Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(33)

Plus, I mean, come on—it was pretty damn epic, flattening Drew Callahan to the ground with one punch. I know I had the advantage since he hadn’t expected it, but still. I told everyone at school I knocked him out. Maybe 15 percent of them believed it happened, and I’m being generous with that figure. Everyone was skeptical.

But I know the truth.

“You should probably get to work,” she says, not sounding too thrilled by the prospect. I’m starting to think we might be on the same page more than I first realized. She points at my backpack, which I set by my feet. “Did you bring your laptop?”

“Well, yeah.” I reach down and unzip my backpack, pulling out my laptop and opening it. I bring up a Word doc and stare at the blank screen, at that damn blinking cursor I always want to sock in the face since it feels like it’s taunting me, and I start to type. I come up with something totally stupid.

Real

Open

Sexy

Extra pretty

Frowning, I delete it all. That’s Drew’s specialty, not mine. Besides, Chelsea’s not that open with me. Not yet.

So I try a different approach.

Prickly with thorns, pretty little rose.

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“So? What did you write?”

Her voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance up, startled to find her watching me, her expression open and hopeful. She’s got her elbow propped on the edge of the table, her chin resting on her fist, and she looks freaking gorgeous. Her pretty blue eyes sparkle like a clear summer sky and … yep, I see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wonder how many there are. I wonder if she’d let me get close enough to count them.

“I really hope you came up with something good. You’ve been working on it for almost a half hour,” she says.

“I have?” I’m shocked as I glance down at the clock on my computer screen to see that she’s right. “Uh … yeah, I came up with something. It’s sort of rough, though. Like, it still needs a lot of work.” More like I need to change the entire thing.

The poem is about sex. As in, I’m talking about fingering Chelsea and making her come.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

You want her. That’s what’s wrong with you.

“Can I read it?” She scoots her chair closer to mine, trying to catch a glimpse of the poem. I immediately slam the laptop shut and she rears back, her tempting mouth turned down in a frown. “Guess that’s a no.”

“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”

“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.

“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”

“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”

“What?” Her jaw drops open and this time she does tug her hand out of mine, almost recoiling. Reminding me of that flower I described at the beginning of my poem. The one I had to gently coax open. “What do you mean?”

“Are you doing anything after this? Do you have to work later tonight?” I hate that stupid job she has at the diner. It makes me worry about her.

She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m off tonight. Though I do have a paper I should start on.”

“When’s it due?” If she turns me down, I’m not asking her out again. A guy can take only so much humiliation, and I hadn’t been lying to Fable when I told her I thought I was beneath Chelsea. Her refusal would only prove my point.

“Right before Thanksgiving break,” she admits, and I chuckle.

“Chels. That’s weeks away,” I point out.

“I know. I just like to think ahead and be prepared.” Her voice drifts and she glances down, lifting that one bare shoulder, the one I’m dying to touch. Trace the pale pink lace of her bra, slip my finger beneath it and slowly tug the strap down her arm. “You think I’m a freak.”

“No, I think you’re kind of mean.” She lifts her head, her eyes so wide they look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “You’re leaving me hanging here, Chels. You want to do something with me tonight or what?”

“Oh.” She blinks at me again and leans back against her chair. “Are you asking me out on a date?”