“Hmm?” Her breathing was erratic.
“You’re teaching me how to ride.” I released her hand and stood.
Her mouth dropped open.
I closed it with my finger and winked. “A bike. Get your mind out of the gutter, Rogers.”
“I knew that!” I didn’t think it was possible, but her face grew redder as she smoothed out her skirt. “So, should we go over our schedule tonight while you remove the stupid spider from my house?”
“Oddly enough, I’m already regretting this,” I said, more to myself than to her. “And yeah, how about we go to your house, I’ll remove your pet spider, and you can tell me all about how you’re going to use me to get an A.”
“You’re a whore, you’re used to being used.”
“Funny, since that word was written on your forehead this morning.” I paused. “Literally. Written.” I smirked. “Right there.” I flicked her forehead and grinned.
“Hero!” she coughed into her hand and then thrust out her chest. “Besides, backward doesn’t count.”
“Backward always counts.” I crossed my arms. “So, friends again?”
“Well, we aren’t enemies.” She forced a smile and then looked down at her feet. “Thanks, Thatch. I owe you.”
Wow, thanking me must have been painful if the look on her face was any indicator.
“Oh, I know,” I whispered. “I know.”
Chapter Eleven
AUSTIN
Thatch was supposed to be at my house any minute.
My palms were sweating.
And every time I thought about shaking his hand, all I kept thinking was, Holy shit, you didn’t just sell your soul to the devil; you willingly gave your heart, soul, sanity, and most likely your body, all with one desperate thought.
Pass class.
Move on with life.
Away from the parents’ house.
Away from politics.
Away from Thatch.
I was going away, but what exactly was I moving toward? I frowned at the thought. I hadn’t really considered life beyond graduation because it had been my sole focus—get out from underneath my parents’ thumbs, be independent. Then get a job, get married. I gulped.
Why? Why did I always have to associate Thatch with all of those future-goal words?
My chest burned right where my heart was located—bad sign, a really bad sign, that he still affected me in a physical and emotional way. No matter how many times I repeated to myself in the mirror that he was a cheating jackass with gorgeous blond hair, my body reminded me of how rock hard he always was.
How caring.
Thoughtful.
The way he took his time when he kissed me, like it was almost more important than sex, and how he always, and I do mean always, laughed in bed at all of the funny and yet sexy situations we’d gotten ourselves into over the month we dated.
My body was a treacherous bitch.
And I kind of hated her.
“Down, girl.” I placed my hands on the counter and gave myself another pep talk.
This was business.
Not personal.
He was only helping me because he knew the marketing would be good for his own brand, for his reputation.
He’s doing it for his job.
Not for me.
Not for me.
Okay, all I had to do was repeat that like a billion more times and then I’d be good to go.
I eyed the bucket in the corner.
It had stopped moving a few hours ago. I was 99 percent sure the spider could actually sense my anxiety and was just playing me for a fool, like when armadillos play dead and then take off running.
Wait, that’s the wrong animal . . . I warily eyed the blue bucket again. Regardless, that bastard was just biding his time until I lifted the bucket and gave him his freedom.
“Not gonna happen, Charlie.”
“Please tell me you didn’t name the spider?”
I jumped a foot, pressing my hand to my chest and nearly stumbling into the granite countertop. “Don’t you knock?”
“The door was open.” Thatch shoved his hands into his tight jeans, his biceps straining against a black vintage T-shirt. Why did he always have to look so perfect? Even his blond surfer hair was pulled back into a low knot at the back of his head, which usually meant he’d just gotten done with another surgery.
“Be honest.” I needed a serious subject change. “How many body parts did you get to touch today?”
He let out a snort and walked down the three stairs in the entryway, his body swaying with way too much beauty and arrogance. The bastard.
“Six,” he said, stopping right in front of me. I had to look up to meet his gaze. “And lucky me, I got an ass today.”
“Wow, just changing the world one body part at a time, huh?”
“I like to think of it that way, yes.” His cocky grin took my breath away and made me want in all the wrong places. Very wrong places.
I clenched my thighs together and narrowed my eyes at him. “Be honest, do you think it’s possible for a plastic surgeon to stay true to someone if he sees that much tit and ass on a daily basis?”
“I’m pretty sure most obstetricians still like their own kids even after delivering tons of children.” He crossed his arms. “And yes, it would be possible, if the person wasn’t completely psychotic.”
“Are you calling me a psycho?” My eyes widened—probably confirming his accusation.
“You put a bucket on a spider.” He turned on his heel. “Then named it like you feel sorry for the fact that it’s trapped. You tell me.”
“Because!” I marched over to the bucket. “I do feel sorry it’s trapped, it deserves to go to a nice home—just not my home—or any home within five miles.”
“Austin,” Thatch said, shaking his head, “it’s not a puppy.”
“It had fur!” I pointed at the bucket.
“This fur isn’t friendly fur, it releases toxins on the skin and causes a rash.”
I gasped.
“Calm down, it’s not like you touched it, right?”
I shivered. “No, I’d like to think I’m a faster sprinter than that. My mom, on the other hand . . .”
He let out a low chuckle.
“It’s not funny!” I slapped him on the chest.
“Your mom in the kitchen, flailing her arms and sending a giant spider careening into the air near your head while you sprint toward the couch. Very funny, some might even say downright hilarious.” He placed his hand on the bucket. “And if you don’t want a repeat, I’d at least get on the chair or find the couch again, it’s gonna be pissed.”
“Poor Charlie.”
“Why Charlie?”
“Because I think it’s a boy, and you can’t name a boy Charlotte.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” He bit down on his perfect lower lip, his icy-blue eyes alert, as he slowly lifted the bucket, higher, higher, and then completely off the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.
I covered my eyes. “I killed it, didn’t I?”
“Um.” He wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
“Thatch?” I peeked between my fingers to see him scratching his head and doing a 360 in place. “Thatch, what’s wrong? Is Charlie dead?”