Page 67 of A Little Tempting

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m under twenty-one, remember?”

His husky laugh rumbles through his chest as he shakes his head. “Shit, I forgot. Do you have a fake ID?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Aw, come on, Dyl. You gotta have a fake ID. They’re a right of passage.”

“Sure they are,” I mutter.

“Speaking of rights of passage, tell your mom thanks for the Harry Potter marathon invitation.”

I freeze. “What?”

With a smirk, he pulls a brown envelope from his back pocket and hands it to me. A black-inked owl is in the corner, and a bold red seal is on the back. Curious, I open the flap and find a slip of paper with the date and time with the location listed is my childhood home. I make a mental note, then hand it back to him.

“Well, apparently, she likes you more than me because I haven’t received my invitation yet.”

“Yeah, you did.” He grins and hands me a matching envelope with my name scrawled across the front.

“You know, you could’ve given me this one instead of letting me look at yours.”

“And see the surprise on your face with how I was personally invited?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Hey, Reeves!” a feminine voice interrupts.

Our heads snap in its direction. A girl with long dark hair and sunglasses sways toward us, and Reeves’ head falls forward.

It’s strange. Seeing—feeling—the shift in his demeanor. The tightness in his jaw. The exhaustion. The weight.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Wait here.” Leaving me, he meets the stranger halfway across the grassy hill, and I watch, dumbfounded. I feel like I’ve seen her before, but I don’t know where. Maybe one of my classes or one of Reeves’ Game Nights? I’m not sure. My insides twist with jealousy as I watch them. They’re too far away for me to hear what’s said, but I don’t miss the rigidity in Reeves’ muscles or the way he squeezes the back of his neck. Like he’s uncomfortable. But I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable because he thinks I might be watching or if he’s uncomfortable because of what she’s saying. If only I could read lips. Her hands practically throttle the strap of her dark leather bag as she drops her chin to her chest. Reeves reaches for her, making her lift her head to look at him again.

It feels intimate, and even though I most definitely shouldn’t care, I kind of do. He starts slipping off her sunglasses, but she tugs away and shakes her head, so he drops his hands back to his sides. Then he looks at me. And it isn’t a glance. It’s a full-blown gander. It’s weighted and heavy and unsure.

Feeling like I just got caught doing something I most definitely shouldn’t—you know, like trying to eavesdrop-slash-stalk a clearly intimate interaction—I tear my attention from his, turn around, and beeline it to my next class. I shouldn’t care. IknowI shouldn’t. It’s Reeves. He owes me nothing. Like, seriously, nothing. Especially after I brushed off his invitation for Homecoming. And he most definitely should be allowed to talk to a girl without feeling uncomfortable, which I clearly made him feel since he caught me staring at him like a creeper. And honestly? I’m glad I saw him. Glad something could smack some sense into me and confirm one of the main reasons why I didn’t say yes to him at Maverick’s house. Why it would be really freaking stupid to let my guard down with him.

Heavy footsteps follow as soon as I reach the dark pavement, and the sound mingles with Reeves’ low voice. “Thorne! Wait!”

I quicken my pace.

“Seriously, Dylan!” he calls. “Wait for me!”

I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. Reeves’ long strides close the distance in a few short seconds until he jogs beside me. Distracted, I trip over my own shoelace like I’m a freaking third grader and tumble to the ground. My knees hit the pavement with a heavy crash, and a hiss escapes me as my palms scrape against the blacktop.

“Shit.” Rolling onto my butt, I assess the damage with a pathetic frown. My palms are angry and red, dotted with black dirt and pebbles, along with little specks of blood as it seeps out of the scraped skin.

Yup. Itburns.

Grimacing, Reeves crouches beside me. His touch is gentle as he envelops my wrist and steals a look at my palms. “Damn, Pickles.”

“I’m fine.”

I try to tug away from him, but he holds firm and leans closer, blowing softly on my superficial wounds. “Gonna have to buy some Band-Aids for my backpack.”

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