“Seeing you. Being with you. Fucking you. I’m going to miss it all,” he admits, running his thumb over my lip, watching my mouth intently.
My chest begins to feel heavy and constricted, so I playfully push him aside to get some well-needed space. I walk over to the table beside us and start placing the chairs upside down on it, resuming what I should have been doing in the first place—which was preparing to get the bar locked up—all the while making sure my back is turned from his melancholic expression, so he can’t see how it affects me.
“You do you, Finn. You know where to find me.”
My beating heart is pounding so hard, it makes the silence between us that more unbearable. Just when I’m about to go over to the next table, I feel his warm arms envelop me in an embrace from behind, his chin nestling on the crook of my neck.
“I was thinking that maybe after the game, I could pick you up and we could go out.”
I feel my whole body stiffen, and so does he.
“We could do it next Thursday, on your night off, if that’s the problem,” he adds, misreading my reaction.
“I’m good,” I coolly reply back.
He spins me around, his hands on my waist keeping me from toppling over.
“You’re good?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t do dates.”
“Ever?”
“Not while class is in session, pretty boy.”
“You can fit me in. You have for the past couple of weeks,” he replies with a cocky smirk tugging at his lips.
“A quick fuck isn’t the same thing as dinner and a movie. I have no time for it,” I reply sternly, crossing my arms over my chest so that he sees I mean business.
He takes two steps away from me, his features taking a scowl of their own as he mimics my stance.
“No date, no sex.” He utters the ultimatum as if it were his winning trump card against this argument.
“Please, as if you could ever follow through on that threat.”
“Try me,” he deadpans, resolve ingrained in each of his beautiful features.
I roll my eyes at his cockiness and shake my head.
“Not happening. Dating isn’t on the table,” I retort with the same stubbornness.
“Then neither is this,” he replies stoically, pointing to his sculptured physique.
“Fine. Have it your way. So, this has been fun, but I’ve got shit to do,” I say, going back to the task of cleaning this dump and turning my back to him once more.
I feel his eyes on me as I wipe down another table, but he doesn’t say a word. I try to act cool as the silence prolongs, but I really wish he would just leave so I could do my job in peace without his presence looming over me.
“See you around, quarterback,” I mumble, hoping he takes the hint.
The beat of my heart pounds in sync with each passing second that I have to endure his silence. Luckily for me, Finn isn’t just a pretty body and face. He’s got plenty of brains to go with all that heavy artillery.
“Call me when you change your mind,” he hollers at the door.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I rebuke, not once looking up at him.
“I won’t need to. You’ll miss me soon enough.”
“Not likely,” I answer, feigning boredom and cleaning the damn table just a little bit faster, all the while wishing he would just go already.
“You will, Stone. You just don’t know it yet.”
I scoff at that, but when the asshole finally leaves, I throw the damn cloth to the floor.
I hate the feeling that pretty boy might know something I don’t. That somehow, he is more in tune with my inner workings than I am. And that frightens me more than his absence ever will.
“Good riddance,” I mumble to the empty doorway.
But as my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, I wonder if the one to break first will, in fact, be me as he predicted.
The bastard was right.
And how I hate him for it.
It’s been five days. Just five measly days without laying eyes on Finn, and wouldn’t you know it, I do miss the cocky asshole. So much so that, when I realized this afternoon was his big game, the most idiotic thought flew by my head—to call in sick and see him play. Thankfully, sense slapped me upside the head before I did something as stupid as going to a college football game just to see the quarterback strut his stuff. There will be plenty of jersey chasers there for him. He doesn’t need me to make a cameo and add to the slew of girls calling out his name, eager to lick the sweat off of him after he’s led the Sharks to another win.
No way am I putting myself in that position. Maybe I’d forget the bastard entirely if he didn’t send me a text every day to remind me of his existence. It’s not like he hears a peep out of me.
Monday – Pretty Boy: Miss me yet? I bet you do.
Tuesday – Pretty Boy: You’re such a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? But you’ll break.
Wednesday – Pretty Boy: Still not backing down, huh? Always the brat.
Thursday – Pretty Boy: I dreamed about you today. I can still taste you on my lips.
Friday – Pretty Boy: Are you even getting my texts? Maybe it’s for the best if you aren’t.
Today – Pretty Boy: I miss you in my arms, Stone. I really fucking do.
Damn it all to hell!
How is a girl supposed to hold out when she gets texts like these? I swear he must love seeing me squirm. But it will be a cold day in hell before I admit to his face that I miss him too. That I think about him non-stop when I have other things I should be focusing on. I knew he’d be a distraction, I just never assumed he’d be this all-consuming.
I hate the Northside prick. He’s ruining everything.
I hear someone clear their throat behind me, reminding me that I’m at work and should have my act together.
“What’s your poison?” I ask, turning toward another drunkard who has nothing else to do but come to Big Jim’s on a Saturday night.
“Poison, huh? If it’s all right with you, I’ll stick to beer.”
I place both hands on my hips, staring down Finn’s black-haired—and probably black-hearted—friend.
“Easton Price. As I live and breathe. This is your second visit in just a few months. Let me guess. Is the Southside growing on you?”
Easton looks left and right, his bored expression rivaling my own. I’ve got to admit that, while Finn is beautifully transparent with his emotions and thoughts, Easton is the exact opposite. His slanted smile holds secrets while his silver eyes give none of them away. The man that sits before me is an illusion. I pity whoever falls prey in wanting to unravel his puzzle. Some things are just better off not being solved.
I get him his beer, but he makes no move to even touch the bottle. Instead, his eyes lock on mine, making sure I stay rooted to my spot.
“If you have something to say, Easton, why not do us both a favor and just say what’s on your mind.”