Page 70 of Fake As Puck
Except it’s not better. It’s worse. Because now I can feel every point where we’re touching, and my brain is cataloging all of it instead of paying attention to the conversation happening around us.
The way her hip fits against my stomach. The warmth of her thigh under my hand. The fact that she smells like summer and sunscreen.
“West, you listening?” Colton asks.
“Yeah, sorry. What?”
“I was asking if you and Liv want to come out on the boat with us later.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.”
“Cool. We’re thinking around four, before the fireworks.”
“Sounds good.”
Liv leans back against me more fully, and I automatically adjust my arm around her waist, pulling her closer.
It’s instinctive. Protective. Like my body knows what to do even when my brain is short-circuiting.
“This is nice,” she says, tilting her head back to look at me.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I like your friends. I like this.”
She gestures around at the deck, the lake, the whole scene, but something in her voice makes me think she means more than just the setting.
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”
Hurley raises an eyebrow at Reed, and Reed smirks back at him. Some kind of silent communication that I can’t decode. I don’t want to know what those two are up to.
“Anyone want another beer?” Chelsea asks, standing up.
“I’ll take one,” Liv says, but when she starts to get up, I tighten my arm around her waist.
“I’ll get it,” I say. “Stay here.”
“You sure?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure why I don’t want her to move. Maybe because having her in my lap feels too good to give up. Maybe because I’m worried if she gets up, she won’t sit back down the same way. Maybe because for the first time in three days, I feel like I can breathe properly.
I grab her beer and settle back into the chair, and she immediately curls back into me like this is where she belongs.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle.
“Welcome.”
The conversation continues around us. It’s something about plans for the rest of the summer, who’s doing what during the off-season, but I’m only half listening. I’m too focused on the way Liv’s thumb is tracing small circles on my thigh. Absent-minded, unconscious circles that are driving me completely insane.
“You doing that on purpose?” I ask quietly.
“Doing what?”
“The thing with your thumb.”
She looks down at her hand like she’s just realizing what she’s doing.
“Sorry,” she says, and then she stops.
