sign {h.s.}

capitulo veintidós*

HE MAKES NO effort to hide the smirk on his face; obviously gratified—or, at the very least, entertained—by how quickly I had answered him. "¿Entiendes lo que digo?" He asks, narrowing his eyes while awaiting my confirmation. [Spanish: Do you understand what I'm saying?]

"Yes." There is no hesitation in my voice, only a breathy excitement.

Since our last encounter, we reached a sort of awkward stand still. Both of us felt like young children, neither of us knowing what to do or how to act. He'd been the first one to break, though, it's impossible to say what we are breaking from.

Excitement sears through my body. Desire coursing through my veins as I find myself fueled with an unadulterated sense of want for him.

Unable to take my eyes off of him, I start a bit when my brother begins to speak through the phone. Admittedly, I'd forgotten that he was even a party to this conversation—even if he can't understand a word that Harry is saying. "Cassidy? What's happening?" On the other end of the phone, I can very obviously hear my brother's confusion. I don't blame him in the slightest.

My eyes flicker up and down Harry's form again. "Maybe you were right," I admit, "about that thing." He's totally your type he had said only moments before. I'd shot him down. Rather adamantly I'd insisted that Harry was not my type at all. But how, then, do I plan on explaining this? The raw emotion that filters through my body when I think about him—when I think about the time that we will spend together tonight. Certainly these aren't typical feelings. I don't have them about just anybody.

"Oh?"

"I'll call you back later, alright? Love you." I don't even wait for my brother to answer before I click off of the call.

Harry studies me then, watching as I carelessly discard my phone. He notices when my gaze turns to him, studying him with a sort of infatuated fascination. I've always been intrigued watching him converse with Lola. American Sign Language is such a passionate language. I'd never realized before how reliant we are in speaking with our bodies to convey tone. Watching him talk to Lola does exactly that. It's mesmerizing; I've noticed that since the first time that I saw them talking together. "Arrête de me regarder, belle, belle fille," he remarks, a genuine smile in the corner of his lips. [French: Stop looking at me, beautiful, beautiful girl.]

"Hm?"

"Stop looking at me, idiot," he repeats, in English this time.

"Mhm," I respond, a teasing lilt to my hum as I get out of bed. From the look of amusement on his face, I know that something had gotten lost in translation. Likely, the compliment of it all. Fortunately, I like this side to him. I enjoy the teasing, quippy parts of our relationship. "How much longer will you be here?" I ask, watching the way that he falters, only momentarily, under my gaze. His hands freeze and lock. He doesn't want me to see it, but I do. Just as fast, he is back in action and speaking as though nothing had happened in the first place.

"Not long." He answers me while still in the middle of conversation with Lola. But, something seems different now. As I watch his hands, more signs that I recognize are used. They've left academic conversation and have switched to a more casual way of speaking. "I'm telling her now that I've dinner plans tonight and will be leaving soon."

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have dinner plans," I press, pursing my lips in hopes of not betraying the smile that wants to shine brightly on my lips. I can't celebrate before I know that I've won.

"I can think of something that I'd like to eat," he answers without hardly missing a beat. His gaze turns on me now; a suggestive look glinting in his eye as he even dares to run his tongue along his lips, wetting them seductively.