Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(68)

“You’re a biter?” He pretends to recoil to his side of the couch.

I peel my eyes from the television to shoot him my best faux-evil look. “It’s my secret weapon.”

“That’s officially my new favorite thing about you.” When he beams at me, I have to avert my gaze back to much less desirable Wyatt on the TV. I couldn’t look into Trevor’s eyes and not feel a little something. One more second of eye contact and my poor little soul would shrivel, unable to cope with the beauty.

“You have other favorite things?” I pry.

“Oh yeah.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate. He’s too distracted by sexy grade school teacher Mona, his favorite Bachelor contestant.

After many beats of cruel silence, Trevor shifts his attention back to me when the host moseys into the mansion to give Wyatt a pointless heart-to-heart. “You must have really liked Daniel to bite another girl.”

“He was my best friend. Ever. In the whole world.”

“Umm, ouch. I’m sitting right here.” He folds a hand over his heart and pretends to wince in pain. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“I didn’t realize we’d advanced to that level. Am I your best friend?”

“Maybe. You know all my secrets now. Most of them, at least.”

I don’t respond. I’m plagued with far too many feelings over this statement. On the one hand, I’m mush. Being labeled as Trevor Metcalfe’s best friend is the highest of compliments. On the other hand, the only thing more unromantic than friend status is best friend status.

He’s still watching me. “If your best friend Daniel hadn’t moved, do you think you’d have dated?”

“A hundred percent. I was in love with him . . . though to be fair, I was in love with all the boys in my class. But no one topped him.”

Trevor smiles lazily. “Think you’ll go back to try another run-in?”

“For sure.” I have no specific plans to stage another run-in, but the gala is in a week. I need to figure something out. “I just hope he remembers me.”

“He will.”

Through the rose ceremony, Trevor sinks horizontally on the couch, unexpectedly resting his head in my lap. I’m frozen as he adjusts the weight of his head evenly over my thighs. My senses magnify. I’m all too aware of the rhythm of his breath, a few beats slower than my own. The poke of his hair through the fabric of my flannel pajama bottoms. The delectable yet not overpowering smell of his aftershave.

My fingers twitch, unsure what to do with my hands. Do I keep them like noodles at my sides? Rest one hand on his hard, impeccably honed pectorals? Give him a head massage? Cradle his head and sing him to sleep like any perfectly normal best friend would do?

I make the safe decision to keep my hands to myself.

He doesn’t even bat an eye when I make the executive decision to put on Tangled.

Throughout the majority of the movie, Trevor is the only one paying attention. My mind is a rush-hour traffic jam during the winter’s worst snowstorm. Hurried thoughts collide and cut each other off. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch was nerve-inducing enough, but this up close and personal view of his face is hazardous. Having feelings for Trevor Metcalfe is like driving in the opposite lane on a busy freeway as oncoming traffic barrels toward you.

When Tangled ends, he peers up at me through the dense forest of his lashes. I take in the perfect slope of his nose. The mixture of dark and light stubble along his defined jaw. The little half-inch scar over his left eyebrow, which I know he sustained falling face-first into a coffee table at age five. Even through the darkness, the TV light casts a reflection off his eyes, making them shine like crackling sparks in the wildfire raging through me.

“Tangled wasn’t awful,” he admits.

“Are you telling me you actually liked a Disney movie?”

“I didn’t mind Flynn Rider. He was cool.”

“See? I told you he wasn’t off-brand. You should be happy I assigned you him and not . . . the Beast.”

He chuckles softly. “This was fun.”

“Yeah. Beats lying here alone in the dark, self-loathing.”

He makes a tsk sound and frowns up at me. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. There is absolutely nothing about you to loathe.”

“It’s actually healthier than it sounds—getting real with myself. Having cathartic cries every now and then. My therapist highly recommended it.” I work down a swallow, nearly crossing into the spirit world when he runs his index finger over my knee, catching a piece of lint.

“You see a therapist?” he asks.

“I used to see one on and off since high school. Her name was Wendy. I called her my breakup therapist. My mom forced me to see her after Cody dumped me. I was inconsolable in my room for weeks, and no one knew what to do with me. I’d see her every time my life went off the rails. Went back recently after my split with Seth, but she retired last spring. I haven’t tried anyone new since.”

He presses his cheek against my thigh. “You should. Spilling your guts on the regular seems like it would be healthy for you.”

“Probably. I’d recommend therapy for anyone, actually.” I absentmindedly pat down the section of his hair that’s sticking out. Working my fingers through his dense, silky mane shouldn’t feel so comfortable, so ritualistic, like I’ve done it a million times before.