Page 34 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“I don’t know. I guess you could say my senior year sucked because I was already over it before it even started. I wasmentally done with high school and even skipped my last prom because I went the year before. I couldn’t wait to graduate and get to college. I think my aversion to pretty much everything about it annoyed my friends to the point they stopped inviting me out, and I kind of didn’t give a shit? If I’m honest, I was relieved.”

“So, a loner?”

“I mean, I guess you could put it like that. Guys in my school weren’t worth the effort, either. I’ve been bored for a long time. You’re turn,” I say, and he nods. “So, did you come for me tonight?”

“Maybe,” he muses before lifting his hand to push the bulk of my ponytail behind my shoulder. The touch gentle and surprising.

“Are you being weird because there’s a girl?”

“Weird how?”

“Like,” I shrug, “won’t do anything?”

“Do what exactly?” He taunts, and I deadpan.

“If there was a girl, I wouldn’t be here dodging twenty questions,” he chuckles, and I decide I love the sound even if it seems to be at my constant expense. We stare off for a few silent seconds as that same pull draws me and intensifies. Unsure if he feels it, his jade eyes seem to deepen as the question comes to mind, and I take it as a good sign. So far, and in mere days, Thatch has had my head spinning, my heart thundering, and my attention constantly drifting back to him, and I’m not sure I like it. I’ve already made too much effort, and hate how desperate I’m starting to look. I swore to myself I wouldn’t try so hard tonight, but the way he stares, it can’t be one-sided.

“I really am just trying to get to know you,” I blow out a breath of frustration.

“What would satisfy you?” He asks, his eyes trailing down my face, to my sweater and jeans, and back up.

“Uh, how about the fucking truth?” I say before hitting the joint again.

“Man, that mouth,” he whispers before his eyes drop to it. “Why are you so hellbent?”

“On?”

“On everything,” he chuckles again. “Such an intense girl.”

“I’m just opinionated,” I state without apology, “and not a fan of bullshit. Like my mom. And you seem to be full of it.”

“Not like your mom,” he corrects. “And I’m just private.”

“More like secretive to the point of infuriating, and maybe I’m a little mouthier,” I admit with a shrug.

“Little bit,” he lifts his fingers, presenting an inch before expanding them space wide.

“You like it,” I wrinkle my nose, and he rakes his lip with his teeth.

“Do I? What else do I like?” he asks.

“Right now, my sweater,” I smirk. “The view,” I add. “My lips.”

“Hmm,” he utters.

“You like me,” I nudge him.

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Seems like you won’t go at all,” I sigh. “You have yet to lay a hand on me, Thatch. Any plans to?”

“No,” he clips instantly.

“Well, that’s a shame,” I drawl. “I was wondering what kissing you would feel like.” I toss the joint. “I’ll stop now.”

“I said hand,” he whispers, lifting his finger and carefully tracing the seam of my lips, which part at his gentle touch. His delivery so soft and deliberate in contrast to his irritation as he speaks. “Why are you making this so damned hard?”

“Because you like that too,” I whisper against the pad of his pointer. “Thatch,” I utter as his chest starts to rise and fall. “T-they set us up. I don’t see the harm in a kiss.”

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