Page 4
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.
The internal mantra doesn’t matter when I feel a deep warmth spread over my face.
Stupid cheeks. Stupid fucking cheeks.
Despite the obvious non-verbal answer, I still choose to lie. As if I can save my ass. As if he’s so dumb, he won’t know any better.
I casually lift my shoulders and aim for a bored look. “Like I said, I was a dumb kid who didn’t know any better.”
“Mmm hmm.” The smirk painting his face not only tells me he doesn’t believe a word I say, but he’s enjoying the front-row seat of watching me die a slow, painful death of humiliation. Asshole.
“I was twelve,” I scoff, leaving out the fact my crush started a year or two earlier. “I was just coming out of the boys have cooties phase.”
Dash’s nose scrunches and his lips pull into a frown. “Twelve? Shit, Mitchell, how old are you?”
“Hey, you’re never supposed to ask a lady her age.”
“Good thing you’re not a lady,” he easily tosses back.
“Twenty-one,” I answer, smiling at the recent memory of taking too many shots only to hurl everything back up at the end of the night. “I was twelve – a seventh grader – when I watched you win your third straight state title.”
“So, wait,” Dash ponders, squinting an eye thoughtfully. “If you were there, that means you ran your first state meet earlier in the day, right? Because I know you went to state six times.”
“Yeah, that was my first state meet.”
“Wait, a second.” His ocean blue eyes grow wide with surprise and excitement. “You were the seventh grader who finished fourteenth!”
I nod, sliding my fork around the near empty skillet to scoop up the last bits of hashbrowns hidden under the biscuits and gravy.
A few lines wrinkle his forehead as his mind searches for a familiar face to connect the informational tidbit.
“Come on,” I tease with a snicker. “You got this, old man. It’s been what? A couple of decades?”
“No.” Dash scowls before suddenly lighting up, snapping his fingers, and pointing at me. “I remember you!”
His enthusiasm for remembering minor specifics on a chaotic and significant day for him amuses me too much that I don’t care that he’ll remember a skinny 12-year-old geek with glasses and braces.
“You were the ner… nervous. You looked nervous,” he stammers suddenly, slumping a bit with a sheepish smile.
I wonder if he remembered he has three sisters who probably wouldn't be thrilled to be teased about their looks. Especially during the awkward periods. Because I highly doubt Dash went through one when he was younger.
“I was a nerd, Dash,” I admit, setting the utensils inside the empty dish. “I had braces and glasses and skinny legs.”
“Yeah, but now look at you, you’re all se...secretary-ish,” he stumbles awkwardly.
Secretary-ish? What the hell does that mean?
With brows knitted together, I shoot him a quizzical look for an explanation. But then I notice a pink tinge slowly warming his tanned cheeks. His gaze falling anywhere but me. His hands shoving the last big bite of his burger in his mouth.
You’re all se…
“Dashwood Black,” I exclaim with faux surprise and copy the way he leaned forward a few moments ago. “Do you think I’m sexy?”
He swallows visibly before rolling his eyes and sitting straighter. “Oh, come on, you know you’re sexy. Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not denying anything.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “So, you remember me at state, then?”
He nods silently, pushing his empty plate aside. “I didn’t watch you run, but everyone was talking about how this seventh grader would be the next big thing. I saw you and your coach talk to some other coaches before my race.”
I vaguely remember being nervous before the race, but everything after it had been a big blur. Tired smiles. Soft “thank you” whenever someone complimented me. Unfamiliar faces after another.
“Did you save room for dessert?” Mindy pops by the table with a big smile, quickly grabbing the two empty plates.
Dash and I both shake our heads.
“Separate checks?” she asks slyly, shooting me a sassy wink that says, “You’re gonna hit that if he picks up your check, right?”
The small smile I give her conveys, “You and your sister suck at matchmaking so give it up. I’ll give you details about this turd later.”
“Yes,” I confirm quickly, just as Dash says, “One check please.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he pulls a credit card from his wallet and hands it to Mindy.
“I’ll be right back with your receipt,” she chirps, bouncing away before I can stop her.
Apparently, our conversations during my frequent visits have done nothing to enhance our telepathic communications.
“Thanks,” I mumble, praying the small flutters in my stomach have nothing to do with my meal. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I also didn’t have to crash into your booth like an asshole,” Dash replies with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”
I lift a shoulder. “Eh, I think it all worked out in the end.”
What the hell? My mind shrieks in horror before frantically pulling the mental red alarms. It worked out in the end? What does even mean? Time to go, you weirdo.
I’m good at harmless teasing. I’m fabulous with sarcasm. I exceed expectations during confrontations. But my small talk skills definitely need improvement. Especially when I’m used to giving a certain someone my best stink eye and calling him a “fuckwit”.
As soon as Dash signs the check, I scramble out of the booth, shrug into my coat, and grab my sketchbook. He remains silent when he pulls on his coat and holds the diner’s door open for me to walk through first. Like a freakin’ gentleman.
Just remain calm, my mind continues to yell before launching into a step-by-step plan. Just say good night, walk to the corner, and run like hell once you’re out of sight.
“Well, uh, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” I stammer, leaning toward the corner. “Thanks again for dinner.”
Dash frowns, his eyes catching me shove my hands in the pockets of my coat. “Did you drive?”
I shake my head and jerk it toward the end of the block. “I don’t live that far from here.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he states in a tone that leaves no room for argument, standing taller and puffing out his chest a bit.
I snicker, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Dash, you don’t need to. I literally live right around the corner. Plus, this isn’t the 1940s or whatever era did that sort of thing.”
He mimics my sarcastic eye roll. “I know, but remember, I was raised by a hopeless romantic of a mother. Not only would she freak out and fear for your safety, but she would disown her only son if she knew I allowed a young single woman to walk home alone. At night. In Chicago.”
The mock scandalous tone emphasizing the last four words makes me laugh out loud. “She thinks you live in Chicago?”
“No, but in her mind, she thinks the ninety-minute drive takes ten minutes.” He shrugs, his gaze falling to the sidewalk. “Mom math.”
“Well, come on,” I sigh, shivering slightly against the light chill. “I’m getting cold.”
He quietly falls in step next to me, walking toward the corner as a few cars drive by. In my peripheral, I watch his teeth scrape over his lower lip as his eyes sweep over the quiet neighborhood.
Halfway through my freshman year of living on campus with a rising adult film star and sneaky kleptomaniac, I decided roommates weren’t for me and I would live off campus the following year.
Even though I live too far away from the university to walk, I love the mostly residential area with a few local businesses scattered around. Including my favorite diner of all time, Clara & June . During my first visit, I secretly hoped the service would be terrible and the food even worse, giving me reasons to never return. But the friendly staff, all-day breakfast menu, and prime location easily trumps my laziness to cook anything decent.
“Um, so, this is me,” I announce, stopping on the other side of the aged brick building that houses the diner and a local hair salon.
I follow his gaze to the darkened windows of the second and third floors above Style & Grace , a modest and cozy business with a solid reputation.
“So, you literally live right around the corner,” Dash teases, sounding slightly embarrassed that I didn’t need an escort.
“Yeah. The rent is cheap because no one wants to climb three sets of stairs for a basic studio apartment.”
“No elevator?” He stares at the brick walls as if he could see through it.
I shake my head. “I don’t mind the stairs when I basically have the whole third floor to myself.”
“That’s cool.” The slight awkwardness in his reply reminds me of a nervous teen on a first date.
My mind can’t imagine a younger Dash ever going on a first date. My guess is he’s the guy who bangs first before the late-night booty calls morph into a full-fledge relationship.
“Well, uh, I guess I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” I repeat from a few minutes earlier. “Thanks for dinner and for walking me home. Your mom will be so proud of you.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess she’s stuck with me for a little longer,” he cracks lamely with an awkward chuckle that makes me inwardly cringe.
With my keys in my hand, I step toward the door and give him a shy smile. “Good night, Dash.”
“Good night, Juniper.”
“What’s going on with you and Dash?”
“I have no idea,” I admit, taking a step back to study my biggest project to date.
“Kinda looks like you two are falling in love,” Daphne sings out happily.
“It’s weird seeing you two get along,” Tabby adds. “I kinda miss the days of you giving him the stink eye.”
I chuckle, shaking my head, as I set a dirty palette knife on the bucket lid of plaster. With my eyes scouring the wall for major errors, I carefully step backwards toward the sound of my teammates’ giggles.
“Here.” Daphne pushes my plastic water bottle in my hand as I flop down next to her on the cool tile floor.
I don’t need to glance at the time on my phone to know it’s getting late. My body protests every move I make, first objecting to rolling out of bed at the ungodly hour of six in the morning. Then scurrying to the art center for a few hours. Bouncing from building to building for classes. Lifting weights for an hour before finishing practice with a five-mile run. Finally, scuttling my weary ass back to the center until I’m in danger of falling asleep with my face literally plastered to a wall.
Fortunately, my teammates love me enough to drop by with a sandwich for dinner and keep me company under the pretense of studying. Students from three separate art courses filter in and out of the spacious gallery area to work on their own projects.
Eden passes through because she’s been flirting with a handsome student named Marcos from a different class. Tabby claims the background noise helps her study. And Daphne likes to be anywhere but in her dorm room to avoid her politically active roommate.
Right now, we have the open but cluttered space to ourselves. Tabby sits in a folded chair with her long legs stretched onto another chair. Eden set up shop on a nearby scaffold, and Daphne leans against unopened industrial-sized bags of plaster on the floor.
“Perry’s looking good,” Tabby comments, dragging her emerald-colored eyes up from the laptop on her outstretched legs.
I follow her gaze to my current assignment: a gigantic octopus sculpture plastered to a wide wall. A variety of materials, from mesh wiring to recyclable plastic jugs to plaster, formed the basic outline of the sea creature. An ungodly amount of plaster powder mixed with water was manhandled and molded to shape the figure.
“Yeah,” I agree, taking a healthy gulp from my water bottle. A wave of satisfaction swells inside my chest at the progress I’ve made over the past month.
“Have you decided on the color scheme yet?” Eden asks, resting her chin on her arms folded across a scaffold bar.
A frustrated sigh billows between my lips as I shake my head.
Daphne studies the gray work in progress with a slight head tilt. “What are our choices?”
“A orange-reddish hue, a popular one used for a more natural look,” I explain, my fingers sliding across my phone to find rough color composites. “I was thinking about a somewhat dark-ish teal for a more dramatic and almost fantasy-ish effect. And the last would be a bronze – almost metallic – finish for an artsy fartsy look.”
Eden snickers. “You said artsy fartsy .”
“I thought you were leaning toward the bronze finish.” Tabby frowns, staring at the unfinished octopus she named Perry during her first visit. She had been appalled I had been working without a title in mind, so she decided the tentacled creature itself needed a name.
I submitted my sketch with the bronze finish, knowing it would outshine the submissions by the mean girls in the class. After our professor went through the guidelines and requirements for the annual art show, the trio of terror believed one of them would nab the ultimate canvas at stake: one full wall in the gallery area that would remain throughout the year.
Their loud and obnoxious argument over who would use the “timeless and classic” flowers irritated me into avoiding anything scenic. But they truly pissed me off when they mocked my very rough draft of a dragon emerging from flames.
A night of sketching anything and everything led me to Perry. The sea creature might not seem “timeless or classic,” but I found beauty in a subject that was so out of my realm. My professor and other important people in the art department thought so as well and awarded me the wall.
Of course, the mean girls weren’t happy about the decision, especially when their unimpressive submissions were relegated to simple canvas boards.
Suck it, mean girls.
“I think the metallic effect elevates it as an art piece, but I kinda think color would give Perry some character,” I admit, standing up and stretching my arms above my head. “Does that sound dumb?”
All three shake their heads.
“Listen to Perry,” suggests Eden, a second-year art major. “Now, answer my question. What’s going on with you and Dash?”
I groan like a petulant child not wanting to take a bath, dropping my arms to my side. “My answer is still the same: I don’t know.”
Daphne shoots her arm in the air and waves her hand like a kid in class. “Oh, I know! I know the answer.”
Tabby and Eden chuckle. I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing I should listen to the perceptive freshman spitfire.
Practices over the past two weeks have been… less hostile. Almost fun. Dash continues to give his irritatingly helpful advice. And I remind him to “shove it up his ass” with little bite.
During the most recent meet, he made a sarcastic joke about another team, and I laughed! Out loud! Then the bastard smiled and stared at me for a hot second. It was weird.
“Daphne,” Eden calls out jokingly. “What would you like to share with the class?”
“They’re falling in love,” she repeats in a sing-song tone. “It’s so obvious.”
Obvious? I wrinkle my nose at the notion. As one of the two parties involved in falling in love, shouldn’t I at least be aware of my own feelings?
I know Teenage Juni squeals with joy whenever Dash pays the slightest bit of attention to her. Doesn’t matter if it’s a quick glance. Or saucy grin. Or “move faster, Mitchell!” Because any attention is good attention.
Teenage Juni is a fucking idiot and on the verge of scribbling Mrs. Juniper Black all over her notebooks.
Adult Juni doesn’t like the way her heart beats a teeny bit faster if he’s standing a little too close. Or when he’s quick to volunteer to spot her at the weight bench.
“Have you slept with him yet?” Tabby asks, shoving her tongue in one cheek as her hand strokes an invisible dick outside the other.
“What? No!” I laugh at the comically obscene gesture, not her question.
“But you’re going to,” Eden guesses with a sly wink.
“I mean…” I lift my shoulders and hold my hands up in surrender. “Have you seen him without a shirt?”
My dirty whore of a mind kicks into overdrive whenever my eyes roam over his deliciously contoured torso. Any time my gaze falls below his waist, I force myself to look away before I do something embarrassing. Like drool. Or jump his bones.
“But why is it obvious to us and not to them?” Eden asks, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Why is she just standing there like a dumbass–”
“Hey!” I protest, narrowing my gaze at my teammate, who simply ignores me.
“And not trying to seduce him or something?” she finishes, looking toward the other two for answers.
“Because she’s not in a terrible rom-com that would stoop to such degrading and manipulative ways?” Tabby guesses dryly.
“Because she’s too busy fighting her attraction,” Daphne adds with a pop of her shoulders.
“I am not!” My retort objects to the authoritative tone in Daphne’s statement rather than the solid logic. “Also, is that how relationships begin now? Fuck each other first, and then just magically fall into a relationship?”
“When was the last time you went on a legitimate date?” Eden questions, tapping a manicured nail against her lips as if she’s internally searching for her own answer.
“Fighting my attraction?” I challenge, picking up my palette knife and stepping toward Perry. “I freely admit he’s hot, and I would bang him.”
“Could you imagine being in a relationship with him?” Daphne fires back just as I turn to fully face the wall so she can’t see the pink stain spreading over my cheeks.
Because, yes, I could imagine spending more time with him outside practice and meets. I could imagine us taking runs together that would lead to fun chases and tickle sessions and passionate kisses.
“Maybe,” I answer, hoping I sound nonchalant despite the images in my mind creating a questioning ache in my chest.
“Mmmmm.” The genuine indifferent reply points out I’m full of shit and fooling no one.
Just because my mind can create a beautiful and imaginary relationship doesn’t mean I want it, right?