Page 25

The screen is still open to Caleb, the hottie water polo player’s profile page. His eyebrow raises and he sets those green eyes on me. “You were about to cave, too.” I dive for the phone, but he gets it before I do, reading the profile out loud. “Caleb Bower. Wittmore sophomore. Likes dogs, working out, and–”

I snatch the phone from him and close the screen. “Axel! Oh my god! What if you swiped right?”

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t going to do that before I interrupted you.”

“No, I wasn’t.” The lie comes out in a hiss. “I was watching TV and bored. That’s all. No caving.”

The look he gives me makes it clear he doesn’t believe me, but it doesn’t stop him from adding, “I just don’t need to be alone right now. Can I hang for a bit?”

Being alone together proved to be a problem last time. It escalated quickly, from sitting on this very couch to a sex-a-thon in the bedroom. But he looks pretty pathetic and being alone sucks. I hate it too. “Fine. You can stay and watch TV with me, but you’re sitting over there,” I point to the armchair, “and I need you to promise you won’t hit on me.”

Because my willpower is only so strong.

“Sure,” he says, rising and moving to the armchair. He shrugs out of his jacket, revealing a faded, tight gray T-shirt that clings to his chest. “So what are we watching?”

I grab the remote and a blanket and settle back on the couch, placing my phone on the flat arm. “Springfield.”

“Like the town? Or the rock star?”

“It’s the name of the town where they live. It’s my favorite show from when I was in middle and high school.” It’s a teen soap opera about a bunch of high school kids as they learn about friendship and first love. Of course, there’s a ton of heartbreak, scandal, and drama too. Axel still looks confused. “You never watched it?”

Everyone our age watched Springfield. It’s a classic and launched the careers of half a dozen stars.

“Was it on cable?” he asks.

“Yeah. Every Sunday night.”

He lifts his chin. “Well there you go. We didn’t have cable growing up, and we were always busy on Sunday nights.”

“Busy with what?” I ask.

“Obligations with my dad’s job.” He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and crosses them at the ankle. “So give me the gist of this TV show.”

I start to explain it when my phone buzzes. We both look over. I won’t lie, I’m hoping it’s Caleb, but it’s just a notification to take my vitamin before bed.

“You know, if you want to hook-up with a guy with a six pack,” Axel lifts up his shirt, revealing the muscle cut into his abdomen, “you’ve got my number.”

“Actually, I don’t.” I roll my eyes and force them back on the screen where Jen and Brock are flirting by their lockers. “Want to hook-uporhave your number.”

He grabs my phone, that hasn’t locked since the notification came in, and goes to my contacts.

“There,” he says, once he’s added his in.

“I wasn’t looking for a hook-up,” I remind him. “And I’m definitely not calling you when I’m feeling horny.”

He grins. “So youwerehorny?”

“I wasbored.”

And lonely. And yeah, a little horny. But mostly I was trying to keep myself from calling up Brent and making an even bigger mistake.

“Why not?”

I frown. “Why not what?”

“Why won’t you call me?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m hot. You’re hot. We’re clearly compatible sexually. We can scratch each other’s itches.”

“Because,” I rub my temples. Is he always this infuriating to talk to? “I’m not chasing jerseys anymore.”