“Odd,” I admitted.
“Thank you.” Gabe’s breath was on my neck as he answered and then side-stepped me and started pulling salsa and sour cream out of the fridge, “Being called odd’s almost as great as being called sexy.”
“How do you figure?” I snorted, trying to ignore what his nearness was doing to my body at that moment. My breath hitched as another wave of desire hit me. Swear, it was like he was physically willing himself on me without even touching me.
Gabe’s hand paused on the ketchup as he ducked out from behind the fridge door and sneered at me; his mouth curved silkily around his white teeth, sending an involuntary shudder through me. “Odd can mean any number of things.” He closed the fridge.
There wasn’t anything I could put between us, no counter, no ketchup, nothing.
“Odd means I stand out. It’s an unintelligent way of saying I’m unique, different, special, one of a kind. Odd means in a lineup of twenty guys, your eyes would still find mine.” He thumped the block of cheese onto the counter. “Every.” Followed it with a jar of chopped tomatoes. “Damn.” And then the salsa. “Time.” Then he turned to face me, a smirk on his face so cocky that I wanted to launch myself at him. “So do I take it as a compliment that you call me odd? Hell yeah, I do. It means tonight when you close your eyes, you won’t be thinking about all those cookie cutter all-American guys with clean skin and baby blue eyes. But you will be thinking of me.” His grin turned predatory. “All me. And that—” He took two more steps toward me. I couldn’t back up. It was impossible to move. “—makes me happier than you’ll ever know.”
My breathing was ragged. I was an idiot. Plain and simple. I was allowing the bad boy with no future to play with my feelings, but it was unintentional. Everything about my reaction to him was uncontrollable. I couldn’t help but feel drawn, I couldn’t help but feel irritated, and I couldn’t help but want him to touch me one more time, even though it pissed me off as much as it turned me on.
“Move,” he whispered.
“Huh?” I shook the cobwebs of lust from my head.
He tapped my shoulder and gently pushed me to the side. “I gotta set the table. I wasn’t trying to be rude. Oh, and close your mouth. Gaping makes you look desperate.”
I stepped out of the way, basically clattering my body against the oven hard enough to cause a permanent bruise on my hip.
“Don’t mind him,” Lisa said from behind me. “One day, he’ll get his.”
“Don’t worry.” Gabe poked his head around the corner and winked. “I already got mine.” He disappeared then came back again just as I opened my mouth to speak. “Oh, and by the way, it was awesome.”
“Pig,” Lisa muttered.
“Aw, cousin.” Gabe blew a kiss and this time disappeared for good.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until Lisa tapped me on the shoulder, making me almost choke to death.
“Sorry about him. Sometimes I wonder how we’re related.” Her blue eyes twinkled briefly before she shrugged and returned to the cupboard to pull out plates. “Grab the salsa and we can put the tacos on the table. Homework second, food first.” For some reason I felt the need to it — maybe it was because of Gabe, or maybe it was because of me. Yeah, on second thought, it was me, because he made me feel out of control.
Chapter Eleven
Stupid taco Tuesday and all it represented. I’d rather drive down to Mexico, buy some drugs, and risk the chance of getting caught on the Tijuana border by drug sniffing dogs than actually sit through an entire meal while everyone pretended life was perfect. —Gabe H.
Gabe
“You staying for dinner?” I took a swig of water and sat at the table. Wes sat opposite and chuckled, reaching for his own water and giving me that look that guys gave one another when they were enjoying the other’s misery way too much.
“Thought I would.” Wes’s grin widened. “You know since things got so interesting.”
“You should go.”
“I think I’d rather stay and watch Taco Tuesday drama.”
“I second that.” Kiersten took a seat and slapped me on the back, “Olé?”
“Um, no, and please remove your hand.” I glared.
She tilted her head. Ah, the pity look. Fantastic. Her hand moved from my shoulder down to my arm as she squeezed. Great! Effing wonderful. I’d just been given the supportive friend squeeze on top of everything else. Fantastic.
I wasn’t big on touch. I mean, I talked a big game, and sure I loved screwing around, but people actually touching me just to touch? Not a huge fan. It reminded me too much of them — the people at the home--of their touches, of their sad faces every damn day that week.
I freaking hated it when people felt sorry for me, or what was even worse, when I felt guilty for being thankful that I was actually in that position, thankful that the person they wanted most to live… was actually dying.
“Which one do you think she would like, Park?” Her mother touched my arm briefly before putting her hand back onto her lips as they trembled.
“Um,” my voice croaked. I could barely keep my eyes open anymore. I’d cried so damn much that they stopped producing tears. Instead they burned like hell until I closed them.
The only problem with closing them?
I saw her.
I saw the damn scarf.