Page 88 of Collide
Two days after my first message, Summer finally texted me her schedule. Two whole days. It was absolute torture. But we managed to carve out a few afternoons and the rare morning. She’s firm on her no sleepover rule because it treads too close to the relationship category. I don’t care as long as I get to see her.
“You can thank my mom for that. She used to oil my hair growing up and now I’m addicted.”
“Oil?” I ask curiously. This is my favorite part. When we talked about anything and everything, things I'd never get to know about her otherwise.
“You’ve never had oil massaged into your scalp?” she asks, eyes wide with surprise.
I shake my head. “Can’t say I have.”
“You’re missing out. It used to be my favorite thing.” She lies back, and I run my hand over the smooth skin of her arm.
“You don’t do it anymore?”
She lets out a nostalgic breath. “I do, but having someone else do it is a whole other feeling.”
“I can do it for you.”
It’s the silence before she bursts into laughter that has me furrowing my brows. She catches her breath, losing it again when she tries to talk. “You did not just say that.”
I frown. “What?”
She laughs again, bewildered as she stares at my blank expression. “I’ll do it for you? No guy just offers to oil hair. I’ve literally never heard that before.”
Is that a weird thing to say? Fuck, maybe I should google serial killer tendencies again. “Well, you said it’s your favorite thing. If it makes you happy I’d do it.”
All the residual humor dissipates, and her eyes lock with mine. All my senses focus on her.
Then her gaze drops, snapping the tight string between us. “That’s a bit much for fuck buddies.”
Her words are a grimy knife to the gut. But before she can say something else that digs a hole out of my chest, I lean in and kiss her.
“Ow.” Summer rears back, breaking our kiss.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your beard,” she mutters, rubbing her chin. “It’s scratching me.”
My growing playoff beard is at that awkward length that leaves the friction burning Summer’s skin whenever I kiss her. She hasn't said much about it, but I can tell she’s not its biggest fan.
“You weren’t complaining when it was scratching the inside of your thighs.”
She rolls her eyes, and when I go in for another kiss, she stops me. “I have homework.”
“You kicking me out, Preston?” I settle for a kiss on her cheek. Trying to spend an extra second with her is nearly impossible lately. She was with Donny this morning, so I expected her to be a little distant. It’s become obvious she feels guilty about what we’re doing.
Summer steals my hoodie from the end of the bed. I have a T-shirt, so I don’t care if she takes it, it looks better on her anyway.
“Yes.” She tries escaping my hold, but I pull her back to stand between my legs.
“I’m starting to feel used.”
She raises a brow. “Try being bent in ten different positions.”
“Come to my game tonight.” Summer makes a face and I sigh. “Give me one good reason why you won’t.” I have never invited a girl to a game, but having Summer sitting rink side feels right.
“One: I don’t like hockey. Two: I’m not sitting in the stands wearing your jersey to fulfill your weird fantasy.”
A sliver of humor rises up my throat. “One: You likeme. Two: I think Crystal wears my jersey anyway.”
