Page 42 of The Dare

“Uh-huh,” is her response. Her ocean-blue eyes narrow in that way they do when she’s evaluating a puzzle. My mom’s always been brilliant. Easily the smartest person I know. But when it comes to me, I’ve never felt like we were working off the same reading material. “Have you tried liking him back?”

“Definitely not.”

Okay, maybe that isn’t true. I know if I let myself, I would absolutely develop feelings for Conor. I’ve been replaying our kiss over and over again in my head since the second he dropped me off at home. I could barely concentrate on studying last night because I can’t stop thinking about the firmness of his lips, the heat of his body, the feel of his rock-hard cock pressing against my belly.

There was no denying he’d wanted me that night. He asked me to go home with him because he wanted to fuck me, no doubt about that.

But that’s the problem. I know the minute I give in, Conor will wake up from this daydream to realize he should be with someone much hotter. I’ve seen the girls that the guys on his team date—I’d stick out like a fat sore thumb.

I’m not interested in being the collateral damage once Conor figures that out.

“Well, what did you fight about?” Mom asks curiously.

“It’s not important. It’s dumb that I even brought it up.” I move my fork around the remnants of cauliflower rice in my bowl and try to psyche myself up for finishing it. “We’ve only known each other a few weeks anyway. I blame the punchbowl at the Kappa party. I should know better than to drink out of a five-gallon paint bucket.”

“Yes,” she says, grinning, “I should think I raised you better than that.”

As we’re walking back to her car, though, something dislodges itself from the back of my mind.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I…”Dress like a bag lady? Have the fashion sense of a literary school marm? Am doomed to live out my life as a spinster?“Do you think the way I dress says I’m embarrassed by the way I look?”

She stops beside the car and meets my eyes with sympathy. Even with her more minimalist style, which has generally consisted of blacks, whites, and grays, she always looks so fashionable and put together. Easy, I guess, when clothes are designed for exactly your body type.

It was always difficult growing up with a mom like her. Not that she didn’t try—she was my consummate cheerleader and booster of self-esteem. Constantly telling me how beautiful I was, how proud she was of me, how shewishedshe had hair as thick and lustrous as mine. But despite her efforts, I couldn’t help comparing myself to her in a vicious cycle of self-defeat.

“I think your clothes say nothing about your intelligence, your kindness, your wit, and humor,” Mom says tactfully. “I think you ought to dress however you feel most comfortable. With that said…if you don’t feel comfortable with the way you dress, perhaps that’s a conversation you need to have with your heart rather than your closet.”

Well, that’s one vote in the bag lady column from Mom.

______

On the walk up to my apartment after saying bye to my mother, I decide to bite the bullet and text Conor.

ME:You home?

A ball of anxiety coils in my gut once I hit send. After ignoring him for two days, he’d have every right to have written me off by now. I was kind of a bitch the other night, I’m well aware of this. Despite his lack of social graces, Conor hadn’t meant to offend me, and there was no reason to storm off the way I did. None, except that I was feeling insecure and vulnerable and generally sick of myself, so I took it out on him rather than explaining how I felt.

The screen lights up.

CONOR:Yeah.

ME:Coming over, k?

CONOR:Yeah.

Back-to-back “yeahs” aren’t exactly promising, but at least he hasn’t ghosted.

When he answers the door ten minutes later, hastily yanking a T-shirt down over his bare chest, I’m hit with the same flutter of desire I felt during our kiss, like pin pricks of electricity zipping up my spine. My lips remember his. My skin buzzes with the memory of his hands sliding up my ribs. Oh boy. This is going to be much harder than I expected.

“Hey,” I say, because my brain is still half in the parking lot outside Malone’s.

“Hey.” Conor holds the door open and nods for me to enter. His roommates are either out or hiding as he leads me upstairs to his bedroom.

Fuck. I’d even missed the way his room smells. Like his shampoo that smells like the ocean, and whatever cologne he wore Tuesday night.

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