Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I jog us back to my house, and Rafe sinks onto the porch steps, breathing heavily.
“You’re fast,” he says, quirking that broken eyebrow at me. His thick hair is bunched into a kind of knot or something, like a ponytail that he folded in half. It should look girly—like a bun or something—but it’s just the opposite. He looks like a warrior, hair tied back for battle. When he reclines on the porch, his arms and neck shiny with sweat, his legs splayed, and closes his eyes, it takes every ounce of concentration I have left not to mold myself to him and taste the salt in the dip of his neck.
He opens his eyes suddenly and I tear mine away so he won’t see me staring, but when I look back, his gaze is steady and he’s smiling a little.
“What are you up to now?” he asks.
“Nothing. Gotta feed the cat.”
“Can I say hi?”
“To the cat?”
“Mmhmm,” he drawls.
“Sure.” The second I unlock the door, Shelby’s right there, attacking Rafe’s shoelaces and making little yipping sounds as the loops flop back and forth. When Rafe squats down to pet her, I can’t look away from the straight groove of his spine and the way his shorts ride up high on his powerful thighs, dark hair dusting golden skin and tight muscle.
“You want to watch a movie or something?” he asks as he entices Shelby to jump for his wiggling fingers.
I clear my throat. “Um, sure. Let me just shower. You can too, if you want,” I say, trying to remember to be polite, which I’m not used to. Sam and Brian just make themselves at home, and Xavier and I have known each other too long to bother with that shit.
“With you?”
“What?”
“You offering to let me shower with you?”
“Holy shit,” I say, “did you finally make a joke?” But Rafe just raises an eyebrow.
After my shower I tidy my already tidy house to keep myself from picturing Rafe naked in my bathroom. But I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About showering with me. Because Rafe doesn’t actually seem to ever be joking. Sometimes he says things lightly, but…. So, then, what would he have done if I said yes? Does that mean he wants to…?
I’m standing in the middle of my floor, so paralyzed by the implications of this that I guess I didn’t even hear the shower turn off. Rafe’s suddenly right next to me and the sight of him makes my stomach tighten. Wet, his hair is nearly black, waving wildly around his face, cheekbones flushed from the run and the hot water. His gray T-shirt is threadbare and molded to his muscular chest and stomach in damp spots. His jeans are the ones he was wearing on Saturday at the workshop, and his feet are bare. He’s so intensely, unavoidably here.
“You don’t have any shampoo,” he says, cocking his head confusedly. It makes him look kind of sweet.
“I don’t have any hair.”
He reaches up, ghosts a palm over my nearly dry hair.
“It’s growing out a little,” he says.
“Yeah, I need to cut it.”
We get hoagies from down the street and settle on the couch. Rafe’s so big that any way I sit, I’m closer to him than I’m used to with Brian or Sam or X.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, flipping through the On Demand channels.
“Oh, Runaway Jury,” he says. “I liked that movie.” I shrug. “There’s a big trial about this tobacco company that’s hiding really shady business practices and John Cusack and Rachel… something—that pretty British lady—are trying to trick them into admitting it.”
“Um….” That sounds like the most boring movie ever.
“Or The Bourne Ultimatum. Did you see the other ones?”
“Is that the dude who’s really good at reading maps or something?” So. Boring. Rafe must hear it in my voice because he leans back and says, “Why don’t you pick.”
“Ooh, Cube. It’s awesome. All these people wake up locked inside a cube that tries to kill them in different ways….” I trail off, realizing how stupid it sounds when I describe it. Rafe looks uncertain. “Or, how about Cabin in the Woods? Did you see it? It’s like a horror movie about horror movies—well, I don’t want to give anything away.”
Rafe’s mouth is open, like he’s not sure what to say.
“Horror movies…,” he says slowly. “Not really my thing. Do you like fantasy? Or… action?”
“Sometimes?”
“Here, Gladiator. Have you seen that?”
“No. But, uh, I kind of wanted to.”
This is not true, but I’d rather watch almost anything than have an endless negotiation about it.
The movie’s… long. I kind of dig it, I guess. I really like the music, and the scenes of them actually gladiating—is that a word?—are pretty awesome. Russell Crowe is badass. But all the, like, royal intrigue and plotting is dull. Rafe seems to like that stuff, though. The scheming, talky parts. In all the slow parts, I’m mostly aware of Rafe. Leaning forward at things that catch his attention. Leaning back and relaxing into the couch. Sometimes he’ll look over at me, almost like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there. I don’t know if it’s because it’s loose or because of the no-shampoo thing, but his hair has dried wavier than usual and I have the strangest urge to touch it, to push it back from his forehead and neck.