Page 69 of Why Not Both?

“I’m going to change,” I say. “Your hoodie is there if you want to change out of your shirt.” I point to the coat hooks where I’ve hung it in case he wants to take it with him. At this point, I’m almost certain he won’t.

“Are you trying to tell me I’m smelly?”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Yes. I am.”

He laughs and takes his backpack off. “I brought an extra t-shirt and pants. Partly because I wasn’t sure what the weather was going to do today.” Then he takes off his shirt.

The man should be arrested for pulling a stunt like that. How am I supposed to do anything with his abs just sitting there? My eyes trail from the abs, up to his chest, and over the shoulder where the orange and red bird looks like it’s about to take flight. He wears mostly long-sleeved button-up shirts at work, so I haven’t seen much of it since that night two months ago. I move closer as though in a trance, my fingers reaching up to trace the bright tattoo.

“It’s beautiful. I guess I didn’t really pay attention before…” I trail off and my eyes flick up to his. I hadn’t meant to reference our night together, but there it was. He’s watching me now, his eyes filled with heat. “A phoenix?” I ask unnecessarily.

He nods.

The head rests on his shoulder, one wing over his heart and the other on his back. Almost like it’s giving him a hug. The tail feathers trail down his arm toward his elbow. My hand stays on his arm, his skin hot beneath mine, and I want to slide my hand up to hook around his neck.

“How long ago did you get it done?”

He takes a shaky breath that makes me want to step a bit closer. “I was twenty. My father hates tattoos. He says they’re not professional. So when I cut contact with him, I got a nice big, bright one. Of course, he must have still been in my head a bit because I can easily cover it with a shirt.” He shrugs.

“You have another one,” I say. “On your back.”

His face loses the usual easy smile he wears, and he blinks, his gaze falling from mine. I’ve shattered the moment somehow and I’m not sure what I’ve said.

He turns and on his back is a quote and a small symbol. I skim my fingers over the words as I read them. “‘We may meet again in another life, but not again in this one.’ That’s from The Dark Crystal, isn’t it?” I remember him quoting it when we watched it, the sadness in his voice as he said the words.

He turns back around and pulls the t-shirt over his head. “Yes.”

He doesn’t offer any more and the look in his eyes makes me want to wrap my arms around him. I want to ask him what’s hurting him so much so that I can know how to take the hurt away. But I can also see that he doesn’t want to talk about it right now, so I move on.

“I only have the one. I got it a couple years ago with Daze. I’ve been thinking about a second, but I’m not sure what I want to get.” I give him a small smile, trying to bring his back. He finds one for me, but it’s strained. “I’m going to get changed. Make yourself comfortable. Get the DVD into the player.” I motion to the living room.

I hurry into my room and pull off my clothes, quickly changing into clean ones. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror. My hair is a god-awful mess, but I leave it for a minute and just wash my face. Then I grab my hairbrush and return to the living room. Spencer is sitting on the couch, rummaging through his backpack.

“How long has my hair looked like this?” I ask.

He looks up at me, confused. “Since about the halfway point?”

“And you just let me walk around with my hair all over the place? Took a picture of me like this? I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket.”

A smile is forming, the haunted look fading from his eyes. “I think you look cute.”

“Ugh. Men.” I remove the clip from my hair, letting it fall, shaking my head so it untwists. I notice his focused attention as it releases.

“Are you wearing pyjamas?” he asks.

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

He presses his lips together. “Nope. No problem at all.”

“Come on. Let’s make some popcorn.” I pull the brush through my hair as I go into the kitchen and twist it up, clipping it back in place. Then I gather what I’ll need.

Spencer follows me, watching as I pull out two pots, some measuring cups, and all the ingredients.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Popcorn and hot chocolate,” I say, sending him a look. “The right way.”

He folds his arms over his chest and my gaze lingers as his t-shirt pulls tight over his shoulders. Then I move back to my tasks. I start the hot chocolate first, since it’ll take longer. I feel Spencer watching me as I whisk the milk, cocoa powder, and sugar together, adding chocolate chips a little at a time. Once all the chocolate is in, I add a splash of vanilla.

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