Page 62 of Maybe You

Sutton’s voice makes me snap my eyes open.

He’s standing in front of me, only inches between my knees and his. His eyes stay on mine while he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

I blink at him, not sure what he’s doing.

He nods toward me.

“Your turn.”

I stare at him. Him and his wide, muscled chest. Him and his golden skin and six-pack abs and an effing V-cut.

Yeah, no, if he thinks this is helpful in any shape or form, or that I just can’t make myself take my own clothes off because I’m weirdly shy or something and he’s now eliminated that roadblock by going first, that’s not it. Not it at all.

He eyes me calmly while I seriously consider making a run for it.

“Wren,” he says around the time I crane my neck to see if there’s a fire escape I could use. I force myself to meet his gaze again.

“Trust me,” he says.

My foot is nervously tapping against the floor, and I clench my fingers into fists.

It’s this, or I’ll probably die a sad, lonely loser, because I doubt I’ll ever get up the courage to get naked in front of anybody else if I walk out of here.

I asked him to help, and he agreed. I can’t chicken out right away. I owe him this, at least.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Sutton takes one look at me and can’t get it up anymore?

It’ll be humiliating and it’ll fucking suck and I’ll feel like shit afterward, and I’ve been there, done that already.

But.

If I walk out of here because I was too much of a coward, it’ll also be humiliating, it’ll fucking suck, and I’ll feel like shit afterward.

So the end result is the same, no matter what I do.

I guess I can suck it up and take the longer route since I’m already here.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, more as encouragement for myself than anything else. “Fuck it.”

I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head before I clutch it against my chest.

Sutton’s eyes move over me calmly, unreadable in the way only he can be.

There are a lot of platitudes he could throw at me right now. A lot of meaningless words you could fit on an inspirational poster.

We all have scars.

Yours are a sign of strength.

Don’t be ashamed of your scars. They tell your story.

Crap like that.

He doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, his fingers go to the button of his jeans, and he pops it open. The zipper sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband, pushes the jeans down, and steps out of them.

I lick my lips, but my throat is suddenly dry as a desert.

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