Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(10)

Sounds like torture.

I let my mind float. I think of Mom and how she wants me to come home. She misses me. I’m her only child and she’s super lonely. Her friends don’t come around much now that she’s in Concord and Dad is in jail. She’s got no one. She likes to tell me that every time we talk. No one but me.

But I can’t afford to go visit her whenever she wants me to and I want to save up for Thanksgiving, when I have a week off. That makes more sense. Somehow, I need to convince her of that.

But how am I going to get a week off from my job at the diner? The tutoring comes to a stop because it’s school break, but it will still be busy at the diner. I haven’t even dared ask my boss for any time off yet, which is dumb. I need to prepare early. I need to stop being such a chicken …

I need to stop thinking about boys with pretty green eyes who think I’m a joke. I saw the amusement in his gaze at the diner. He probably laughed about me with his friends when they left. They might have asked who I was, and I bet he said she’s nobody.

Nobody.

I’ve always been nobody.

Why can’t I be someone’s somebody? I’m lying to myself when I say I’d rather be asexual or a lesbian or whatever other silly scheme I come up with. I want a boy with a sexy walk and glittering green eyes to like me. I want him to whisper sweet words in my ear that make me shiver. I want him to touch me. I want to know what it feels like to be cherished. Just once …

“Hey.”

I recognize him, recognize that one softly spoken word. Look at how he even haunts my dreams. His deep, rumbly voice moves through me, making me tingle, and I let loose a soft sigh. A sigh that turns into a barely there whimper when he touches my hair, his fingers tangled in the strands.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” His tone is tinged with amusement, and I realize I’m not dreaming.

His voice is real. His fingers in my hair are … real.

Crap.

I lift my head and blink my eyes open to find him standing right above me, a smile curving his lips, his hand nowhere near my hair. Did I imagine that? “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet you here, remember?” He peers down at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

“What time is it?” I push the hair out of my eyes, my vision fuzzy, my head foggy. I must have really fallen asleep.

“Six fifteen. For once, I’m right on time.” His smile grows and he leans his hip against the table. “I figured you’d appreciate that.”

He showed up on time to please me. And guess what? It does please me, more than it should. I’m such an easy target. “I fell asleep.”

“Clearly.”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t usually do that.”

“Maybe you should more often. I think you were sleeping pretty hard.”

Wariness fills me and I stiffen my spine. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you have crease marks on your cheek.” He reaches out and traces them, his fingertips so light on my skin a shiver steals through me.

I cannot believe he touched me.

His hand drops and he pulls out the chair next to mine, settling in it like he belongs there. He’s not sitting across from me the way I usually meet with my students; he’s right next to me and I can feel his warmth, smell his intoxicating scent. Like smoke and spice, fresh air and crisp apples. He smells like fall.

Fall has always been my favorite season.

“You have those assignments?”

His question knocks me out of my distracted state and I pull a folder from the pile I have stacked beside me, the one that’s labeled Maguire, Owen. I flip it open and hand him the sheet of paper I copied for him earlier. It lists all the assignments he’s missed so far and the ones he’s completed, which aren’t many. “Here you go.”

The paper lands in front of him and he studies it, his brows crinkled with concentration, his lips pressed together. I stare at him unabashedly because I can. As though maybe I’m supposed to, because hey, I’m his tutor. I need to watch over him and make sure he understands what’s going on, right?

“Can I make up the tests?” His deep voice wraps around me, making me warm, and I nod, staring into his dreamy eyes.

“Yes.”

He keeps staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to say something else, and I realize I do have more I need to say.

“You must finish the assignments leading up to the three tests you’ve missed first.” Leaning over, I point at the four assignments he missed that are listed before the first test. “So you turn those in, then you can complete the test.”

“What about these?” His index finger joins mine on the sheet of paper, tapping on the missing work just below the first test, his finger almost but not quite brushing mine.

I hold my breath, count to five. My insides are a fluttering, riotous mess, all because our fingers are close to each other on a piece of paper. “Same thing. Turn in the work, then take the test.” I sound all breathy and girlish. Like I’m trying to flirt, which I’m not.

Owen Maguire just puts me into a breathless, girlish state.

“Mmm-hmm.” He glances back up at me and our gazes meet. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead and I want to push it back. Test its softness. Why is he looking at me like that? There’s no amusement, no mocking, no anger in his gaze. He’s looking at me as if he might … like me.