Page 46 of Between the Lines
I’d simply told her it was for work, and she’d stormed off, the heel of her Jimmy Choo’s still clicking on the upstairs carpet after she’d slammed her bedroom door.
Never mind that she didn’t askMichaelto give up his plans with friends to help out.Michael the soccer staris never expected to pitch in.Michaelis never asked to babysit, despite the fact that he’s in high school and can be responsible for his siblings for a couple of hours. No. That responsibility rests solely on me.
So, instead of reveling in the simple fact that I get to spend a few hoursnotparenting my younger siblings, I get to worry—that my mom is mad at me. That I’m not doing enough. That I’m not doing the right thing.
“Your nail polish is peeling.”
Those words scratch out like his throat is a desert. I feel his presence before I make the slow turn to see him with my own eyes, my index finger currently frozen in place where it was picking at the burgundy polish on my thumb.
My gaze first meets the buckle of his belt, shiny gold winking around crisp brown leather. I deter my eyes from what sits beneath, and instead follow the crisp line of buttons up his powder blue shirt. His tie is River Valley navy and green, alternating stripes that barely wave with the movements of his shallow breaths. When I get to his Adam’s apple, it bobs slowly, thickly,painfullyalmost with the lump he swallows.
God, why do I want to lick it?
His gaze is penetrating behind his square frames, the intensity an overbearing sauna that makes me want to rip off the chunky cardigan I’ve been wearing all day. I threw my hair into a claw clip during second period, and yet, Nathan’s unruly blonde hair still looks more styled than mine. He looks torturedly put together, and that has me biting the inside of my bottom lip.
“Hi,” I wince. I don’t know why I do. Maybe it’s because, beneath his stare, I feel caged. Caught. Like his gaze is somewhere I’m not supposed to be.
His brows furrow together in slow motion, puzzle pieces clicking in his eyes as his gaze ticks downward to my hands. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but the furnace when his thumb touches mine is going to leave a brand. My lips part as he tugs my thumb free, the chip in my manicure falling back into place.
I gasp, his thumb still lingering hotly on my skin. I can feel his heartbeat, and it seems to be ticking as quickly as mine.
He must realize it, must realize that we’re in a gym full of people, because he suddenly jerks his arm away and lets it fall to his side. He clears his throat, then uses the same hand that branded me to smooth his tie before pressing that thumb to his lips and sitting in the chair beside me.
“Are you running the clock?”
“Mhm,” I somehow manage to squeak out, my brain still ten seconds in the past to when he’dkissed the thumb that he just used to mark me.
He nods. “I’m keeping score.”
Welp. I guess Iwon’tbe sitting here alone to process whatever thehelljust happened.
Nathan clears his throat, removes a pen from the pocket of his shirt—because ofcoursehe has one blue and one black pen in his shirt pocket, nestled against a discreet pocket protector—clicks it on, and begins making notes on the provided rosters. All while I’m basically sweating buckets beside him.
ThankGodI decided to reapply my body spray before I came here.
I slip my hands into my lap and discreetly rub my thumb over my index finger, checking for burn marks.
He kissed his thumb after.
Why was that so hot?
It was like that night in the parking lot. The one when he’d walked me to my car and tilted my chin up to look him in the eyes. My skin had prickled with heat then, too, but not only from his touch. It’s the intensity of his eyes that has the potential to ruin me one day. That, and the fact that I’m almost certain he was about to call me a?—
“Claire.”
“Hmm?”
I snap out of my daydream, but immediately bank more fodderfor later at the sound of my name rolling off his tongue, so forceful and succinct, tied with a bow that says,Yes sir.
“The game is about to begin. Did you have any questions, or were my instructional notes clear enough?”
“You wrote this?” I ask, lifting the paper I was almost certain was printed.
Nathan nods, and I smile and chuckle. His brows tent together.
“What’s funny?”
“Youwouldhave font-like handwriting. It’s so…”