Page 16 of Gingers Can Do Maths

I slide my hand to the knob and lock it with a click.

“But I do.”

Sin

I watch as Rohan unbuttons his blazer and slings it across the chair I just vacated. Then, he reaches for the hem of his forest green turtleneck and pulls it up over his head.

I freeze at the motion, my eyes stuck on his bare torso that’s chiselled to perfection from the finest marble. He’s muscular but lean. All hard ridges and deep lines, especially the V cut that runs over his hip bones and sends a signal to my brain that my target is hidden just beneath his waistband.

I swallow, following the fine dusting of auburn air that peeks out from his belt. Pinpricks of pain radiate up my arm as I curl my fingers, digging my nails into my palms to keep from reaching out and touching it. Touching him.

And I want to touch him. I want him to touch me just like I begged him to in my dreams every night. Even then, he wouldn’t. I guess Dream Han hates me too.

In the past, he couldn’t resist. Even if it was just our elbows or knees touching, we were always in constant contact with each other. I’d naively hoped my attraction that’s bloomed twofold since the last time I’d seen him, went both ways.

As a kid, I was always too scared of pushing him away to ever tell him how I felt. Too young, naive and unsure if his attention was solely friendship or something more.

He’d always touched me with so much care and affection, but never inappropriately. He never said anything overt either. Like when he asked me to promise him my firsts. We were talking about school, travel, TV shows, movies and food. Innocent things. It was my mind that warped it to mean something deeper. So much so that I’d kept all of those firsts even to this day. Even though it’s probably in vain.

I mean I’m not his type, right? Tall skinny, pale physics nerds didn’t typically date dark, chubby girly girls, did they? That’s what I’d told myself anyway. But in the span of three years, I’d slowly come to that realisation that I was dimwitted. Han had liked me as more than just a friend. My adult mind could see that in hindsight.

But my adult mind also knew that we weren’t the same people. Han wasn’t a gangly nerd anymore. He’s a ginger god carved from stone and anyone with eyes could see that. So has his type shifted? Am I still someone he’d look twice at?

Maybe not. Because I’d been half-naked, focused on the equations and while he’d stared at me, studied me, I couldn’t read him. Not like I used to. He’s different in a way that has nothing to do with his matured looks. He’s colder. More reserved.

But don’t I deserve that given the way I essentially ended our friendship? I mean he ghosted me in every possible way after I lied and told him that we were codependent. That I needed space when really I knew he needed space to grow without me. I was the weed strangling him, not the other way around. He just couldn’t see it at the time.

Maybe he’s realised it during our time apart?

Anyway, what did I expect? Him to lift me in his arms and bury his nose into my hair the way he used to like nothing had happened?

No. I didn’t. But I hadn’t expected to feel like complete strangers either.

A tug pulls me to the present as Rohan’s long fingers reach for my bag. Before I can blink he’s pulling it from my grasp and resting it on the floor next to his feet.

My heart slams into overdrive as I gaze from the floppy straps back up at him.

“What are you—”

Another tug. One second I’m still wearing my soaked shirt and the next it’s dragging over my hair while the draughty air hits my bare breasts once again. A shiver racks my spine but it has nothing to do with the cold because I’m on fire. Even though his skin didn’t actually touch mine, he’s so close, I can feel his breath on my forehead and my hard nipples are only centimetres away from grazing his abs.

If he notices my reaction, he doesn’t comment as he guides his turtleneck over my head, encasing me in his scent, especially around the collar where his hair must’ve grazed the back. Again I’m hit with that familiar scent. Leather. Sandalwood. Marshmallow. Then it hits me...

Is he still using that deep conditioner I’d made him?

But it’s been three years. There’s no way.

I gaze down, watching the hem settle just above midthigh where it covers all but two centimetres of my skirt. It may be long, but it’stight.

Fuck. I must look like a stuffed sausage, especially standing next to a statue.

A statue that’s just stripped and redressed me.

Rohan’s teal eyes look nearly black as his eyes rove over me and once again I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

“Not good enough,” he mutters to himself before reaching for his double-breasted Bradley blazer and holding it open for me to slide into it.

Damn.Do I look that bad?

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