Whit swerves around a slower car and then looks over at me. “They exaggerate.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve told my cousins all about you.”
“I know,” he says, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
“That so?”
“Yes. It was a deduction I made when they arrived at our place. They knew far too much about me. Also, Sem told me I was the main topic of conversation whenever you were around.”
I lean my head against the headrest and stare at him. That dark hair, those plump lips.
“Yeah, well, can you blame me? You’re hard as fuck to figure out.”
Whit whips into his assigned parking spot and cuts the engine. He turns toward me, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other tapping on his knee.
“I don’t open up to many people. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“You open up to that pretty boy back there?”
Whit licks his lips and then pushes out of the car.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask indignantly, following him into the apartment.
He hangs his keys up nicely and squats down, unlacing his boots.
“Look, you’re pissed…Because you’re damn hard to read, I can’t really tell.”
Whit stands up and meets my gaze. His dark brown eyes flash as he pushes past me into the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
I shift on my feet because hell…
“I’m not pissed,” he interrupts and then sets the cup in the sink and turns toward me. “Let’s just…watch a movie. That’s what you wanted, right?”
He moves to the couch and sits down, fiddling with the remote.
I grab two beers and follow him, sitting down right next to him. Our thighs brush, and I scoot even closer. He looks at me as if to say," Do you mind, " but I ignore him, just pop the cap off my beer. It falls to the floor with a clatter, and Whit huffs.
“What are we watching?” I ask, and Whit begins scrolling through Netflix while tapping his fingers against his knee.
It’s driving me insane, this nervous habit. And I hate that it’s always around me too. I must stress him the fuck out.
So I do the only rational thing. I thread my fingers through his and rest our hands on my knee.
He has really soft hands.
Whit’s cheeks pinken as he eyes our entwined fingers, my large hand nearly engulfing his.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Holding your hand,” I say like it’s no big deal. In reality, it is because I’ve never held another man’s hand in my entire life. I’ve also never cuddled with a man before. Whit seems to be the exception in both of these situations.
“Why?” he asks, his eyes flicking up and meeting mine.
“Because you’re tapping them all the time, and it’s driving me up a wall.”
That’s the only reason I can give that makes any sense.
“I apologize. I’ll stop,” he says, but I make no move to let him go, just lean back further, spreading my legs and taking another swig of beer. My track pants are worn, and my tank is wrinkled. The armholes are stretched, and my pierced right nipple is exposed. I glance down at it but don’t move to cover it up.