Page 57 of Set on You

“Why?”

He waits a couple seconds, tightening his lips before speaking. “Because I thought you were cool. I wanted an excuse to talk to you. I didn’t know how else to do it.”

I’m momentarily stunned at how severely I misjudged him.“You didn’t want to come up to me and strike up a conversation? You know, like a normal, mature human?”

“I told you, I have a history of being socially awkward. I don’t approach women on the regular without a pretext.”

“I think people see you a lot differently than you think.”

His gaze lingers on my face. “I think the same about you.” He pauses. “Wanna know the first thing I noticed about you?”

“Please don’t say my eyes.” I shyly cover them with my hands. My entire life, my eyes have been a hot topic. People have always fetishized my “light” eyes, which makes me uncomfortable.

He reaches forward, his fingers circling my wrists, gently pulling them down to my lap. “No. Not your eyes, even though they’re beautiful. They were second... or maybe third after your ass in those leggings.” He smirks, watching my face with an expectant grin.

I should be pulling away, but we’re both leaning closer. The air has changed around us. I’m hypersensitive to everything. The one wayward hair falling into my eye. The softness of my shirt against my skin. The feel of the seat below my thighs, which are tingling with heat. “Then what did you notice first?”

“Your beauty mark, right here.” His finger brushes the little dot right below my left eye, close to my nose.

We’re practically knee to knee. I don’t know if it’s just me, but the space around us shrinks with each passing second.

He lets his hand fall over my knee, giving it a light squeeze, sending a trickle of electricity to the forgotten places in my body. Our faces are close enough that I can feel his warm breath against my cheek. If I closed those last few inches, I could kiss him. His gaze flickers to my lips. I catch myself leaning in slightly, until ourforeheads connect. We stay like this for a few long breaths as I listen to the steady drum of my heart. Finally, he tilts his head downward, his lips grazing mine with the lightest touch.

I’m about to press closer as an equal and very willing participant when an awful, high-pitched alarm goes off, sending my blood pressure sky-high. We jump back simultaneously.

“Shit. It’s a call. I gotta go.” His easygoing face suddenly transitions to that ultraserious expression from when we first met. He bolts out of the passenger seat, taking care to gather the Tupperware containers.

I shuffle out of the truck after him as everyone races to the back room behind the fire trucks to gear up.

He stops for a beat, pulling me in by the nape of my neck. He then rewards me with a soft kiss on my forehead. “Thanks for bringing dinner, Crys.” It isn’t a quick peck. It’s a full-on press of his lips to my skin.

Then he bolts away to the back room, leaving me mystified and practically immobile.

As I walk back to my apartment, my forehead and lips sear from the warmth of his kisses. From the touch of our foreheads together in the fire truck. From the look in his green eyes that stirs up all the feelings I’m trying to suppress until August. I don’t know if I can wait that long.

chapter nineteen

STILL REELING FROMour kiss in the fire truck, I pick up snacks on my way home for girls’ night. A rom-com and a deep-dive risk analysis on the merits of abandoning or abiding by my three-month rule are just what I need right now.

But by the time I get home, Tara and Mel have changed the plans without bothering to consult me. They’re in crisis mode. Tara is “distraught” over her new bob à la Khloe Kardashian, which she’s convinced has ruined her face (it hasn’t). And worse, Mel had an epic fight with her boyfriend. I hide my face in a pillow and dramatically pretend to sob when they announce the new plan to “dance our troubles away” at the club.

Half a drink in, and the reason clubs are no longer my scene becomes oh so apparent. Instead of wearing my trusty Lulus, I’m in a one-piece jumper that’s giving me a perma-wedgie. Wherever I go, my sense of smell is assaulted by a mixture of B.O., heavyperfume, and the rose incense diffused throughout the velvet-wallpapered space.

Mel and Tara are in their element, dancing and flirting with strangers, acquiring enough free drinks to render them halfway eligible for a stomach pump.

One of Mel’s friends, Kelly, has met us here. She’s equally as gorgeous as Mel. Asian and tall, almost lanky. Unlike Mel and Tara, who are dolled up in four-inch heels and dresses plastered to their skin, Kelly is wearing Birkenstocks and a baggy T-shirt that readsNOPE, paired with silky pajama-like pants that do not match in any way, shape, or form. It’s ratchet as hell, but I dig it.

Apparently, everyone else does too. Even though Kelly isn’t flaunting her assets, she’s attracting the attention of literally every guy in this club. They’re descending on her like moths to a porchlight. She’s one of those girls who emits this welcoming, free-spirit, manic pixie vibe but will crush your heart all the same. She probably leaves a trail of salty tears and broken hearts wherever she goes, which is fitting, because she’s a travelgrammer.

Even though I’m being a miserable wench keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings, I’m pleased Tara is letting loose. After breaking up with Seth, I wasn’t sure she’d ever make a full recovery. Watching her slow-grind against a guy who looks eerily like the Weeknd gives me renewed hope.

Mel pulls me from my safe space on the sidelines and onto the crowded, sweltering dance floor, nearly sploshing me with her rum and coke.

“I’m fine here holding the purses and making sure you guys don’t get roofied,” I explain, hoping my mom mode will ward her off.

“Come on! You’re being a buzzkill!” she shouts over the house music, slapping me square on the boob.

I sigh, appeasing them for a couple songs. As I sway awkwardly to the music, I’m having a hard time understanding how I used to do this on the regular back in college. Dancing with Tara, Mel, and Kelly isn’t the problem. It’s everyone else that I can’t stand. Everywhere I step, I’m shoulder to shoulder with twenty-year-olds aggressively fist pumping. Do they even know the origins of the fist pump? Unlikely. They were literally ten years old whenJersey Shorepremiered on MTV.

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