“I’ll work on it tonight.”
“You’ll text it to me?”
“Sure.” I don’t know if I want to do that. Talk about taking a chance. What if he shares the entry with his friends? That would be humiliating. He’ll probably make it sound like I wrote that to him, not Juliet to Romeo.
Yeah. I am so not sending him the entry via text. Forget that.
I slip behind the counter and work on closing out the cash register. Once I’m done, I go to the back and stash the money in the safe, then lock it and the office as well. Turning off all the lights, I come out into the store to find Jordan leaning against the counter and typing on his phone, a scowl on his face as he stares at the screen.
“All done,” I tell him weakly. Why does he look so mad? What’s going on? Who’s he talking to? I kinda lift up on tiptoe to see his phone screen and I can tell he’s texting.
But with who?
“Ready to go?” He clicks his phone screen off and shoves it in the front pocket of his sweats, waiting for me.
“Yeah. Let’s go out the front door.” He heads toward it and I shut off the rest of the lights, then follow him, walking through the door he holds open for me. I pull the door shut and lock it with the set of keys Sonja left with me earlier this afternoon, then shove them into my front pocket. “I did it.”
“Yeah, you did.” He glances around before he takes my arm and leads me out into the parking lot and toward my car. I hurry to keep up with him, shivering when the cold wind hits me. I’m only in my Yo Town T-shirt and jeans. I didn’t bring a sweater because I came straight from school and earlier in the day it had been warm.
“Your teeth are chattering,” he says when we reach my car. “Here.” I watch in mute fascination when he tugs his hoodie off, his T-shirt catching on it for a brief moment and riding up, revealing his perfect, flat stomach.
Oh God. I feel faint. I’ve touched that stomach before. Not enough times, though. I’d give anything to touch him again. Totally dumb, but true.
Next thing I know, he’s tugging the hoodie over my head and I shove my arms into the sleeves, smiling when the hoodie hits me at about mid thigh. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like soap and spice and Jordan Tuttle. Which means it smells freaking amazing.
“That better?” He tucks the sweatshirt around my neck, his fingers brushing against my sensitive skin, and a soft gasp escapes me, making him frown. “Mandy? You all right?”
I finally do it. I give in. I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist, soaking up his solid warmth, the shape of him, the thin fabric of his T-shirt, the thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat against my ear. Oh God, I could hold onto him forever like this. And when he puts his arms around me, pulling me even closer, I snuggle in and close my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat scratchy. Raw. “For everything.” I need him to know how much I appreciate what he’s doing for me. How he’s watching out for me. Protecting me.
It’s sweet. Thoughtful.
“You’re welcome.” He presses his lips to my hair and I clutch him tighter. I want more. More of Jordan’s lips on my skin, on my lips. But I don’t get it. And I don’t ask for it. I’m too scared.
Apparently so is he, because eventually he lets go of me and I let go of him with a bashful smile. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ll wait until the car starts, okay?”
“Okay.” I unlock my car and climb in, then start the engine, sending him a thumbs-up. He nods and then goes to his car, which is parked near mine, and when I pull out of the parking lot a few minutes later, he follows me.
All the way home.
When there are away games, the school doesn’t hold rallies. If that was the case, we’d be having rallies every Friday and nothing would ever get done. Not that anything much happens on a Friday at our high school. Though drama always seems to break out on a Friday.
Or a Monday, or a Tuesday. Pretty much any day that ends in “y.”
I’ve been on edge all day, worrying about how I’m supposed to get to the game tonight. I don’t want to drive, not in my crap car, considering we’re playing a town over forty miles away. Plus, I don’t want to spend the money on gas. I’m trying to save every dime I’m making right now to put away toward college.
So when I spot Coach Halsey hovering by the quad near the end of lunch, I approach him with all the courage I can muster.
Why am I such a coward sometimes? God, I hate it. I need to get a backbone, damn it.
“Hey Coach.”