“I suppose I could talk to her for you,” I start, and he comes closer, grabbing my hands and squeezing them tight.
“I would really appreciate it if you did, Stel. This could be a passion project for me. I won’t let your nonna or your family down. I promise.” His words, his expression, are so sincere, I know he believes everything he’s saying. I want to believe everything he’s saying too.
But do I really want him working so close with my family?
I’m not sure.
Eleven
I’m in the bathroom applying one last coat of mascara to my eyelashes when Carter suddenly appears behind me, his gorgeous face looming over my shoulder. Of course, like the dork that I am, I yelp with a jolt when I first spot him, stabbing myself in the eyeball with the mascara wand.
And like some sort of romcom hero, he rushes for me, his big hands curling around my shoulders and turning me around so I have no choice but to face him. Though I can’t even look at him, considering I’m bent over and holding both hands over my wounded eye.
“Are you all right? Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He sounds troubled. Which is good. He should definitely feel bad for causing my injury.
Though really, I’m the one who overreacted and stabbed myself in the first place.
“I’m okay.” I stand up straighter, still cradling my watery, stinging eye. “It only hurts a little.”
“Drop your hand.” He turns away from me, snagging a tissue out of the Kleenex box that’s perched on the back of the toilet, then faces me once more. “Drop it,” he repeats when I still haven’t removed my hand.
Reluctantly I remove my hand from my face, my eyelashes practically stuck together. I’m sure I look a mess and I swallow hard, reaching up to dab at the tender skin beneath my eye, but Carter bats my hand away.
“Let me,” he murmurs as he brushes the tissue underneath my eye, picking up all the excess mascara. “Does it still hurt?”
“A little.” He’s so close. I can see all of his eyelashes, and they’re thick and dark and don’t need a lick of mascara on them, the jerk. He’s freshly shaven, his face nice and smooth, and I sort of want to rub against it. Like a cat.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he says with the utmost sincerity. “I didn’t mean for you to try to take your eye out.”
A soft laugh escapes me. “I’ve stabbed myself in the eye before with a mascara wand. I’m sure this won’t be the last time.”
He finishes cleaning up the mess I made and then turns me so I face the mirror once more. “Now you’re perfect,” he says, squeezing my shoulders for the briefest moment before he lets go and exits the bathroom, heading straight into his bedroom.
I’m shaken by the encounter and it takes me a minute to get moving again. Since the afternoon at my nonna’s house, we’ve been friendlier. Not so friendly that we fall into bed together, but friendly enough. Which is…nice. I don’t like having hostile feelings toward Carter. What exactly did he ever do to me anyway?
Oh, he just rocked your world and turned you into a firm believer in multiple orgasms, then left you in the dust and never talked to you again.
Right. He did that. And it sucked. I guess I should still be mad at him.
But it’s hard to be mad all the time. It takes up so much energy. Being friendly roommates is the way to tackle this, and I’m—enjoying it. I mean, that was terribly nice of him to help me just now, am I right?
I know what you’re all thinking. Gentle offers of help turn into makeout sessions that turn into fuck fests. Not that I’ve ever had a fuck fest before. Not really.
I frown at myself in the mirror. What am I doing right now? I’ve never even said the words fuck fest out loud.
Sighing, I toss the mascara tube into the still open drawer and slam it shut, flick off the light switch and march into my bedroom. We’re all meeting at Tuscany tonight for Caroline’s planned dinner get-together with our group of friends. She pushed me so hard to do this, and I pushed back, saying none of us had time or we couldn’t get our schedules straight, which was a blatant lie.
I just couldn’t stand the thought of us getting together at Tuscany with Carter and our group of friends again. Like—last time. Talk about flashback city.
When Caroline wants something, she’s relentless, and finally I gave in after about a week of nonstop nagging and begging. So here we are on a Tuesday night, and I’m shimmying into my new long-sleeved, red lace top that covers me up completely yet is also the slightest bit see-through, what with it being made completely of lace. The color is bold, not something I usually wear, and I think that’s why I was so drawn to it.
I pair the lacy top with black skinny jeans, strappy black sandals and a bold red lip. No jewelry beyond the diamond studs my parents gave me when I turned eighteen. I straightened my hair so it’s sleek and polished, and my makeup is simple. Just mascara and red lipstick.
Glancing at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs on my closet door, I check my outfit. I look good. And looking good makes me feel confident, so I’m ready to conquer this evening by having fun with my people, drinking wine (but not too much), eating good food and ignoring Carter Abbott.
Wish me luck, friends.
I exit my room to find Carter sitting on the couch in the living room, head bent and gaze focused on his phone. And damn it, he looks amazing. All he’s wearing is a pair of jeans and a black button-up shirt—simple yet incredibly effective, at least for my awakening hormones. His hair is longer than I remember him usually wearing it, and I think that’s because he hasn’t bothered to get it cut yet since he moved here. I can also smell him from where I’m standing, and while I’m not one who swoons over guys who bathe in cologne, his scent is strong yet subtle and makes me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale him.
No! You can’t think like that! Abort! Abort!
He glances up, his gaze catching mine, and his eyes widen a little bit as he takes me in. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I part my lips, eager to say something, anything to fill the growing more awkward by the second silence, but he’s the one who speaks first.
“You ready to go?”
I blink at him. “Are we going together?”
He stands. Stretches. Reaches for the ceiling with his long arms before he settles back into his regular position, hands resting on his hips as he contemplates me. “We are going to the same place, Stel.”
“Yeah, but we’re going there together?” I clamp my lips shut. I’m repeating myself. Hoping he doesn’t notice, I walk over to the kitchen table that we don’t really ever use for eating and grab my black bag that I hung on the back of a chair.
“Are you ready?”
“Um, yes.”
“So am I.” He offers an easy smile, and everything inside of me flutters. “I’m thinking we should go together.”
I stare at him, mentally cursing myself. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. We are roommates who are walking over to the restaurant at the same time. Not necessarily together. It’s nothing. He’s casual. I’m casual. This entire situation is casual.
“Okay, let’s go.”