Page 47 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
To be honest, I was starting to feel the heat. I might have grown up sitting in the sauna all summer, but three long years had passed since I had even set foot in one. Perhaps I overestimated my perseverance. Perhaps it was my earlier overconfidence during Greased Pig at work again.
“Fuck.” Clarence bent his head. Sweat dripped from his forehead to the cedar floor. “How are you two not dying?”
“I am.” Manuel flashed his vivid white teeth. “But I want to win more than I want to cool down.”
“Touché, brother.” Clarence pushed himself off the bench. “Well, then, kids. It is with a heavy heart”—he bowed low, leaking moresweat onto the floor, then straightened again—“that I concede to the victors. See you in the lake.”
And with that, it was just Manuel and me.
We did it. Our team won. Still, he didn’t move and neither did I. I wanted to—wanted to scoot an inch to the left, creating just a smidgeon of breathing room between us, but I was smushed up against the wall, Manuel’s body blocking the rest of the bench. Why didn’t he move? There was a whole sauna we could fill. Why did he have to stay so damn close?
And then he looked at me.
And like an age-old reflex that would never leave my body, I looked back.
Which was a mistake, because his head—while a foot taller than mine when we were standing up—was tilted down such that his lips were a bare breath away.
Fuck.
I needed to turn, to look away. But I was trapped in his gaze, his eyes like almonds swirled with caramel, his lips dark and lush beneath them. Breath climbed high and shallow in my chest. In my stomach it felt as if a tower of rocks were teetering back and forth, just seconds from crashing and shattering every inch of my insides. It must have been the heat. The heat was making me lightheaded, making me feel as if I wasn’t actually the one inhabiting my own body.
“So,” Manuel said.
I swallowed. “So.”
“Technically, it doesn’t matter which of us stays in here the longest.”
“I know.”
“We’re on the same team. Either way, we win.”
“I know.”
What is happening to me? Why can’t I move?
“Then why don’t you leave?”
My fingers dug into the bench. I whispered, “Why don’t you?”
Manuel leaned down. His breath whisked hot and sweet along the bridge of my nose. “I think you know why.”
His lips were so close I could lick them if I wanted to.
And, God, did I want to.
No.Panic spiked through me.No. Shut up, Eliot. You can’t think things like that.
“I think you know exactly why I’m still here,” he murmured. “And I think you’re here for the same reason.”
“I—” I swallowed again. “I don’t—”
Manuel leaned away. “Because you’re a competitive psycho, and you want to see which one of us can last the longest.”
Oh.
Right. That. Of course.
“Right,” I said aloud. “For sure. I’m here to kick your ass.”
