Page 22 of Icing Hearts

He looks at me like I’m a fool. “Bed. Please.”

I comply. I wouldn’t for anyone else. It kind of bothers me, the hold he has over me for no real reason—only reasons I’ve foolishly built up in my head. He doesn’t say anything, so I offer, “Let’s get you tucked in, Romeo.” And I watch as this lithe giant crawls under the covers and lets me tuck him in properly.

Tory lies on his back, knuckles a breath away from my scantily clad thigh.

“I like your books, Clara. And I liked being your partner. I think it’s funny to make you mad. That’s why I picked these costumes. Every time you look at that wrinkle between your eyebrows, you’ll know it’s from me, and I’ll see the mark I’ve left on you.” He laughs sardonically, and I don’t see the humor.

“So, you enjoy my discomfort? How kind. In that case, I’m glad I got to see Tiffany dump you in front of everyone. Feel free to take credit for my laugh lines, I’ll be cackling about that little display until I’m old and gray.”

“I like your laugh, too. Would you laugh for me, Clara? I need to hear something beautiful to color my drunken dreams before I pass out.”

“Oh, don’t toy with me. You’ve been doing it since last week and it’s terribly unkind.”

He looks up at me, brows knit together. “How horrible have I been that you mistake my sincerity for jest?”

“Quite.” I intend the word to be said playfully and cross my arms in a show of juvenile defiance. An attempt to keep things light.

But he refuses to play along, brown eyes full of depthless sincerity. Tory reaches up. I feel the heat of his finger by my ear, but it never quite reaches my skin, as if he got ahead of himself and thought better of it. “I’m sorry, Charity,” he whispers.

I huff. “Coquet.” I hope that calling him a flirt in such an archaic term will distract him but, of course, he’s undaunted.

“Then flirt back with me, and give me one of those hearty Clara laughs,” he whines. “Would it help if I say ‘please?’”

“Why don’t you try and find out?” I tell him. Though I know I’ll relent. He likely won’t remember this tomorrow, or at least will only be able to recall vague generalities.

“Please, laugh for me.” He drags out the E in please and leans over toward his nightstand—toward my knees. His waves tickle my skin.

“If I’m to laugh a true laugh, then you must amuse me, Tory. Tell me a joke.”

Several seconds tick from the large decorative clock above a desk—both of which I’ve seen in a PB Teen catalog. I raise my brows impatiently.

“Victory Winner Amato,” he blurts, then bursts out in a sardonic laugh, slapping the mattress and leaning back onto the pillow. “That’s it. That’s the whole joke. I should take my routine on the road and just stand there on stage in silence.”

My face falls. I thought he had it all together. I thought he was sure of himself. I thought a lot of things. But just now, with one poorly timed joke, Tory has opened a door to an insecurity that I’m certain few have ever been privy to. His eyes are misty, and he clears his throat. I want to hold him. I want to cross this line and share a truly vulnerable moment with him—so badly, I want to be that person for him.

But I can’t. It would be one-sided, and I could never truly open myself to him in the same way he’s done for me.

So I don’t.

Instead, I rest my hand on his forearm. Tenderly, cautiously, like I shouldn’t even be doing this, even though it’s the way you sit with a sick grandparent. I choke back the bit of emotion fighting to break free and hold his gaze in earnest. “Victory. Winner. Amato. You are not a joke.”

Tory pulls his arm away abruptly. This time, his tone is biting. Punishing. “Not good enough for you? How about this one? I hate you, Clara. Do you know that? I loathe you so passionately I can feel it poisoning my marrow.” The level of hostility that pours out of him takes me aback both physically and emotionally—wounding me to my core.

Hurt and anger flower through my veins in equal measure. “I’m undeserving of your cruelty,” I choke out, rising to leave the drunken fool.

But even in his stupor, his reflexes are sound as he grabs the sleeve of the hoodie I wrapped around my waist.

“Don’t go. You haven’t even heard the punch line.” His tone is light again—deceptively teasing. “I hate you…because I can’t have you. Because I can never have you, and you parade it in front of me incessantly. All the flirting. The joking. Day in. Day out. You’re a merciless harpy.”

“Stop, Tory.”

“Not a fan of dark humor?” He pulls her back down and laughs the laugh of a drunkard. “Okay, here’s one—”

“Well, now I’m in a foul mood,” I shout. “I don’t quite feel like laughing.”

“Let me fix it?” He bats impossibly long lashes my way.

“You ought to. You caused it after all.”

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