Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(48)

Jesus, I’m having my very own morning-after Oprah “ah-hah” moment.

It was easy not to think about it before last night. To keep it light, flirty—to just go with getting to know Garrett again. But here, now, lying beside him with nothing between us but warm sheets . . . shit just got real.

I ache when I look at him. Ache to stay, ache for him to follow . . . ache to keep whatever this is between us long after the end of the school year. But does he want that too? And if he does . . . what does that even look like with Garrett in New Jersey and me in California?

Ugh . . . I need coffee. This is too much thinking without coffee.

I shimmy down the bed, under the sheets, and out the bottom. I scoop Garrett’s T-shirt up from the floor, but before I put it on . . . I smell it. Inhale deeply, practically snorting the cotton up my nostrils.

Then I open my eyes . . . to find Snoopy staring at me. He tilts his head, in that doggie way, that says—Girl, what the hell are you doing?

“Don’t judge me,” I tell him softly, then slip the shirt over my head.

Snoopy hops down off the bed, his little nails clacking on the hardwood floor. And Garrett shifts, mumbling, throwing his arm up over his head before settling back into slumber.

And God . . . even his armpit hair is arousing.

I look down at Snoopy. “Okay, you’re right . . . I have issues. Come on.”

I scoop him up because Garrett said his legs aren’t great and he has trouble with the stairs, and I carry him down to the kitchen. I let Snoopy out the back door, leaving it open, the cool morning air blowing on my legs and up Garrett’s shirt—giving me goose bumps. I fill the stainless steel coffeemaker with water and grounds and get it brewing. I check my phone, to make sure I didn’t miss any texts or calls from my parents.

By the time Snoopy returns and I pour a scoop of dry dog food from the bin into the corner bowl with his name on it, the coffee is ready. I pour myself a steaming cup, blowing gently, and gaze out the kitchen window at the golden, shining streaks of sunlight rising up on the lake and the flock of five geese in V formation flying through the morning gray sky—honking like cranky commuters in rush hour traffic.

And the whole time, one thought runs through my mind and one feeling thrums through my heart—over and over again: It would be so easy to get used to this.

I turn around to grab a mug for Garrett—and then I scream.

“Holy shit!”

Because I’ve seen one too many Children of the Corn-like horror films in my day, and there’s a pair of big brown eyes staring at me just above the counter, on the other side of the center island.

They’re Spencer’s—Garrett’s five-year-old nephew’s eyes.

“Hi!”

I press my hand to my chest as my brain conveys this information and calls off the impending heart attack.

“Hi.”

“You’re Uncle Garrett’s friend, right?”

“That’s right. I’m Callie. We met the other day at your house.”

“Yeah. Dad’s sorry he almost chopped the house down.” He shrugs. “Adults lose it sometimes; it’s no one’s fault.”

“That’s true.” I grin.

Until he peers around the counter and his little brow furrows.

“Why don’t you have pants on?”

I almost tell him adults lose their pants sometimes too—but I’m afraid that could lead down the wrong road. So I slap my forehead instead.

“I forgot to put them on!” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go do that now.”

Then I pull Garrett’s T-shirt down to make sure I’m covered and I scoot out of the kitchen. Right into Connor Daniels’s path, with his two other boys behind him.

“Hey, Callie.” His eyes graze downward, taking in my bare bottom half. He rubs his neck bashfully. “Sorry.”

“No worries!” I scurry past them, boobs jiggling because I’m not wearing a bra either. Yikes.

Garrett’s walking out of his bedroom—shirtless with black sweatpants hanging low and delicious on his hips—as I make a dive into it.

I can hear him talking to his brother and nephews downstairs as I search for my clothes.

“Sorry, Gar—I got called into the hospital and Mom wasn’t feeling so hot.”

“What’s wrong with Mom?” Garrett asks.

“Just that cold that’s going around, but I wanted to let her rest. Can the boys hang with you today?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Can we go fishing?” Brayden asks excitedly.

“Sure, buddy.”

“Your girlfriend has a nice ass.” The older one—Aaron—comments.

“Watch it,” Garrett warns.

“You would prefer I said her ass wasn’t nice?” the teenager asks.

“I’d prefer we leave her ass out of the conversation altogether.”

The opening and closing of cabinets and drawers fills the pause in conversation. Then I hear Garrett’s voice again. “Get yourself some cereal, I’ll be right back.”

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, just hooking my bra, when the bedroom door opens. Garrett walks straight to me and climbs onto the bed—onto me—pushing me back, straddling my waist, keeping his weight on his knees, holding my wrists loosely above my head and gazing down into my eyes.