No good can come of this.
“You want to watch a movie? Or are you going to head home?”
It’s still early, and I have no desire to leave…and she’s inviting me to stay longer.
I nod. “Yeah, let’s watch a movie. I don’t feel like walking.”
Scarlett
“Rowdy.”
I smooth the back of my hand tenderly down his cheek, leisurely over his laugh lines. Over the coarse, unshaven stubble of a day’s growth, bristly against my skin.
Rough, in a ruggedly sexy way.
His skin is soft near his eyes, lashes fanned out against his cheekbones as he deeply slumbers, the perfect slope of his nose a path I take with the tip of my thumb.
There are freckles there.
Brown specks I never would have noticed if I wasn’t this close, studying every nuance from inches away. Never would I have the nerve if he was awake, although I suspect we’re reaching that point.
I study his sideburns next.
The high arch of his tan cheekbones.
Both his buff arms are folded across his chest, shoulders wide. Neck tipped back, the column of thick and strong and sexy, Adam’s apple still in the center of his throat. That, too, is covered with dark stubble.
I run my palm along his skin, admiring the curve of his lips and strong, square jaw.
He is all man.
And I showed him my butt cheeks.
Rowdy’s lips move, startling the shit out of me. “You know they have names for people who watch other people sleep.”
I pull my hand back like it’s been set on fire. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
He cracks an eyelid. “Creepers.”
“I’m not creeping on you.” I am. “I said your name three times and patted your cheek twice.”
“You said it once.”
“Well why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you feel good.”
He shifts on the couch, readjusting his weight. Moving his arms to his sides, letting his hands fall to the cushions. Cracks his beautiful green eyes open and shoots me a sleepy smile.
“What are you staring at so hard?”
I boop the tip of his nose then run it in tiny circles. “These freckles right here on the bridge of your nose.”
Now he’s more alert. “I don’t have freckles.”
“Yes you do. Right…” He watches me trace them with the tip of my finger, counting a few. “Here.” I tap ever so gently, the barest touch. “And here.” Tap. “And a few here, and you don’t have to sound so put-out about it.”
They’re the most adorable things I’ve ever seen, and my new favorite thing about him.
“Freckles are for sissies.”
My laugh is low. “Then you should wear sunscreen.”
“Sunscreen is for sissies.”
I cluck my tongue to hold back a laugh. “Shame shame, I always wear sunscreen. That’s why I’m so pale.”
Warily, he watches me with half-hooded eyes, still sleepy. “Did I miss the movie?”
“You passed out about twenty minutes into it.”
“Why did you let me?”
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.”
“Did I snore?”
“No. Why, do you usually snore?”
“Only when I’m really tired.”
“Maybe you should start staying home on the weekends instead of hanging out on the front porch of the baseball house.”
“And shirk my civic duty?” The lazy smile he gives me sends the thousand butterflies inside my tummy spiraling out of control. “I have to protect the public from you.”
FIFTH FRIDAY
“The Friday Where She Doesn’t Show Up.”
Rowdy
Where the hell is Scarlett?
I check my phone again, then look out into the dark neighborhood, watching the sidewalk. Check for the familiar sight her black winter coat, earmuffs, and scuffed Chuck Taylors—but there is still no sign of her.
Those girls she’s come with a few times are inside, having arrived the better part of an hour ago, and I debate whether I should stay standing outside longer, the conversation we had a few weeks ago playing on a loop in my mind.
“How long would you be willing to wait for me to show up?”
“Five minutes.”
“Liar. Try again or I’m not showing you what’s in here.” That was the night she brought me food.
“I don’t know, Scarlett—eight minutes.” She’d raised her brows, challenging me.
“Fine. I’d wait an hour. Maybe a little longer if I knew for sure you were going to show up.”
Surely her friends would have told me Scarlett wasn’t coming, right? I mean, it’s been four consecutive Fridays of the same routine. The fact that she’s deviating and didn’t have the courtesy to tell me?
It annoys the shit out of me.
Scares the crap out of me, too, if I’m being honest.
Shoving through the front door, my gaze scans the perimeter of the room until they land on the familiar faces of Scarlett’s two blonde friends, whose names I have yet to catch. They’re flirting with my teammates, preening when I approach, stomping through the crowd on a mission, the taller of the two girls sticking out her ample chest when I disrupt. I reach my arm out between them, inserting myself into the conversation to stop the flow. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I need to grab the girls for a second.”
No one objects when I motion them aside, and I didn’t expect them to.
“What’s up, Rowdy?” Her eyes are lined with thick black coal, lips cherry red. Way too much makeup, way too perky, way too enthusiastic.
Drunk.
I shove my hands in the deep recesses of my pockets, shoulders hunching. “Do you know where Scarlett is tonight? She hasn’t showed up.”
Her black lashes flutter. “She went out—like, out out.”
Out out? What the hell does that mean?
“Out where?”
“I’m not sure? A date?” She looks to her friend for confirmation. “Or am I confusing her with Natasha?”
The girl taps her chin, surely mistaken; Scarlett wouldn’t have a date on a Friday night—not when she’s supposed to be here. With me.
Impatiently I get out my cell. “Can I get her number so I can check in on her? I want to make sure she hasn’t been murdered or whatever.”
“Yeah, sure. Just use it wisely, okay? Don’t go all creepy weirdo stalker after I give it to you, okay? She’ll kill me if you do.”
I tap in the number as she rattles it off, hit save, and add it to my contacts. “Thanks.”
“Is that all you needed?” The other blonde is fishing for something else, something I’d never give to a girl like her, and I wonder what kind of friend this one is to Scarlett. She doesn’t seem as loyal as this other one.
My head bends in concentration as I tap on Scarlett’s number. “Yeah, thanks.”
I’m already composing a new message, walking toward the front door, seeking the quiet comfort of the porch.
Parking my ass on the railing, I wait impatiently for my text to be delivered. That little blue line at the top of the screen drags its sorry ass along at a glacial pace, taking its sweet time up in cyber space to reach her phone.
Another ten minutes for three little dots to appear on the screen—the ones that tell me Scarlett is messaging me back.
Ten. Minutes.
Me: Hey. Where are you?
Scarlett: Who is this?
Me: Rowdy
Scarlett: Oh hey! Are you at the house?
Me: Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you were going to show up tonight—was I wrong?
Scarlett: Yes, I’m sorry. I had some last-minute plans.
Me: Ah. I see.
Scarlett: No big deal, but I’m curious—how did you get my number?
Me: Your two friends are here. I had them give it to me.
Scarlett: I’m sure you barely had to browbeat them for it. lol
Me: Browbeat? All I had to do was bat my lashes. You should probably tell them not to give your number out to strange dudes—I could be a serial killer.
Scarlett: They know you’re not a serial killer, we’ve been hanging out for weeks.