Awkwardly Ever After (14 page)

Well, not
completely
silent. It's not like I had the authority to instruct the employees to turn off the music or anything. Some unbearably bubbly pop star was still gushing about her boyfriend or . . . the guy she wanted to be her boyfriend? I wasn't exactly giving it my full attention.

That was completely engaged by Spencer. More specifically by the way the King of the Notables now looked as if he had been caught doing an imitation of Frosty the Snowman. He didn't say a word, and neither did anyone else in the place. They were probably too busy waiting with bated breath for the most epic dumping in the history of breakups.

But they didn't see the way Spencer's eyes practically crackled with amusement.

He dipped his finger across the frozen yogurt, lifted it to his own lips, and pasted a considering expression on his face as he slowly tasted it. “Nah, I think the alpine vanilla is better.”

An uncomfortable-looking college kid in his early twenties walked over to us. “Um . . . I need to ask the two of you to leave.”

“He started it!” I said, pointing at Spencer as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“It won't happen again,” Spencer said confidently, as if he ran into trouble with management all the time. For all I knew, he did. “We'll be out of your hair in just a minute.”

And then he proceeded to fill up his bowl with three different types of frozen yogurt and a billion different toppings while I looked nervously from the Yogurt Shack guy to the Notables, who were still watching my every move.

Even with a yogurt glob on the front of his shirt, Spencer looked like a young, lighter haired Superman.

I nervously fingered my glasses before I remembered that my hand was still coated with frozen yogurt. I was pretty sure all I had managed to accomplish was smearing the sticky ice cream evidence onto one lens and the left side of my nose.

Spencer's grin widened when he turned back to me with his fully loaded dessert. He grabbed a napkin. “I can't take you anywhere,” he said teasingly as he wiped at my face.

I batted his hand away. “Yeah, because
I'm
the one who's always causing trouble. Try again.”

He leaned in even closer and murmured, “Admit it, you're having fun.”

And then he laid a twenty-dollar bill down on the counter, took hold of my hand, and wrinkled his nose when he realized too late that it was the same one that had been clutching frozen yogurt only minutes earlier. He pulled me toward the door, pausing only to toss a casual “see you guys later” to his gaping friends.

“What was
that?
” I managed to say at last when he slowed down as we neared his car.

“I thought about it. Your plan for the night sounded better than mine. Do you want to order the pizza at my house or yours?”

I blinked up at him owlishly. “I'm never going to understand you.”

“Nope.” He handed me the frozen yogurt while he fumbled for one of the napkins that had come with it. “But imagine how much fun you're going to have trying.”

I took a big spoonful, with a large chunk of Oreo, and tried to imagine sharing pizza and fro-yo with my parents constantly checking up on us.

No thank you.

“Your place,” I decided as I slid into the passenger's seat. “But don't get any ideas,
friend.
”

Except I didn't know whether those words were intended more for Spencer or myself.

I had heard rumors about Spencer's house.

Melanie had mentioned there was a fountain and a small gazebo, which both perfectly complemented the Victorian architecture of the place. The effect was stunning. And sure, I'd heard snatches of conversation in the girl's bathroom about a hot tub behind the house that could comfortably seat half of the hockey team . . . and their girlfriends.

But it was one thing to get secondhand accounts and quite another to hear the gravel crunching under the tires right before Spencer pulled the car into an empty garage.

He unbuckled his seat belt and then glanced over at me, taking in the way I was tightly gripping the frozen yogurt carton.

“So . . . is there really a dungeon?” I asked.

He burst out laughing. “It's just a house, Belle. There's no party scheduled. There's probably nobody here. If that makes you uncomfortable, I can take you home right now. No pressure.”

“Do you do this all the time?” I couldn't keep the thread of nervousness out of my voice.

“Bring girls to my house? Sure. More than once. But since you're my first girl period friend period—I guess not.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. “You still think we're friends?”

It wasn't the question I meant to ask. I was going to ask if it was weird for him bringing me over when it was so obvious that I didn't fit into his world. I had just thrown
frozen yogurt
at him. In public. In front of all of his hockey buddies. And my only regret was that I had missed his face and hit his chest instead.

But now that the question was out, I wouldn't have changed it for anything. I needed to know if a garden-variety platonic friendship was the only thing between us, because I wasn't sure how I felt anymore. If I had to categorize the medley of emotions, I'd say mostly confused, with an underlying current of attraction that didn't exactly scream, “Hey, buddy, ol' pal.”

“I guess that depends,” Spencer said thoughtfully. “Friends introduce friends to Battlesword Galactica, right?”

I laughed, which was probably his plan all along. And suddenly I had no trouble climbing out of Spencer's car, handing him the frozen yogurt I had put a decent-sized dent into during the car ride, and nudging him with my shoulder. “Let's go, then.”

He opened the door with his foot, probably to avoid another yogurt-related mess, and then pushed open a bathroom door so that he could rinse off his hands. I followed suit, although I couldn't resist splashing him in the process.

“What was
that
for?”

I didn't bother responding. Instead, I bolted up the stairs before he could retaliate, grinning like a fool the whole way as every particle in my body became hyperaware of the threat of retaliation.

Spencer was right: I was having fun. Even though a tiny part of my brain, which always went off in preparation for an attack during a horror movie, was ringing an alarm. Not because I thought I was in any physical danger. Sure, I was alone in a freaking mansion with a boy I was still getting to know, but that didn't mean I was
afraid.

Okay, that's a lie.

I
was
scared, but it was the normal level of anxiety I felt whenever it was dark outside and I wasn't home. The persistent voice in my head couldn't resist pointing out that this was a risk. That the majority of assaults were committed by someone known to the victim, so maybe trusting Spencer so far was a mistake.

But it was even more likely that I was using my knowledge of statistics to make a cowardly retreat look like a perfectly rational decision.

I had to remind myself that Spencer had offered to take me home, that the only reason I was at his house was because we were getting to be
friends
. That even if he was interested in me in some other way (which he wasn't), I had made it clear I wouldn't be reciprocating those feelings.

Mostly.

I mean,
maybe
my eyes had lingered on the yogurt glob on his chest longer than I would've had it been, oh, I dunno . . . anyone else. But that was simply a hormonal response to visual stimulation. Spencer was the last person who would think it meant anything, especially given his willingness to chase anything in a skirt.

I was glad I had chosen to wear jeans.

“Nice place,” I said, trying hard not to be overwhelmed as I reached the staircase landing and found myself standing in an enormous living room with an understated decor style that screamed of money. The walls were different shades of beige that were probably named “french vanilla” or “blanched almond” or something that sounded expensively delicious. There was something about standing in such an immaculate room that instantly made me feel a thousand times clumsier. My brain automatically started flicking through every item I could possibly destroy . . . and the price tags that were probably attached to them.

I could trip over my own feet and knock over the modern art sculpture on a nearby end table. Maybe Spencer would shoot me one of those devastatingly wicked smiles and somehow I'd become discombobulated enough that I'd drop the frozen yogurt container . . . right on their taupe-colored carpeting.

“Home sweet home,” Spencer said dryly. Instead of slowing down, he passed me and headed down a hallway. I tagged behind him sheepishly, like a lost puppy . . . or, y'know, a sheep.

“So where are your parents?”

It seemed like a reasonable question to me, especially since one glance down at my cell phone showed that I had seven text messages waiting in my inbox, all of them from my mom and dad.

That last text made me wince. Of course, they wanted time to properly vet anyone who might be spending time with me. I was lucky they didn't know anything about Spencer's reputation, or they might not have let me go at all.

I personally thought that would be taking the whole protective thing way too far.

It was sweet. A bit much sometimes, but I wouldn't have traded their concern for anything. Especially after receiving late-night phone calls from Melanie when it was painfully obvious that everything was not okay at her house. She wouldn't come out and say it, but I could hear the tension vibrating in her voice.

All I could do was keep her talking until the worst of the disappointment, the bone-aching frustration of watching her father slowly drink himself to death, had passed.

I would take a billion concerned text messages from my parents over Melanie's situation any day of the week. Even if that meant I had to tell them,
Be home by curfew. All good here. Love you!
while I tried not to accidentally bump into something that cost more than a semester at a private liberal arts college.

I wondered how Spencer managed to throw his parties in a house that looked like a museum showroom. If he liked living somewhere that had to include a regular cleaning service to maintain its air of stately elegance.

I wanted to know what he thought about
my
house.

Mentally filing all of those questions away for a later date, I pulled up short when Spencer opened the door to his bedroom, tossed his wallet on the dresser, and strolled into his walk-in closet. I stood frozen at the doorway like a freaking vampire waiting for permission before crossing the threshold, while I examined Spencer's room every bit as closely as he'd looked at mine.

It was a mess.

Okay, to be fair, it probably wouldn't have seemed so disorganized if the rest of the house hadn't looked like it was on the market to be sold. In fact, I had expected it to be a whole lot worse. I didn't see any half-naked girls tacked up on his walls, which didn't mean they weren't there somewhere . . . they just weren't visible from my vantage point. Maybe because the enormous windows that overlooked some trees and gave the barest glimpse of the gazebo cut into the available poster space.

Even without a tanned swimsuit model pouting back at us, the room was undeniably masculine. There was a dartboard to the left side of his desk and judging by the wayward holes in the wall around it, he had probably enjoyed more than a few rounds when he wasn't entirely sober. There were weights sitting on the other side of the desk and a beatup-looking pair of boxing gloves. I craned my neck, wondering if he had a bag hanging from the ceiling in my blind spot or if the King family would
never
keep large athletic equipment in a bedroom.

That was probably stored in their private home gym.

“Do you want me to—uh . . .” My words petered out as I watched Spencer grab a shirt from his dresser and in one smooth move yank off the yogurt-splattered one he'd been wearing. I sucked in my breath and wondered if he'd forgotten about me entirely. If he was so comfortable in his own space that he didn't care who witnessed this impromptu strip show.

Or if he was in the mood to drive every platonic thought out of my head.

It was working.

My mouth went dry as my brain began cataloguing every detail, like the way the low-slung waistband of his jeans perfectly showcased his abs. I half expected someone to yell, “And cut! That was a great take, Spencer. Now, I just want to film your smolder from a different angle. Think sexy.” Not that Spencer would ever have to think sexy. The guy left a trail of pheromones in his wake, which was why, despite the fact that everyone knew he wasn't boyfriend material, he had no trouble with girls.

Unless . . . maybe this was a test?

I gulped nervously and then leaned against the doorjamb; the pose was more to ensure that my knees wouldn't start wobbling than because I thought it would make me look cool. “So, is this the part where I'm supposed to swoon?”

Spencer silently tugged a clean shirt over his head, tousling his hair in the process, before he tossed the wadded ball of cotton in his hand toward his laundry basket. It sailed right in, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Spencer King, everyone. He shoots, he scores.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't. Hardwood floor, y'know? They're easy enough to clean, but not exactly the most comfortable surface to sprawl out on.” He flashed a grin. “I would know.”

“You're doing it again.”

He sank down on his bed and waited with an exaggerated air of patience for me to finish that thought.

“The sex to eleven thing!”

He glanced at his watch. “It's not even seven-thirty. I appreciate the vote of confidence on my stamina, but not even I can—”

“Is this supposed to
impress
me?” I demanded. “How does this usually work for you, Spencer? You bring a girl home, give her the grand tour, take her to your room, and . . . what? Raise your eyebrow at her until she strips?”

He made no attempt to hide his amusement. “I like that one. I'll have to keep it in mind for future reference. Do you think it's enough to raise just one eyebrow, or will clothes be removed twice as fast if I use them both?”

“Not funny,” I ground out.

“Sure, it is. Almost as funny as the way you're staring at me as if I were the big bad wolf.”

“I'm not entirely convinced you're not.”

He shrugged and then stood, moving toward me with a predatory grace that didn't help change my opinion. Still, instead of invading my space the way he had back at Mackenzie's house, he paused with a little over an arm's length between us. “That's because you're as suspicious as you are smart.” Spencer took one deliberate step closer and my breath caught in my throat as he raised his hand and . . .

Ruffled my hair as if I were a petulant five-year-old kid.

“Come on,
buddy.
We have a pizza to order.”