Page 34 of Blindside Me
It’s not a question. Just a statement, tinged with horror.
“No, it’s where I perform ritual sacrifices. Come in already before you get the rumor mill started.”
That gets him moving.
He walks inside, cautious, like he expects the floor to be booby-trapped. I close the door behind him, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the area feels with his broad shoulders taking up space. His minty scent lags behind him along with something clean and controlled, just like everything else about him.
“You can sit…” I gesture vaguely at my desk chair and bed.
He pauses in front of the board taped above my bed. The string lights cast soft shadows across the clutter, but there’s enough light to make every dream and goal tacked up there obvious.
“You want to write a book?”
I blink, surprised he picked that out of everything. “Eventually. Yeah.”
“That’s cool.”
Cool? I was ready for mockery. Not … approval.
He drops his bag next to the desk chair and shrugs out of his hoodie, revealing a plain black tee that does nothing to hide how built he is. I look away, suddenly fascinated by my notebook. He drops into the chair and eyes my unmade bed like it might be contagious.
“So your vision board includes world domination and socks on the floor?” He nods toward the pile of laundry I forgot to hide.
My lips flatten. “And you look like your GPA wears a tie,” I counter, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Are we going to trade insults all night or work on this project?”
His mouth twitches. “Project first. Insults scheduled for 9:30. Sharp.”
“Of course, you’d schedule insults.”
Drew slides from the chair to the floor, mimicking my cross-legged position but making it look painfully stiff. We spread his leather-bound planner and my rainbow sticky notes between us. The contrast is almost comical.
“So, Media Mirror.” I tap my pen. “We need to present media that shaped our identities and analyze why it matters.”
“Right. A fifteen-minute video essay, three clips minimum each. Commentary required.” Drew flips a page. “We should establish a timeline. Two weeks for research, two for scripting, one for filming, and one for editing.”
I stare at him. “Do you schedule your breathing, too?”
“Only when under duress.”
“Wow. Okay, well, creative projects need room to breathe.”
Drew’s eyes narrow. “And deadlines. And structure. And actual work.”
“Are you implying I don’t work?” My voice edges up.
“I’m stating that your approach is … improvisational.”
“Whereas yours is rigor mortis.”
We lock eyes, both leaning in, knees almost touching. The space between us shrinks with every comeback. There’s a small scar above his right eyebrow. Have I never seen it before, or never been this close?
“Fine,” he says finally. “Two weeks for research. Flexible scripting. Firm filming and editing. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I reach for my pen at the exact moment he does. Our fingers brush, and damn, if my body doesn’t notice. We both jerk back.
Drew clears his throat, but his gaze drops to my mouth. “I should be excused from group projects involving your mouth.”
