Proving Paul's Promise(16)

“Nothing is always something in girl code,” he says. He smells like Michelob Light and Paul.

“What girl code is this of which you speak?” I ask.

“The one where you’re right and I’m wrong no matter how we look at it.” He grins. “Talk to me, Friday.” He leans closer, and his lips touch the shell of my ear. “What did I do wrong?”

I grunt and cross my arms.

“That’s it, then,” he says. “You forced me to do it.”

He stands up, stretches, and cracks his knuckles.

“Forced you to do what?” I ask.

“To take matters into my own hands,” he says. He reaches down and scoops me up in his arms.

“Paul!” I screech. “Put me down! Right now!” But all I can really do is grab his neck because he’s moving faster than I thought possible.

“The drawer!” his brothers all cry at once. They’re laughing like hell and high-fiving one another.

“Fuck the drawer,” he says.

“What drawer?” I ask. I am so confused.

“The drawer!” they yell, all pointing toward it. He stops and looks back at them.

“We’re just going to talk. Where the f*ck do you think I’m going to put it?” he asks. “On my tongue?”

Pete looks at Sam and shrugs. “I’ve heard dumber ideas,” he says.

“Seems like overkill to me,” Sam replies. He shrugs, too.

Paul shakes his head and bumps his door open with his shoulder.

“That’s what they all say,” Matt calls. “Get a condom out of the drawer!”

“You have a condom drawer?” I ask.

“In the kitchen, yes.”

I must look dumbfounded because he goes on to explain.

“I raised four teenaged boys. I had to be creative about getting condoms in their hands. And on their dicks.”

Paul sets me down gently on his bed. Then he turns around and closes and locks his door behind us. “Let me out of here,” I grit out. I scurry across the bed like a crab.

“Not until you talk to me.” He starts to pace from one side of the room to another.

“I can’t f*cking believe you brought me in here right after you brought her in here,” I bite out. “Of all the f*cking nerve, Paul Reed.” I stand up and brush the hair from my forehead. “If you think you’re going to get me between your dirty f*cking sheets, you have another think coming!” I point my finger at him. “Fuck you, Paul.” My breaths are heaving as though I ran a five-minute mile. He comes forward and traps my wrists in his fists. He’s strong. I knew it, but I have never really felt it. He holds me tightly.

“I didn’t f*ck her,” he says. He jerks me gently, which makes me fall into him. “Look at me,” he says. He’s still holding my wrists, with my front plastered against his.

“I don’t want to,” I pout.

He chuckles, so I try to strike out at him, but he still holds my wrists. I could get free if I wanted to. I know that much about him. But I really don’t want to. Mainly because I’m starting to think my perception of what happened was wrong.

“Stop laughing,” I say.

“I didn’t f*ck her. She wanted to read me the riot act because she was jealous. That’s all. We talked. She sniffled a couple of times, and I hugged her. That’s it.”

“Then why were you pulling on a new shirt?”

“Because Hayley smeared my other one with icing.”

“Kelly was jealous?” I ask. My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. But the tight fist of my own jealousy that was wrapped around my heart eases a little bit.

“She was.”

“Why?” My voice is still small.

“Apparently, when I had my head on your knee, I looked peaceful.”

“You felt peaceful,” I murmur.

“Yes, I did,” he says. “I like having you close to me. I like it a lot.” He heaves in a sigh and says on an exhale, “Probably more than I should.”

“I like it, too,” I say.

He lets my wrists go and brackets my face with his hands. He tips my chin up with gentle thumbs and looks into my eyes. His are blue, so blue they’re almost gray. They’re like a cool pond on a hot summer day. I could fall into them and stay there forever.

His breath brushes across my lips. “I really like you,” he says.

I grab his wrists this time, because if I don’t hold on to something I’ll fall over. My knees never wobble like this. “I like you, too,” I whisper again. I look from his eyes to his mouth and back, hoping he’ll just shut up and kiss me.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“I don’t trust anyone,” I admit.

“Why not?” His thumbs sweep back and forth over my cheeks.

“Because most people aren’t trustworthy.” My gut clenches when his eyes flash. That leaves him with questions, and they’re not questions I want to answer.

“Will you tell me the story about why you feel that way sometime when we’re alone?” he asks. He’s still staring into my eyes.

“Probably not.”

He chuckles.

“Paul,” I say quietly.

“What?” he whispers back.