Page 2 of I Think He Knows
Ouch.A cab home will cost me pretty much all of the tip money I saved this summer bussing tables.
With a sigh, I begin moving through the throng of bodies, each step more squelchy than the last. Maybe before I resort to booking an Uber, I can look upstairs. As far as frat party etiquette goes, I’m not sure where this falls on the scale of acceptable, but if anyone questions me, I’ll tell them my boyfriend lives here. Which is true. The only weird part will be when I can’t locate said boyfriend’s room, because true as the “boyfriend” status is, he’s been at college for over a month now, but has never actually invited me here. Which may be one of the reasons I agreed to this little surprise tonight.
As I make my way across the crowded room, my eyes land on the only other person at the party who doesn’t look like they're having the time of their life. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the railing in the most grumpy stance I’ve ever seen. He’s maybe a year or two older than me, and his scowl does nothing to detract from his startling good looks. And I do meanstartling. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and square-jawed. His brown hair is at that perfect stage of just-a-touch-too-long and pokes out from under the sides of his baseball cap.
There’s an intensity about him that’s almost visible, radiating off of his tense body in waves as he glares at the ground. I wonder what on earth his deal is…
Girlfriend dumped him? He flunked a test? His Greek letter hoodie suggests he’s a frat boy, and that this could be his house. Maybe he’s scheduled for clean-up duty tomorrow morning?
That would suck.
But I have no time to feel sorry for intense, prickly, handsome strangers. I need to go upstairs and look for Steven, and then, if I can’t find him, my carriage (AKA a blue Honda Accord driven by Viv, who’s rated four point eight stars) awaits. The boy glances in my direction as I continue to move towards him, and I’m immediately amazed by his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so blue. Or eyes that look so… decidedly pissed off.
I shoot him a tentative, sympathetic smile. A knowing sort of smile that says “Hey, buddy, I feel your pain right now. We’re in this party-hating camp together. So please, please do me a solid and step aside to let me upstairs without incident.”
Because every little kindness helps, right?
Wrong.
Hot, pissed-off frat boy looks at me blankly for a moment, before making me the new recipient of his his light-blue frosty stare. It steals my breath and I stumble slightly. This makes him smirk.
Jerk!
In response, I smile back sweetly, then flip him off. I don’t know where this moment of reckless bravery comes from—probably the fact that I’m damp and sticky and sour-scented from the beer shower, or that I rode in the back of Bethany’s deathwagon to get here tonight, or that Steven still isn’t replying to my texts. There’s a pit beginning to form in my stomach, signaling something isn’t right.
Frat boy’s eyebrows raise for a fraction of a second before his lips twitch at the corners, widening that irritating little smirk of his into a full-blown smile.
Ireallydon’t have time for this. My mascara is running, my red lipstick is smudged, and my heart-print hunter-green romper with its ridiculously cute little half-cap sleeves is soaked through and sticking to my curves like wet cement, and I just want tonight to be over already.
And so, with a deep breath, I straighten my spine, try to forget my romper wedgie, and take a few steps towards him. When I get close, I toss my ropey hair over one shoulder. It hits my back with a weird, slurpyslapthat sounds like raw hamburger being shaped into patties. Yuck. The mere thought of raw meat brings another wave of nausea, stronger this time. I clap a hand to my mouth and swallow.
The boy’s smile widens further. He steps up onto the bottom stair, effectively blocking my path.
Instinctively, I take a half step backwards. His light-blue eyes are frosty, yet they smolder like they’re ablaze.
Dry ice. Smoking and frozen and ready and willing to cause serious damage.
I breathe out shakily. “Hey.”
He raises one dark brow. “Hi.”
Now is the time to say something witty and dazzling. Something that will make him think I’m sharp-tongued and clever and not to be messed with…
“You’re in my way,” I say.
Nice one, Lana. Real original.
“Or are you in my way?” he counters. Flirtily. I think.
It’s difficult to figure this guy out.
“I have a boyfriend,” I blurt, in case he’s one of those IRL Christian Grey types who thinks being all alpha and demanding is flirting (Oh, and if my mom asks, I havenotread those books).
“Oh?” He smiles, clearly amused, and I blush like a tomato when I realize I misread his tone. But he still doesn’t budge.
Frustration builds in my chest. “You are literally blocking my way upstairs.”
“And you are literally blocking my view of the party.”