Page 86 of Blindside Me
“This place is adorable!” Callie’s gaze ping-pongs from the antiqued shiplap to the retro turquoise couches. “So nautical.”
“I figured you’d like it.”
“You were right.” She beelines toward the counter like a woman on a mission. I trail after her, tugging my hoodie sleeves over my hands to keep from checking my phone like a lunatic.
Normal girls get coffee.
Normal girls have chill Saturday mornings.
Normal girls don’t stand there grinning like idiots because a certain hockey player with unfair cheekbones texted them good morning and something about missing how she tasted.
My cheeks burn hotter than the espresso machine, but I don’t care. Not even a little.
“What are you getting?” Callie calls over her shoulder.
“My usual. Black coffee, two sugars.” My voice sounds steady. Good. I can do this. I can be normal, hang with a friend and not obsess over a hot defenseman who should come with a warning label. One that reads: Warning: Big Dick Energy Ahead. Multiple Orgasms Possible. Proceed with Caution.
Jesus. When did I become a size queen?
I shake it off, half-laughing as Callie chats up the barista, a guy from her biochem class, judging by the way they’re talking about enzymes and pipettes. That’s Callie: instantly comfortable, making friends everywhere. A skill I never quite mastered.
My phone buzzes in my hand. The room stutters.
Three seconds. Four. Five.
Don’t seem eager.
Don’t be that girl.
Callie pays for our drinks, and as we move to the pickup counter, I cave and look.
Drew.
Just four letters, but they hit me like a freight train. My breath goes ragged.
Drew: Thinking about you today. Specifically about what you were wearing. Or not wearing.
Heat floods my cheeks. Memory rushes back: his mouth on my skin, his hands unapologetically exploring. I shift on my feet, suddenly too warm.
I type, delete, and type again. My hands are shaking.
Me: If you keep thinking about it, you might need another cold shower. Or I could help with that later?
I hit send before I could overthink it, immediately regretting my boldness.
Too much? Too forward? Why am I like this?
This is why I don’t flirt. Vulnerability is a crack in the armor.
“Oh, my God. Are you sexting?”
“Jesus, Callie. Keep it down?” I glance around, cheeks flaming hotter.
She cackles. “Come on. Your face is giving you away.”
“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she’s not wrong.
“Spill it, Howell. You’re blushing like a teenager.”
