Page 22 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

“I do.”

I squint at him. “You’re not going to make me sacrifice my firstborn or anything, are you?”

He cocks his head, and his long bangs fall in front of his eyes. Why would that make my stomach flip? “Why would I do that?” he asks. “Do you believe those rumors that I practice Satanism?”

I startle, the shirt slipping out of my hands. The cold, sticky material slaps against my stomach, making me suck in a surprised breath and lean forward.

Dylan chuckles.

“I haven’t even heard that rumor. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to make me earn the shirt or something.”

The smile falls from his face, and his shoulders slump. “No, Ava. I actually just felt bad that the shirt you’re wearing is wet. I remember Mrs. Jensen telling you they had no more shirts in lost and found. So, I’m offering another for you to wear to get through the day.”

Guilt washes through me for making him feel bad. I offer a lame excuse. “A girl has to watch out for herself, you know.”

Dylan gestures for me to walk with him and when we fall into step together, he says, “That’s actually true and admirable. I know someone who is going through something right now because she didn’t clarify the terms before striking a deal. So, I applaud you for making sure I don’t have an ulterior motive. Even if I wish you could have just trusted me.”

I frown.

“What?”

“I’ve only known you for two days. How would I trust you already?”

Dylan stops in front of the boys’ locker room. “Has it really only been two days?”

“I guess today is the third day?” I arch a brow.

“Man, how weird.” Dylan cocks his head again and his bangs sweep to the side. He has great hair. “It feels like I’ve known you forever, Ava.”

“Is that good or bad?” I squint at him, unable to determine how he feels.

“It’s just weird.” He arches his thumb over his shoulder to the locker room door. “I’ll be right back. The shirt is in here.”

“It’s clean though, right?” I wrinkle my nose imaging a balled-up, wrinkled shirt with dried sweat on it.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Ava.”

“Ew.”

“I’m kidding! It’s clean.” Dylan holds a hand up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Glancing down at the sopping shirt I still hold away from my skin, I snort. “Okay.”

Chuckling, Dylan disappears through the door. A couple of minutes later, he reappears and hands me a folded shirt. I take it gingerly, not wanting to transfer any of the stickiness from my shirt or hands onto his clean shirt.

“Thanks. I’ll just…” I bob my head toward the girl’s locker room and when Dylan nods, I walk backward. “I’ll give it back Saturday? Or should I bring it tomorrow?”

“Either way.” Dylan smiles and squints at me as I tug the door open and back through it.

“I’ll wash it!” I shout, just as the door swings closed. I think I hear him laugh and wonder why that would make me flush with heat. Maybe it’s because I’m wearing a soaking wet shirt.

When I realize I have a grin on my face, it immediately shifts into a scowl. That was not some meet-cute moment or anything! He’s just being nice. Why? Who knows? How did he know I needed a shirt anyway? Had he been right there when the whole thing happened? I bury my face in his shirt and groan. Then I sniff it. It smells like him. Pine with a touch of leather. I draw the scent deep into my olfactory senses.

Wait! How do I know what he smells like? This is only the third day I’ve officially known him. What is going on?

Tossing his shirt onto the bench seat, I whip my wet shirt off. My skin is tacky from the flavored water, so I go over to the sink to wash off the stickiness. Luckily, my bra is fine. I drench my sticky shirt under the water faucet before wringing it out. I rinse it two more times, hoping to get all the sugar out of it so it won’t dry funny. Then I wring it as dry as I can and hang it over the side of the sink.

With a wad of dry, scratchy paper towels, I wipe off my stomach and pat myself dry. I run a hand over my skin to make sure I didn’t miss any sticky areas. Finally, it feels safe to pull Dylan’s shirt on. It’s big on me, which makes me feel unusually girly for some reason. It’s a simple light blue t-shirt. Short sleeves, crew neck. Something I would never wear, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I smile. There’s something exciting about wearing his shirt. What is it? Upon further inspection, I grimace. This shirt looks silly as I drown in it.

First, I try to knot it like I’ve seen girls on Instagram do. But I can’t figure out how to make a knot without a length of shirt sticking straight out. Next, I tuck the shirt in, but it’s far too bulky inside my pants. Finally, I tuck only the front in and let the rest hang out. For some reason, that looks better. It actually looks like I’m wearing my boyfriend’s t-shirt. I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering who I’ll be when I really am in a place to wear my boyfriend’s shirt. And why would a girl need to wear her boyfriend’s…oh! My cheeks flame at the thought of pulling on Dylan’s shirt…the next morning! I can’t even look at myself anymore. I hustle away from the mirror, suddenly unable to separate the image of wearing Dylan’s shirt from the reason I might need to wear Dylan’s shirt. It feels so intimate to be steeped in his pine scent.

Grabbing my wet shirt from the sink, I scurry out of the locker room and dash to my locker to store my t-shirt inside.

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