Page 23

Liza

W oah. Stupid heart, can you hear me? Because you’re really not helping a girl out at the moment.

I came to Hartley’s with the intention of celebrating his success.

It’s a big deal to go from failing everything that’s assigned to earning a C on a pretty tough quiz.

What better way to celebrate than homemade beignets?

He had to go and act all hot with the little powdered sugar stunt, and now my head is all sorts of fuzzy.

Am I being too harsh with my no dating rule? Am I allowing Layne to ruin me for other guys without even realizing it?

After we gorge ourselves to the max on sugary beignet goodness, Hartley and I stay in the kitchen to talk for a while before he clears our plates.

“I want to see the all famous Hartley Knox’s bedroom,” I say.

His eyebrows shoot up in mischief, so I quickly correct myself. “Not like that.” Crossing my hands over my chest, I shake my head at the gorgeous specimen of a man standing in front of me.

“I have to warn you, Goldie. It’s a war zone.”

“It couldn’t be that bad. It looks great here.” I turn to get a closer look at the living space, and it’s well kept with a cozy lived in vibe.

“Yeah, that’s because Vi and I share this space, and I’m forced to keep it halfway decent.

My bedroom has the green light to be a pig’s sty,” he admits with a grin.

The thing about Hartley is that he’s unapologetically himself, no matter what anyone thinks of him.

“But, if you insist.” He walks toward a hallway and I follow behind, anxious to see another piece of him.

We reach a cracked open, white, wooden door.

He pushes it open with so much force that it bounces off the wall behind.

Turning around to face me, he says, “That’s why they invented door stoppers.

” I roll my eyes to the back of my head and laugh, stepping into the carpeted bedroom.

He flips on the lights and fan, and I’m greeted by a sight that catches me by surprise.

“You build Legos?” Three shelves above his bed are filled to the brim with the most intricate Lego sets I’ve ever seen. Superhero models, cars, and model heads are only a few, but they are breathtakingly intricate, each tiny piece put together to make the massive collection.

Grabbing the base of his neck, he shrugs and rubs back and forth. “Yeah. Not many people know about it, but it keeps my hands busy.”

I walk slowly to the shelves, but I can’t reach.

I crawl onto his unmade bed to gain more leverage until I’m eye-to-eye with the sets.

I can see the tiny pieces joined together to make the big models.

The sound of a deep breath escapes from behind me, so I whip my head around to see Hartley rocking back and forth on his heels. “What?”

“Nothing. . .” he hesitates. “It’s just you in my bedroom. I’m getting used to the sight at the moment.” His hand drags over his face while his neck cracks side-to-side. I shake my head and continue my admiration.

My fingers trail the intricate pieces linked together to make huge master pieces. “These are amazing. It’s like a form of art.”

“Nah. I wouldn’t go that far. Just something I like to do to pass the time.”

Dropping down to my knees on the cushiony bed, I slide my feet off the end and dangle them while I continue my conversation. “You’re not very good at taking compliments, are you?”

His eyes soften, relenting to how well I can read him. I’m not seeing Springs U’s top wide receiver, or the loud party animal that hits up Downtown Tap on the weekends. Instead, I see the boy who wants to do right so badly, but oftentimes puts himself to the side for others.

“Never got them as a kid, so I guess I’m not.”

Woah. That took me by surprise. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Hartley’s family is MIA. He never has anyone cheering for him in games, except Violet of course, but he’s never mentioned them negatively.

“Why’s that?” I’m pushing my luck, but I’m craving to know the boy behind the goofy charm. With his hands stuck in his pockets, he meets me on the bed and takes a seat beside me, bumping my knee with his.

“Never met my mom. She didn’t want kids, so my valiant father offered to raise me.”

“You and your dad don’t get along?”

“He was just. . . there, not emotionally. More like a warm body that you want to shake and wake up out of a drunken haze. I never went without the things I needed. Besides having a real dad.” His tongue pops to the side of his cheek, as his eyes narrow, bringing him back to memories that are better left uncovered.

“That’s not okay, Hart.” My hand inches toward his, gently rubbing his thumb.

“It is what it is,” he says, staring at the ground. “Lots of people had it worse, so I can’t complain.”

“Don’t downplay it,” I snap firmly. His Caribbean-colored eyes wander from the fuzzy carpet to my thumb that continues to rub circles around his.

His eyes slowly rake up my body and meet mine with glazed hurt coated over them.

“You deserved better.” His hand squeezes mine before traveling at a torturous pace up my thigh, then to my arm.

His touch fires goosebumps everywhere. He makes his way up my shoulder and to the base of my neck.

His eyes darken with each slow touch, never leaving mine.

My brain powers down because I’m tired of fighting whatever this is between us.

For one day, hour, minute, or even second, I don’t want to think about anything but the undeniable attraction I have for the man behind the hurt eyes.

His eyes dart down to my glossy lips before I wet them with my tongue.

He takes a deep breath, moving his body slightly.

As if I can read his mind, I nod my head, and that’s all it takes for his lips to meet mine in a blazing fury.

His hand never leaves my neck, holding steady like he never intends to let go.

Mine lace around his body, pulling him closer in.

To get a better angle, I break contact to tuck my feet underneath me, but I don’t stay in that position long because his strong grip flips my body onto his lap.

His skin blazes with heat as I open my mouth, allowing him in.

My heart pounds out of my chest while my mind only focuses on the feeling of his lips on mine.

He doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss and prolong our connection.

His initial taste is spicy, but the aftertaste is sweet, similar to his personality.

I finally break our connection and I stare into his dark, lustful eyes for longer than I care to admit.

My hands stay firmly planted on his chest, our foreheads still touching as my breathing begins to even out.

When the reality of what we just did dawns on me, I jump off his lap and scurry to grab my purse.

“I. . . I. . . shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” He leans back on his elbows with a cocky smirk painted on his face. “Was I that bad of a kisser?”

“No,” I snap. “You know why.”

Realization flashes across his eyes. His easy smile quickly turns into a scowl.

“Because you’re scared I’ll be like him ,” he retorts with understanding and frustration balled into one.

“Yeah, I remember.” Pushing himself off the bed, he invades my space until I’m backed into the wall with no escape from his intoxicating presence.

“Newsflash, Goldie. Your ex was an idiot to let you out of his sight for even a second.” His hands caress my lips as he rubs gently.

Then, he pops his finger in his mouth to taste. “So sweet.”

“You c. . . c. . . can’t say things like that,” I answer, flustered with how intense he is.

“I can and I will. I take what I want, and I think you’ve known for a while that I want you to the point of insanity.”

“So did he and look where that got me.”

“It landed you in the arms of a man that won’t ever take a minute of the time you spend with him for granted.” He braces his muscular arms on both sides of me. “Let me prove that to you.”

I inhale his spiced scent and close my eyes for a second, grounding me to the present. Why am I fighting so hard against what I want?

“I don’t know.” I shift my lips back and forth. My brain becomes a running wheel that won’t stop conjuring excuses for why I can’t give in to him. “It’s not that simple.”

“When’s our next art session?” He flips the script, changing the subject from my uncertainty.

“Umm. Next week? I’d like to sketch you practicing on the field next.”

“It’s a date.” He winks. “And yes I mean a real date.”

“Not a date,” I mumble as I gather my things together to leave.

“Keep telling yourself that!” he hollers out as I close his bedroom door, catching a last minute glimpse of him sprawled out on the bed.