Frankly, I don’t trust myself.
All that comes to an end on Saturday when it’s time to show for detention. There’s no buffer or escaping this one. Dread paralyzes me as I put on my work clothes and shoes. I stare at the bag hanging from the back of my desk, which contains something I brought from home last weekend. At the time it didn’t feel like a big deal, but now, any gesture, any interaction, feels like some kind of involuntary acceptance of it all.
Clearly, it’s dumb. I’m being absurd. It’s just my ridiculous hormones. He’s Hamilton Bates. He’s like the epitome of attractiveness. Hamilton is hot, and I’m big enough to admit that. He’s sexy and genetically perfect, the ideal physical specimen. It only makes sense that my body reacts to his body, to have some evolutionary biological imperative triggered when he’s around. I’ve always been aware of his muscles and the way he’s performed as an athlete. He walks around nearly naked at swim. There’s no ignoring his ripped abs and strong legs, his lean biceps and powerful back. So we apparently have some latent sexual chemistry going on. Who wouldn’t be attracted to all of that?
Because, damn. Seriously. The guy is smoking hot, and I’m...
I’m just one woman.
It’s a perfectly valid weakness.
I repeat all of this to myself like an affirmation, doing my best to convince myself that it’s just surface deep. With a steeling inhale, I grab the bag and leave.
The morning air is cool and humid, and the campus is quiet in that eerie, hushed blanket it always transforms into on early morning weekends. I’m surprised when I realize that Hamilton has beaten me to the athletic field, his silhouette standing stark against the vacant expanse. As I approach, I see he’s at least better dressed for the task this week in worn, faded jeans and an old Devil hoodie that’s already ratty and frayed. He’s even wearing a pair of old, battered sneakers. The clothes make him a lot less intimidating, like he’s just any other normal high school guy who rolled out of bed at the crack of noon and pulled on the first items of clothing that entered his sightline. He and Dean Dewey watch me approach, waiting. I notice a cup of coffee in the dean’s hand and two in Hamilton’s.
Hamilton thrusts one to me, his gaze diverted.
Huh.
After a pause, I reluctantly take the warm cup in my hands. “Uh, thank you.”
Well, the dean did tell him not to bring coffee for himself if he didn’t provide it to everyone.
“If you two are ready to get started, I’ll leave you to it,” the dean says, looking between us. When neither of us replies, both avoiding the other’s gaze and awkwardly cradling our drinks, he nods and walks off.
I take a hesitant sip of the coffee, surprised to taste the dark, sugary goodness of a mocha—my favorite. I frown into the cup, then back at Hamilton, who has begun pulling out the drop cloth. How on earth does he know what I like to drink? Fluke, I assume.
I fidget with the cup for a belated moment, trying to figure out how to approach him. I ultimately just blurt, “I have something for you.”
He spreads out the cloth, his long arms billowing it wide. “Do you now?” He spares me a quick glance over his shoulder, and the knowing glint in his eye is enough to make my cheeks heat.
I do my best to ignore him, knowing he’s just trying to rattle me. Without any ado, I toss him the bag and it lands limply at his feet.
He bends to retrieve it, peering inside with a frown. “What are these?”
“Gloves, Bates. I’m sure you’ve seen them before.”
“Yeah, no shit, smart ass,” he mutters. “Why are you giving them to me?”
“To protect your dainty, cello-playing fingers. I found them in the garage at home.”
“Hm.” He tugs them on and stretches his fingers, a slow smirk spreading across his face. When he meets my gaze, his eyes are dark and glittering. “Well, I guess you would be invested in the welfare of my fingers.”
My jaw drops, but I’m at a loss for any sort of retort. He has actually stunned me speechless. Instead of trying, I focus on finding the little key-tool to open the can of primer, doing my best to pretend like my body hasn’t just lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of just what those fingers can do.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem interested in goading me about it any further.
For about three minutes.
“So I’m thinking,” he begins, taking in the wall with a pensive expression, “we can split this fucker in half. I’ll take the bottom—” That smarmy ass grin returns. “—you can take the top.”
And that’s how, ten minutes later, I find myself on the ladder, fighting the wobble of the uneven surface as he paints the lower portion of the wall. It takes me a while to realize just how deftly he’s manipulated me into taking the harder part of the job. When I do, I pause, my paint roller stuttering to a stop against the wall.
He’s whistling.
Insufferable fucking jerk.
I set my jaw and keep painting.