Page 75 of Tell Me When It's Over

“No.”

He gets that mischievous gleam in his eyes that lights up his whole face. “You’re no fun sometimes, Len.” Pouting even looks good on him when he sticks that bottom lip out, but I still manage to roll my eyes at him. “Be honest, though, you’re looking forward to it? You haven’t said much about UCLA lately.”

I’m buzzing with excitement about classes starting, even though most people probably dread summer being over. I already have books ordered and ready to pick up at the store, and money to spare since I got a few of them used and on rental versus buying new. “I am. How can I not be? I’ve been talking about college long before I even graduated high school.”

Thinking back to Saint Michael’s has me fighting a frown. How many times did I talk about what came after graduation before everything happened between Harry ad Mom? Everyone who knew me expected exactly what I did then—that I’d be valedictorian and get into any school I wanted. Obviously, things changed, and I wonder if any of them know just how bad it got. They had to have seen some of the articles, the speculations of the “Bishop mistresses” no longer being in the picture. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, but I never saw if there was a statement made, or if the Bishops chose not to say a word at all. Although I learned from them that seeking out articles like that only lead to dark waters, so I never actively searched.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells me softly. “I don’t think I’ve said that before, but I am. You’re just so…” Shaking his head, he palms the side of his neck and smiles. “Resilient. Persistent.”

His words mean more than he can possibly know. People don’t tell others that they’re proud of them enough. I would have killed to hear Mom say those four words to me even once, but no matter how much I achieved, I didn’t get them. Now, I hold onto any form of recognition I can, letting it seep into my skin and bones for life because it feels good and I never know when, or if, I’ll hear it again.

I don’t even think about it before I’m leaning over the table, trying to cement the connection we’re forming. His lips are soft as they sweep across mine in a brief kiss, nothing compared to others we’ve shared. I sigh in contentment as I pull back just enough to smile.

There isn’t a lot of other kissing experiences I can compare these to, but kissing Chase is nice. I’m sure there are better words to describe it because none of the books I’ve read ever leave a kiss as being only “nice” but my mind struggles wrapping around anything else to explain it. My chest gets warm and my lips tingle, but it isn’t like what I’ve read in novels that leave my heart pumping or limbs numb.

Nerves. I chalk it up to nerves.

And there aren’t as many of them that linger now versus the first kiss. The night he dropped me off after a nice dinner at a Greek restaurant that was way too pricey for my comfort zone, I already knew what he’d planned to do before he did it. If the way he kept looking at me in the car on the way home wasn’t a clue, it was how he wiped his palms against his legs constantly like he was sweating and trapped in his own head. That kiss had rattled me because I thought about everything that I had worried about with Beckham. Where did I put my hands? What should I do with my tongue? When, really, it didn’t last long enough for me to freak out about. Ten seconds tops. We’d smiled at each other after it happened, he pecked my lips again softly, and that was that.

I lean forward again and give him another chaste kiss until it morphs into one that lasts a little longer, pressing my lips to his with more pressure than he’d given me the first time. Chasing…something. And it does work a little because my fingertips prickle as I touch his cheek and taste the faint trace of lemonade he’s been drinking.

Ever so subtly, my lips part and my tongue dips into his mouth to get a better taste of the tangy flavor, and he meets each pass just as slowly. One of his palms comes up and cups my jaw, sliding down until it’s resting on my neck as he changes the angle and kisses me deeper. His fingers twitch on my skin as I draw his bottom lip into my mouth and bite down lightly until he stifles a small groan.

He breathes heavily against my mouth and rests his forehead against mine. “Anytime you want to do that, go for it.”

I can’t help but laugh and peck his lips again, sitting back down before his mom comes out. I know she told me to have fun, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an open invitation to maul her son.

> I’m picking up another piece of chicken when he shifts in his seat and makes an uncomfortable face. My eyes narrow in confusion before they dart to the edge of the glass table where I see him reaching down and—

Oh. Adjusting himself. He’s…

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Are you, uh, okay?” My cheeks burn, and his match mine when he realizes I saw him.

It takes him a second before clearing his throat and giving me a jerky nod. “I’m fine. It…it happens.”

How many times has that happened to him? I’m tempted to ask, but I don’t think I’m ready for that conversation.

“What do you expect,” he teases, nudging our feet under the table. “I’ve got a beautiful girlfriend who’s a bomb ass kisser. It’s bound to happen.”

Swallowing, I blink at him. We’ve never used labels before. I mean, I expected he’s my boyfriend and listened to Mia poke fun at us by calling him that when I’m at her house, but…

“I’m your girlfriend?”

His lips twitch. “Unless you object to that,” he answers carefully, gauging my reaction.

I shake my head slowly, realizing I don’t. In my head, I guess I already knew what this was, but it becomes real when the label is officially there. I’m not sure why, but my head goes to Kyler again and I wonder…

What will he think?

The front door closes loudly, and I hear the footsteps seconds later. “Lenny?” I sit up in bed, setting my book down when he appears in my doorway, guilt washed over his face the moment we lock eyes.

“I’m so damn sorry.”

He knows.

“It’s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he cuts me off knowingly, frowning even deeper. “It’s not. I’m a shithead.”

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