Undecided(102)

He smacks my ass. “Just you wait.”

He leads me inside and up the stairs to his room, unlocking the door and trailing me in. If I was expecting rose petals and mood music, I’d have been sorely disappointed. It’s exactly the same as it always is, right down to the corner of the Hustler sticking out of his pillowcase.

“Here,” he says, grabbing a pair of my sweatpants from the back of his chair and tossing them to me. “Put these on.”

I frown. “I feel like this is going the opposite of how I pictured it.”

“Patience, grasshopper. I have a point.”

“Let’s hope so. You know I like to sleep in these pants. You’ve got about five minutes before I crash.”

He laughs. “I’ll make it fast. Get changed and I’ll be right back.” He hurries out of the room and I hear him run down the stairs as I tug on the sweats over my tights. I hadn’t taken off my jacket and since he hadn’t either, I leave mine on, wondering what, exactly, the plan is.

I find out seconds later when he returns with a bouquet of roses. “Ta-da!” he crows, whipping the flowers out from behind his back.

“Seriously? We said we weren’t going to do anything!”

“What’s the point of having all these holidays together—even fake ones—if we don’t celebrate properly?”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the bouquet and inhaling. “They’re beautiful.”

He winks at me. “You’re beautiful. Now put those down and come on.” He opens the window and the sweats start to make sense. I set the flowers on the bed and crawl outside, Crosbie right behind me. There’s a blanket on the roof and we sit in the middle and curl the sides over our legs. Unlike Halloween, there’s no one milling around the front lawn, no space between us, no attempt to find each other a perfect someone else.

“This is sweet,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder.

“There are maybe five nights a year this place is quiet,” Crosbie replies. “This is one of them. Lie back.”

We recline, his arm around my shoulders, my cheek on his chest. The stars are out in full force, and for a long minute we just watch them. Not even the February chill can penetrate our lovely little fog.

“You take any astronomy courses last year?” Crosbie asks.

“No. You?”

“No. I don’t know what the hell we’re looking at.” He fumbles in his jacket for something. “But I do know this.” He passes me a manila envelope and watches as I open it, pulling out a piece of heavyweight paper with fancy script printed across the top. It’s a Star Certificate, complete with coordinates for where new star Nora Kincaid can be found, and stamped with an official gold seal.

“Crosbie,” I mumble, touched. “You…”

“I gave it some thought,” he says, “and I know how desperate you are for attention. Now you’re a star.”

I shake my head. “You do the sweetest things. And then you ruin them by talking.”

I feel his chest rumble as he laughs. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I moan. “My gift is not going to compare to this.” We weren’t supposed to get presents, so I’d only picked up something as a gag.

He lifts his head to peer down at me. “No? What is it?”

“A new copy of Hustler and then…some sex?”

“Both are acceptable,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Also, ‘new copy of Hustler’ implies I have an old copy, and I think we both know I don’t.”

“My mistake.”

He sits up. “All right. Let’s go inside and start knocking boots.”

I sit up too. “You’re so romantic.”

He grins at me, sexy and unapologetic and everything I never knew I wanted. “The last time we were up here, I desperately wanted to kiss you,” he says, surprising me. “I’d wanted to for a long time, and this seemed like the perfect place. Then the next thing I know I’m pointing out guys for you to hook up with—”

“You suggested absolute losers.”

“Yeah, well, I have my methods. Now look around.”

I study the empty street, the dark houses, all the parties hosted at sororities on the other side of campus. There are no cars, no people, no distractions.

“What am I seeing?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies. “You see what you want to see, and sometimes you see what I want you to see.”

“We’re probably on the same page with this one.”

“We both want you to see me,” he confirms.

I stroke his bicep. “How could I not see you? With all these huge muscles…” I sling a leg across his thighs and slide a hand under his jacket, over his stomach. “And this six pack…”

“It’s an eight-pack,” he mutters, eyes sliding shut.

“And this adorable messy hair…”

“Don’t ruin it with the wrong adjectives.”

“Fine, no more compliments. Just facts. I love you, Crosbie Lucas.”

“I love you too,” he replies. He smiles and opens his eyes, his gaze trailing over my temple, my brows, my nose, my mouth, my chin. Just looking at me.

Seeing me.