Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Did you ever hear the one about the PhD student and the tattoo artist?
Me neither.
Somehow, I put my thoughts in line for long enough to walk Val to my place.
I let her take the first shower.
I try to ignore the way my blood races as she steps out of the bathroom in only a tiny blue towel.
I slip into the space after her. I run the water cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
But the low temperature isn't enough to send blood where it belongs. So I close my eyes, and I let my thoughts go to places they shouldn't.
Her towel on the floor.
Her body in my bed.
Her groans against my neck.
The images form too easily. My body responds too quickly. I want her too badly.
My grunts dissolve in the water. I tell myself it's someone else. I tell myself I don't hear her name on my lips.
I don't believe it for a second.
Chapter Six
DARE
Val convinces me to take a catnap. Despite my best efforts, said nap lasts three hours.
The sun wakes me. It has two modes here, cloudy beach morning and blazing. We're far enough into the day we're at blazing.
I rise, I wash, I wait for my hard-on to recede. Morning wood. Normal. And even if it wasn't normal—
My body responds to her body. I concede the point.
What difference does that make? Even if I did like her, if I realized I was madly in love with her, what would that change?
Nothing.
And even if it did change something, changed everything, now isn't the time.
We're about to spend two weeks in Europe together. And I'm not about to ruin that by confessing my desire to see her come.
So I want to see my best friend come?
So what.
I can get over it.
In theory.
But just in case, I hide out in the bathroom, rub one out in the shower, wash up. What it takes to get my head on straight.
When I move into the kitchen, Val is sitting on the couch, reading on her Kindle, sipping coffee from an Inked Love mug (looking adorable in my Inked Love t-shirt and a pair of my boxers. Too adorable. Like she belongs in them).
"Morning, sleepyhead." She looks to the clock. "Almost afternoon."
"You could have woken me."
"You looked cute." Her eyes flit to her Kindle. "Besides, you need the sleep bank. You'll be lacking for a while."
"Oh, yeah? We're hitting the clubs every night." On our trip to Barcelona. Together. The two of us, touring her favorite city, making use of the pre-paid rent on her apartment.
"Maybe." She looks up at me like she's going to say something important, then she shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee. "Are there clubs in Barcelona?"
"There are clubs everywhere," I say.
"In Santa Monica?"
"Bars with dancing."
"That's not a club," she says.
"You want to argue? Or you want to pick the music for the party?"
"I can't let you pick the music." She stands and stretches her arms over her head, pulling the fabric of her t-shirt (well, my t-shirt) up her torso, exposing the tan skin of her stomach. "I already listened to Vanessa Carlton today."
"When?"
She laughs. "On the flight."
"You did not," I say.
"Really. She's on my bad-ass-ladies playlist."
"Your one playlist?"
"Who needs variety when you know what you want?"
I swallow hard. This can't be what I want. It just can't.
She rights her top, drops her Kindle on the couch, moves to the kitchen portion of the main room. "What's that look?"
"The party."
"What about it?'
"We can cancel—"
"And miss you and Patrick trying to one-up each other? Never."
"He's dating someone now," I say.
"Is it serious?"
"I think so."
"What's she like?" she asks.
"Like you," I say.
"A lover of classic film?"
She is, oddly enough. He talks about her a lot. Too much. I don't catch every detail. Only the ones that make me think of Val. "Smart," I say.
"That's my defining trait?"
Smart and gorgeous. "You prefer cynical?"
"Realistic."
"Pessimistic," I offer.
"Realistic." She holds firm.
"Witty?"
"I'll take witty. But what about you?" She turns to me. "Suggestions?"
How would I describe myself to a stranger? I work hard, sure. I'm a good friend. Mostly. I care about the world. But I don't shine the way she does. I'm not destined for great things. "Handsome."
She laughs. "V-a-i-n."
"What was that? You know I can't spell."
"You're not, actually." She shoots me a knowing look. "I don't know why you pretend."
"I'm not handsome?"
"Obsessed with how you look." She moves toward me. "Except for this." She traces the tattoo on my biceps. My first. The tree in her yard, the place where we always sat as kids, where we traded tears and hugs and secrets. "You are obsessed with these."
"That's my job."
She looks up at me—she's only a few inches shorter, but it's enough. "It's funny. I can barely remember you before the ink. It's like you were waiting for it all that time."