Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(32)
Trevor Metcalfe wants to kiss me.
? chapter twelve
MY MIND IS fuzzy static.
I can neither do nor think of anything but the quickened pace of my breath and the dizzying way Trevor has pinned me in place with just one look.
Instinctively, I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip. Electricity courses between us in wavy cartoon lines. The mental barrier I’ve placed to convince myself he is not my type has vanished into a poof of swirling black and purple smoke.
I don’t know if it’s the liquid courage, the fact that my date with Brandon went sideways, or the steam from the hot tub, but I do the unthinkable. I inch closer, pressing my arm flat against his. Close enough that his face blurs entirely. He doesn’t move, allowing the radiating heat of our labored breath to collide and pass through each other, in and out.
My heart thrashes wildly, and I’m convinced I can hear his too, syncing with mine in a tangled, pulsing rhythm. Encouraged by the comfort of our proximity, I position my head just so, for the perfect alignment of our lips. He holds himself there, tentative, the tip of his nose grazing mine like a whisper.
I ache for him to put me out of my misery, close that millimeter of desperate air, and brush his soft lips against mine.
But instead, his eyes snap open, wide with fear as I approach. He’s on his feet faster than the Flash, dodging me like I’m a toothless sex predator.
He rakes his hair haphazardly, wobbly in his footing. “Uh, I should get to bed. Early shift tomorrow.” His gaze is glued to the floor as he careens down the hallway, bolting for his bedroom.
If I were a normal person, I’d shake the whole thing off and yell a casual “Goodnight,” like absolutely nothing happened. But when I move my lips, nothing comes out. My body is like my college PC laptop I never shut down. Loud. Disruptive fan. Overheating when more than two tabs are open simultaneously. Powering down at the most inconvenient of times.
I’m rigor mortis as the stranglehold of humiliation prevents me from doing anything but wish for a swift, painless death.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—AWKWARD KISSES
[Tara wears an ill-fitted fluorescent workout top and messy bun. She lies on a red mat at the gym. Unlike the patrons in the background, she is not doing physical activity.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about kissing. Now, there are a lot of awkward kisses in books and film. Usually, I’m here for them either way. But one thing I’ll never get on board with? Kissing in the rain. Sure, the allure of a passionate, wet lip-lock may be what some consider spontaneous. Marginally sexy, even. Nature makes people do weird shit. But is the short-lived thrill worth resembling a drowned sewer rat and getting pneumonia? Unlikely.
And even worse than rain kisses are upside-down, Spiderman-style kisses. Who does this? Are the mechanics of a normal, upright kiss not stressful enough? I have a hard enough time deciding if I’m going right or left or if I’m top-or bottom-lip heavy.
Have you ever experienced an awkward kiss that made you want to dissolve into dust and nothingness? Tell me about it in the comments below!
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? ? ?
FROM THE SWEAT raining down my face, one would presume I’ve been waterboarded by a hostile government or murderous terrorist group.
Nope. I’m just here in my own special little ring of hell, sweating out my regret in Crystal’s Muscle Fit class with twenty other red-faced patrons. In the last few months, she started teaching in-person classes at the gym, which are in such high demand, people book weeks in advance.
Crystal observes my poor biceps curl form like a drill sergeant. “Keep engaging your core. Just ten more seconds and we’re done,” she instructs in her encouraging-trainer voice.
Beside me, Mel is holding strong in those last few curls, barely breaking a sweat.
Beads of salty, alcohol-infused sweat seep past my lash line, stinging my eyeballs. I’m now half-blind, and the pop tune blasting over the sound system certainly isn’t doing much for my stamina. When my sweaty fingers lose their grip on the barbell, I know it’s game over. It lands with a thud at my feet, turning the heads of the other ladies in class.
Mel hands me my water bottle, and I refrain from dousing myself like a heroic Olympic decathlete crossing the finish line to victory. I’ve never sweat so much in my life. This can’t be normal, or healthy.
I’d do unspeakable things for a shower right now—preferably the type where I’d do nothing but stand there in the steam, critically evaluating my life decisions, letting the water wash away the glaring memory of the dumpster fire that was last night.
Being turned down by two separate men in the span of two hours is a first—with the exception of New Year’s Eve circa ninth grade, when, drunk off two wine coolers, I valiantly confessed my love for not one but two crushes while rocking a distressed-denim vest.
But at least teenaged me wasn’t stuck in a tiny, eight-hundred-fifty-square-foot apartment with them. Avoiding Trevor Metcalfe, my off-limits roommate whose bedroom is a mere five feet from mine, is not so simple.
I haven’t seen him since last night, after he lurched away from me like I was an ailing troll. Immediately, I hauled ass to bed before I could make matters worse. By the time I woke up this morning, Trevor was long gone for his early shift.