Page 8 of When He Saved Me
It was fucking weird.
Disgusted with myself, I turned and set his coffee on the counter harder than intended. Hard enough, in fact, that some of the hot liquid sloshed out through the opening in the lid, landing on my hand. I pulled my hand back with a hiss, shaking it at the pain.
“Are you okay?” Jamie asked, voice laced with concern.
I stopped shaking my hand so I could inspect it for burns. There were a couple of small, red splotches, but nothing too serious, thankfully.
“It’s fine,” I said, responding to Jamie’s question, feeling like an idiot. I really wished he would just go. Something about him made me itchy in my own skin, self-conscious and uncomfortable in a way I usually wasn’t with most people. With most people, I just didn’t give a damn.
Before I could turn away again, to find some excuse to be busily working and effectively excuse myself from this interaction, he grabbed my hand gently so as not to touch the burns. I was so stunned at the gesture that I didn’t pull away.
The feel of his smooth palm against mine sent a hum of sensation vibrating just under the surface of my skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, though not altogether comfortable either. I watched his face as he inspected my hand, eyebrows drawn up in concern before he brought his gaze back to mine. “It doesn’t look too bad, but you should probably run it under cold water for a few minutes. It will help keep it from blistering.”
“What are you? Pre-med?” I couldn’t figure out why he would care so much. Unless maybe he was studying to be a doctor and was eager to use some bit of newfound knowledge.
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich as it washed over me. “No, secondary education. I’m studying to be an English teacher.”
He was still holding my hand.
He was still holding my hand, and I was letting him.
Abruptly, I pulled it away. I hated how it tingled at the loss of contact, and without thinking, I rubbed it against my jeans as if I could wipe off the feel of his touch. His eyes tracked the movement, but he didn’t comment.
“I should get back to work,” I said, desperate to escape this conversation.
“Yeah, okay.” He picked up his coffee, and I started to turn away, thankful for an exit, but pulled up short when he said my name.
He said it softly like I was a frightened animal he didn’t want to scare away. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard him, but there was some part of me, maybe the part that had worried over him the last five days, that wanted to see what he had to say. I turned back to him, an eyebrow raised in question.
“Go out with me, Finn.” He hadn’t asked a question, just tossed out his request with the confidence of a man who was rarely rejected. And for good reason. He was gorgeous. And though dressed casually in jeans and a fitted sweater, he had the air of someone who wasn’t used to doing without. I’d been surrounded by guys like him my whole life. Cocky, rich assholes who thought they were God’s gift to the world and felt like everyone owed them something.
“Nah, man. You’re not my type.”
“Yeah?” He leaned forward on the counter, a gleam of mischief in his eye. “Whatisyour type?”
I snorted. “Not rich, pretty boys like you.”
“Is that all you see when you look at me?” he asked. He didn’t seem offended, just genuinely curious, which surprised me.
This conversation was exhausting.
“Look, man. I don’t want to play games, all right. Whatever you think you see in me, just forget about it. Just accept that I’m not interested and move on.”
“All right, fair enough.” He reached over and grabbed a napkin, then pulled a pen out of his backpack. He quickly jotted down his number and handed it to me. “If you change your mind…” And without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the door.
I looked down at the napkin, studying the neat handwriting for a moment, before shaking my head and tossing it in the trash.
* * *
I walkedinto my apartment around five that evening to find Carmen sitting on my couch, books and papers spread out in front of her, staring into space. She hadn’t even heard me come in.
I’d been worried about her. Ever since her breakup, she’d been…not exactly withdrawn, more…muted. The week after the Halloween party, we’d gone over to Amy’s to pick up her stuff, which had been incredibly awkward but, thankfully, otherwise uneventful. Since then, she hadn’t been going out to her usual bars and parties. She hadn’t even gone out for dinner with friends, which was so contrary to her extroverted personality. Whereas I loathed being around people, Carmen thrived in a crowd. She fed off the energy of others.
Now, she was wilting, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
“Hey, CiCi,” I said as I tossed my keys on the table by the front door and peeled off my coat and scarf. At my greeting, she turned to look at me, a soft smile lighting her face. It wasn’t the wide grin she usually blessed me with, but I’d take it nonetheless. “How was class?” I asked.
She shrugged, pushing aside the notebook in her lap and standing to stretch. “It was all right. The usual. I’ve got a bunch of stuff due before the end of the week since we’re out for Thanksgiving next week.” She moved into the kitchen and started a kettle for tea. “How was your day?”
