More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(24)

“Not if you don’t. Though I can’t guarantee I won’t spill anything.”

He smiles, and it’s breathtaking. He just doesn’t do it enough, I swear. “I’m not scared.”

I bet he’s not.

Jordan pays and grabs our food, handing me the bags and my drink. I take a sip and set it in the drink holder in the center console, quiet as he pulls out of the parking lot and starts driving farther away from school. I don’t know where he’s taking us, and I don’t want to ask. I also don’t want to freak out, but the farther we get, the longer it’ll take for us to return to campus. And I don’t want to be late to fifth period.

Finally, he pulls into a parking lot of a small neighborhood park. It’s been around for a while, you can tell by all the tall trees and the worn out playground, but it’s quiet and mostly empty. He parks the car in the shade and shuts off the engine, the sound of the satellite radio playing softly in the background.

I divvy out the food, giving him his burger and fries, trying to keep myself busy. I’m nervous. My hands are shaking and my appetite left me the moment I took hold of those bags, despite the delicious smell wafting from them. With grim determination I pull out my burger and stare at it, wondering how I’m going to choke this down.

It’s so frustrating, how he affects me. How I let him affect me. I shouldn’t give him so much power.

“It won’t bite you,” he says softly, and I jerk my head toward him, the amused look on his face making me feel dumb. “I thought you were hungry.”

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.” Well, I didn’t actually say it out loud. I only shook my head.

“I heard your stomach growl.”

Ugh. My cheeks grow hot. “I’m not hungry anymore,” I mutter.

“Why not?” He takes a bite of his cheeseburger, and I don’t know how he does it, but he makes even that sexy.

What can I say to him? Can I tell him the truth?

You make me nervous. You make me self-conscious. What if I get sauce on my chin? What if I drip ketchup on my shirt? What if I take a drink of my Coke and slurp on the straw by accident? What if you watch me eat and think it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen in your life?

These are the silly things that go through my head in Tuttle’s presence.

“Hey.” My eyes snap up to meet his and I realize he’s holding a fry in front of my face. “Eat this.” And then he feeds it to me. I open my mouth like a baby bird and he drops the fry inside, his thumb brushing against my lower lip. His eyes smolder and he goes still as I slowly chew the fry and swallow it.

The tension grows between us, until it feels like a living, breathing thing sitting in the car with us. All over a fry. All over his thumb barely grazing my lip. He’s staring at my mouth now as he sips from his drink, and of course my gaze goes to his lips wrapped around that straw.

All of a sudden I’m ravenous. I grab my burger and bite into it, not caring if I look like a slob or not. The burger tastes delicious and I take another bite, catching him watching me out of the corner of my eye.

“What?” I ask when he doesn’t look away.

“Why do we keep doing this?”

I take a sip of my drink. “Doing what?”

“Playing this game. Pretending we hate each other when we don’t.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I definitely don’t hate you either.”

“But I don’t want to be with you.”

He raises a brow. Remains quiet.

Ugh.

“I don’t,” I reiterate.

Somehow the brow rises higher. How does he do that? He said about a billion words with that one gesture.

“It won’t work.” I look away from him. It’ll be easier to say these things if I don’t have to see his gorgeous face. “You’re you and I’m me and we’re not a match. I’ll be insecure and you’ll get tired of my clingy ways and break up with me immediately. Then I’ll be devastated and pissed at myself because I knew it was a bad idea, being with you.”

“You’re not clingy.”

I whirl on him, irritated that he…actually complimented me. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“How?” I ask again. “You don’t know me. We’ve never really gone out. We go to a few of the same parties and always end up together, but we’re never really doing anything.”

“Oh, we’ve done a few things.” His suggestive tone makes my entire body go hot. With irritation.

With…hmmm…desire? Is that the right word?

I also want to hit him. Seriously. What is up with me lately with the violent tendencies?

“Nothing serious,” I mumble, keeping my head bent. I need to stick with the don’t-look-at-Tuttle plan. It’s easier to say things when I don’t have to see him. I should’ve never gotten into his car.

He exhales loudly and resumes eating. I can tell because every few seconds his hand rustles around in the bag, grabbing fries. Or he takes a sip of his drink. Eventually I start eating too, and we remain quiet. It’s not a comfortable silence, though. Not even close. It’s tension-filled and edgy and it makes me uneasy. I can feel the irritation and frustration radiating from his body, and I decide to talk about something safe.