College Ruled

thirty-two

32
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HALF THE day is gone by the time I wake up and drag myself out of bed.

It's freezing. The space heater cut out at some point in the morning without notice, and I scurry back to the dresser without really feeling my toes. There's wool socks in Grayson's underwear drawer. They're long, reaching my mid-calf, and thick. I don't bother searching for pants.

I find Grayson in the living room with the TV on low, watching some vintage-looking football game. A rerun of something, no doubt, maybe even taped, stuffed into the ancient VHS player squeezed on the shelf beneath the boxy screen.

I stand there for a moment, just to shamelessly take him in. His hair is morning-messy, stuffed aimlessly under the hat he keeps fiddling with. He's in gray sweats and nothing else, even though it's cold in here too. Even with the crackling fire alive and roaring.

He must have woken up only a bit ago too. It couldn't have been burning for long.

The floor groans when I take a step deeper into the room.

"Morning," Grayson says, even though it's not, before sparing me a glance. He looks down at my bare legs. Back up to my face. Back to the TV. Says nothing.

It's another standoff.

"Morning," I say back, turning away to survey the kitchen.

It smells like coffee. The small, red machine whirs and spits on the counter, filling the awaiting pot. It's one of those rare moments when I find myself wishing I liked the retched stuff. So I could pour myself a mug full, feel the steam lap over my cold, tired skin, feel the warmth travel from my tongue down my throat all the way to my toes from just one gulp.

Instead, I opt in for the saltine crackers I see sticking out of a cabinet that has been left ajar and a bottle of water from the fridge.

And, because I've decided that this cabin is to be a place free from overthinking-Remi, I plop down on the couch next to Grayson — as close as I can get without sitting on his lap — and throw my bare legs over him. I stuff a handful of crackers into my mouth and stare at the flickering screen, even as I feel him turn to look at me.

"Is this going to become a thing then?"

"Hmm?"

"You," he says slowly, "wearing no pants, trying to seduce me."

I point a grin his way, cracker perched between my teeth. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He leans his head back against the couch and raises his brows, mocking smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. His left-hand plays with the socks I'm wearing, fingers trailing from my calf up to my knee. He tugs me onto his lap in one swift motion.

"You're oddly transparent this morning, Remedy Clarke."

He's taunting me. And in this moment, right here, I allow myself to admit that I like it. Too much. That I revel in the way his eyes, all heat and glittering mischief, don't leave my face as he shakes his head. As his smirk breaks out on his resisting lips.

I don't, however, admit to myself that I'm terrified too. Of the feelings growing and evolving in my gut. Of it all.

I tilt my head down at him, hair falling in my face, hitting his bare chest. "Is it working?"

He hums, quiet and thoughtful. "Not at all."

His fingers dance up my thighs, so light that I shiver. Grayson snickers, looking proud amidst the glare I shoot him.