She cracks up, like we’re playing some game.
“Dylan, you’re high.”
“No.” She scrambles up and stands on the couch cushions so that her head is a few inches above mine. Then she leans forward and rests her arms along my shoulders. “Now I’m high.”
The room lets out an uneasy laugh, and Dylan laughs with them. She’s so damn cute, but I don’t know how to navigate this conversation, especially not with all of these people watching me.
I take her hands and say, “Come in the kitchen with me.”
“Yes, food! I’m so hungry.”
A few more chuckles.
She climbs down and walks in front of me to the kitchen. She sways unpredictably, like her feet are heavier than the rest of her body, and she can’t seem to get all of herself to move at the same speed.
When we’re out of the room I let out a sigh of relief. She moves to the counter, still swaying, and then she hefts herself up on top of it.
“Remember when you kissed me here?”
I swallow and don’t cross to stand in front of her even though I want to.
“I do.”
“That was nice.”
I laugh. “Nice? I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, Pickle. I’m not nice.”
“You are, though. You have a nice smile. And nice arms. And your chest . . . it’s a very nice chest.”
I don’t want to like her like this, not when I know it wasn’t her choice, but I can’t help it. I like anything that makes her want me the way I want her.
“Listen, baby. You ate a brownie in the living room before I came down. It had marijuana in it, and that’s why you feel so weird right now.”
“Weird? I feel fantastic. My head is kinda heavy, but in a good way, I think? I can’t describe it but . . .” She smiles again, scrunching up her nose cutely. “I just . . . I feel so stinking good. Like happy. Are you happy?”
“I’m happy you’re here. Little worried you won’t want to be when you come down.”
“Come be happy with me.” She holds out her hands, and when I don’t budge she flails her arms a little and insists again, “Come here.”
I go. And I take her hands, determined that I won’t do anything more.
“Did you hear what I said? You’re high. There was pot in that brownie, and now you feel happy because you’re drugged.”
Her eyes go wide, and she pulls one hand out of mine to cover her hand as she laughs.
“Nooo. Really? Oh my God. Marijuana?”
She whispers it like it’s a bad word, and I assure her, “You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to seem really funny for the next hour or two, but then it should start to wear off and you’ll just be sleepy.”
“I can hear my heart beating.”
“That’s normal. It might even beat a little fast, but you’re okay. I promise.”
“Here,” she says. She lifts one of my hands up to her neck, and presses my palm flat against her throat. She swallows and says, “Can you feel it?”
I can. It’s steady and strong, if a little fast. And her skin is so damn warm. She has my hand practically wrapped around her throat, and it freaks me the hell out how much I like that. I want to push her back against that cabinet and devour that perfect mouth while I hold her there, feeling her pulse go wild against my palm.
I tear my hand back and put a few feet between us.
“Maybe I should take you home. Let you sleep this off there.”
She shakes her head hard, her hair dancing around her. “No. You can’t. My roommate will totally freak.”
“Tell me what to do that won’t make you hate me tomorrow. I don’t know how to handle this.”
“Let’s just go hang out with your friends. That’s what we were going to do anyway.”
“Are you sure? We can do whatever you want. You just tell me.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Yes.”
She spreads her legs a little and leans back against the kitchen cabinet.
“Kiss me.”
Fuck. Just . . . f**k.
“I can’t.”
God, if her lips weren’t tempting enough already, they f**king obliterate me when the lower one curls into a pout.
“Please? I feel so good, and I want to do other things that make me feel good. Kiss me.”
“If you still want that in a few hours, I’ll kiss you until you forget to breathe, but not now.”
She runs her hands up and down her thighs anxiously and presses her legs together. And God, it’s torture.
But I don’t want it to end, because I’m not sure what comes next.
I can’t kiss her. Or touch her. Or do any of the things that pouty lip is stirring in my imagination, but these might be the last moments I have with her.
And if she pulls me up, makes me better, her leaving might send me falling right back to the bottom.
But I’m going to enjoy being at the top with her while I can.
Chapter 19
Dylan
Silas makes me a sandwich, and I don’t know why that seems huge, but it does. I stand there holding the plate blinking up at him, and he’s so gorgeous.
That thought keeps popping up every few seconds like an announcement on loop.
Dear World . . . In case you missed it, Silas Moore is jaw-dropping, mind-blanking, word-fumbling gorgeous.
And he made me a sandwich.
I think that means I’m winning. At everything.
Or maybe that’s the marijuana. It makes me feel like everything I do is awesome.
Hopping off the counter? Someone give me an Olympic medal because that took talent! Walking without giggling? GENIUS. I would frame this sandwich (if sandwiches were frameable) as evidence of how amazing I am except that I’m so freaking hungry.
He asks me if I’m sure I want to go back in the living room, and I nod. I keep nodding until it gets too hard to nod and walk and carry my awesome sandwich at the same time. Everyone looks at us when we go back, but I’m having to focus so much on keeping my plate steady that I don’t care.
I do care when Silas goes to sit in the middle of the couch where the big guy had been. Because that puts him by Stella.
“Middle!” I call out. Then I put down my plate on the coffee table and squeeze past him to plop down on the middle cushion. He smiles and shakes his head at me, then sits on my other side.