Maaayyyybe…I shouldn’t leave my room today. Who the hell knows what’s waiting for me outside of it.
Stop being a chickenshit, Quinn.
Rolling my shoulders back, I shake the bed head from my face and stride toward the door with purposeful steps.
Except…my hand hovers over the doorknob like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike. I glare, narrowing my eyes at the beam of sunlight reflecting off the chrome handle, my throat thick with indecision.
“It’s been eighty-four years.”
Okay, fine, it’s been two and a half minutes, but kudos to my subconscious for nailing the old lady from Titanic’s voice.
Still…
I can’t force myself to move. My breaths grow labored, the heavy pants puffing out my cheeks and flubbering my lips. I sound more like I’m preparing to interview for a job running a Lamaze class than working on gathering the nerve needed to check what CK responded with.
Bawk, bawk, bawk.
I swear to you, the discarded Post-its behind me form chicken wings and flap them.
What the hell are you so scared of?
Oh…I don’t know…maybe that out of the dozen or so writing prompts I’ve used throughout our notes, last night’s question was without a doubt my boldest one to date.
No longer was I asking the easy starter questions like My zombie apocalypse plan is… Nor was this the slightly more “relationship-y” and considerably more self-serving The secret to getting to know me is…
Nope. This time, I flipped the script.
I didn’t ask CK to tell me something about himself, but…to think about me.
I’d like to tell you I yanked open my bedroom door and stormed out of the room like a woman on a mission, searching out CK’s note like a lioness stalks its prey.
But…
That would be a lie.
Instead, I put off the inevitable for as long as possible, showering and getting fully ready for the day before meandering into the kitchen.
Whoop, there it is.
Sitting dead center on the counter is the only purple Post-it to avoid last night’s reject pile.
With heavy steps, I drag myself to the island, squeezing my eyes shut until colors bloom behind my closed lids. Then, with a fortifying breath, I slowly peel them open.
I glare at the words penned at the top of the paper in glittery silver ink: I would fall for you if…
I can just make out the top of CK’s surprisingly neat penmanship in my peripherals, the black ink bold against the fanciful ink I favor.
The sight of his answer scrawled across the bottom has relief unknotting some of the tension from between my shoulder blades. I don’t know what would have been worse—him ignoring me completely, or if his answer confirmed what I’m starting to fear may be the true cause behind his hesitation to my flirting: that I’m not good enough.
Oof. If Abuelita were here, she’d smack me with her chancla for even thinking like that about myself. With my biggest cheerleader in mind, I let the thought of her bolster my confidence enough to look.
You push me over.
Wait…
What?
My gaze jumps back up the paper.
I asked: I would fall for you if…
And CK responded with: You push me over.
What kind of horseshit is that?
Oh, no, no, no.
This just won’t do.
I rip the note from the counter, the paper tearing from the force.
I damn near gave myself gray hair, psyching myself up to read what he wrote, and he leaves me with bullshit like this? I sure as shit hope Emma meant what she said about helping to bury a body because I’m about to murder an adorkable nerd.
Paper clutched in my grip with an intensity I should probably be using to hold on to my sanity, my feet audibly slap-slap-slap against the floor.
“Wh—” CK startles awake at his door banging against the wall from my I-don’t-give-a-single-shit entrance.
Later, when my fury isn’t burning as bright as my hair color, I’ll appreciate how cute he looks with his eyes squinting to see without his glasses, but not now. No, now She-Beast Quinn is at the helm of my actions, and with a flying leap, I land in the center of the bed.
“What kind of utter bullshit is this, Christopher?” My knuckles skim the tip of his nose as I thrust the slightly tattered paper in his face.
His dark brows fly up his forehead, those crystalline eyes meeting mine in all their unobstructed brilliant blue glory.
“I’ve been around you ladies enough to know better than to tell you to calm down.” He leans back a bit, slowly lifting his arms in a Don’t shoot gesture. “But what’s with the Christopher-ing?”
“Don’t go trying to be all cute and stuff right now, mister.” I shake my finger at him. You heard that right; I flipping shake my finger at him. Ay dios mío.
He gives me a slow blink, the thick fringe of his dark lashes adding another point against him, because even with the two coats of mascara I put on, they are nicer than mine.
My breaths saw in and out of my lungs as we stare each other down, my chest heaving, my tantrum nowhere near close to waning.
With cautious movements, CK stretches an arm toward his nightstand. One eye remains on me like I’m some kind of rabid raccoon he’s worried will strike at any moment. Honestly, the ferocity of my overreaction could have very well melted off my makeup to pool underneath my eyes.
He’s silent as he slides those panty-melting black frames up the bridge of his nose.
Why, yes, professor, I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
Okay then. Looks like Hornball Quinn is shoving She-Beast Quinn to the side. At least my inappropriate horniness has the added benefit of dousing some of my temper. I’ll take it as a win.
Without the fuzziness of frustration tingeing my vision, I’m able to appreciate the sight of a sleep-rumpled CK. His blue-black hair is flat on one side and in complete disarray on the other, an itch forming between my fingers with the urge to muss him up more.
That’s not even the best part.
Nope, that honor goes to the fact that he’s shirtless, as in, without the barrier of material to keep my eyes from feasting on all the deliciousness that is Christopher Kent.
Oh, looky—that was a six-pack I felt that day. I should have lifted his shirt and smeared salsa all over his stomach, then licked it clean. Damn. Talk about a missed opportunity.
Strong fingers curl around my wrist, and I jolt, unaware my arm was still lifted until CK lowers it to rest on the soft comforter covering his lap. You know, the same comforter that’s pooled around his bare waist, the one that would only need to be shifted another inch or two to reveal if my crush is the type of person to sleep in the buff.
Sure…I know CK well enough to know that’s an unlikely scenario, but a girl can dream, right?
He maintains his grip on me, which is probably a good thing, given my proximity to his crotch. Hornball Quinn would totally take over the controls and have me cupping him through the covers if I wasn’t restricted.
Once again, completely unaware of my naughty musings, CK carefully works to liberate the homicidal-tendencies-inducing paper from my clutches.
“Umm…” His brows dip beneath the edge of his frames as he reads over the note. “I’m not sure I see the problem.”
The uncertainty swimming in his eyes when he lifts them back to me has a wave of protectiveness rushing through me.