the rush of emotion, seeing her turn that smile on me like I fucking deserve it or something, feels like a kick to the gut. God, how am I ever going to be worthy of this girl? I have no clue, but I'm gonna figure it out if it kills me.

“I had a dream,” she says quietly. It’s a shy admission, which looks damn cute on her. “I dreamed we were somewhere warm. Together. In the sun.”