Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (22 page)

"I don't bring random hookups to my bed, anyway. I'm sure Ava wouldn't take kindly to a parade of women here."

"Isn't it hypocritical of Ava? She's in there screwing some stranger. Pretty loudly, I should add."

"Well, that stranger happens to be Damien. Her boyfriend of three years."

"Oh, Damien's her boyfriend? I didn't realize they were serious, they were so flirty, I thought they had just met."

"He's been out of town on an internship most of the summer."

"Well, that explains the…enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm?"

"All that vigorous…noise." My cheeks heat up.

"Fucking should always be vigorous, Julia." His eyes hold onto mine and I will myself to not glance away.

"I wouldn't know," I blurt out, not thinking.

He pulls the cover off of our heads, the chilled air of the bedroom sweeping across my face.
 

"What do you mean you don't know? Please tell me someone's fucked you properly."

Why does he have to talk like that? And why do I like it so much?

God, what conversation have I started?

"I've only done it that one time and…I sort of pretended it felt good even though it didn't. It was awful."
 

The words are even enough. Cool enough. Yet, I'm all too aware that we are lying in bed together. All too aware that I came here willingly. And that I promised myself I would never let him get into my pants because…

Wait.
 

I had good reasons. I know I did.

"That's a travesty," he says, looking very offended on my behalf. "I'd be willing to offer you my services to right that wrong."

Oh yeah, I remember. He's a cocky, arrogant ass and the only time we get along is when we are trying to be friends. Otherwise, I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns. Except that I don't hate him. Except that I like him, even when he's being a pervert. I'm an idiot who likes things that are bad for her.

I don't want to move away from him. And I don't want to think about how his words turn me on. Or how he's watching me as though wondering if they did. I keep expecting him to reach out and touch me. I don't know what I'd do if he did.
 

What I do know is that giving in to my hormones and having sex with him will only be something I will regret. I'd be pathetic to. Him wanting me sexually is not a surprise. We're young. We're attracted to each other. But it doesn't mean anything more to him. And I can't do something that doesn't mean anything. Not again.

"Tell me, little leopard. How is it so many of our conversations always end up being about sex?"

I stutter but fail to respond. He chuckles and pulls the sheet over our heads again.

"That was a rhetorical question. I know the answer." I wait, but he doesn't offer it to me. Instead, he says, "Let's talk about your accent."

"I don't have an accent," I protest.

"Yeah, you do. It's really subtle, but I hear it when you say my name. It's your
L
's and in your vowels. It's cute."
 

I bring my lower lip into my mouth, as my cheeks struggle under the urge to smile.
 

This is good—small talk. Unassuming, innocent small talk. It casts such a comfortable aura over our current position. Makes me feel like this is the most natural thing in the world. To talk in low voices under bed sheets with my shirtless roommate. This is what we do. No big deal.
 

You hear that, ovaries?
 

Quit your throbbing. This is no big freaking deal.

His gaze moves over the top of my hairline, tracing the outline of my face, sweeping over my lips once more before meeting my eyes again. I can feel his sight like a caress.

"You said you'd stop looking at me like that."
 

"I never agreed to that. I just agreed to keep my hands to myself."

His lips tug at the corners. And I know he can't pretend the things we did in the game room didn't happen. There's no forgetting that any time soon. I know, because I can't forget it either.

I lay my arm over my chest, trying to think of a come back. I'm sure he will gloat at my lack of response, but instead, he changes the subject again, dancing the line between a harmless conversation and a suggestive one.
 

"Ava said your family is from Texas?"
 

"Not really. It's just easier to say I'm from the last place I lived. My dad was in the military so we moved around a lot."

"My dad was military, too," he offers.

"No way…what branch?" I'm unable to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. Being a military brat is an experience not everyone can relate to.
 

"Marines," Giles responds. "He was infantry. Yours?"

"Mine was army. Military police. That's what he does for a living now. He's the chief of police in Newport Beach." I say the words dismissively even when that wasn't my intention.

 
"That's cool," Giles says vaguely, probably noticing something in my tone.

I shrug. "Try having him for a father. My dad's extremely judgmental, combative, and suspicious. He never gives people the benefit of the doubt."

"So he's just like you?"
 

Dread splits through me in the second that follows before his lips shrug in a half-hearted smile.
 

"My dad's worse than me," I say. "Or…I'd like to think he is."

"That was a joke, you're not that bad."

It's well past two in the morning and you'd think after spending all those hours together at the fair we'd be fresh out of things to talk about. But we share stories like they're bursting out of our seams, forgetting that not too long ago, it seems, we were strangers. Now we're discovering pieces of ourselves in each other and it's thrilling in a way that's hard to describe.
 

We talk about where our dads have been stationed, the cities we've lived in. His father was originally from San Diego and, for one reason or another, didn't change duty stations as often as mine did. Between Camp Pendleton and other bases in Southern California, Giles and his family were able to settle in the area for most of his father's military career.
 

In the course of our stories, though, we figure out one time in our lives where we were in the same place—the very same base at the exact same time—and never knew each other. It's bizarre to imagine that Giles was there with me, somehow, living this life parallel to mine. Though, he's an only child, so his experience was different. Every time his family moved, he didn't have any siblings to lean on, to venture into an intimidating new school with.
 

Our eyelids grow heavy as we talk. We cling to the last sights of each other's faces even as a lull falls over us and sleep threatens to overtake us both. But there's something that he hasn't revealed to me in any of his short anecdotes and stories.

"You never told me what happened to your dad," I say.
 

His lashes lower, hiding the expression in his eyes from me. The silence that follows is heavy and I feel responsible. But I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to backpedal.

Giles hesitates for just a second before answering, his voice low. "During his last deployment, the Humvee he was in clipped a roadside bomb. It flipped over and two guys died. That's all I know, really." He's looking down past my neckline, but there's no sexual innuendo to it. He's not really seeing me, he's seeing past me, into his own thoughts. "My dad was hurt pretty badly, but he survived and got to come home. Except he didn't. He was…different. Meaner. He wanted to return to active duty, he wanted to go back to Afghanistan, but couldn't clear medical. So, he just got meaner and meaner. He and my mom fought all the time. It was just hard to be around him sometimes. I fought with him a lot, too. We fought right up until I moved out of the house."

He talks about it all as if he's recalling a far off wound that once hurt, but is now just scar tissue. With the detached candor of someone who has moved past it. I can see through it, though. I can see the layers of hurt straining just behind the mask. I know I'm not supposed to notice, but I can't go on pretending that I don't. His words are squeezing my heart.
 

"What happened to him?" I ask, my voice the smallest it's ever been.

"I thought things were getting better, but I guess I just wasn't around to see the worst of it. And my mom, she wasn't talking about it. Until one day, my dad locked himself in the bathroom and shot himself in the head."

My hand flies to my mouth.
 

The air hums in the aftermath of his words. A certainty settles low in my gut the way an uncomfortable truth always does, that Giles doesn't talk about this often. Or ever.
 

The heaviness of what he's just said makes my stomach sink into a bottomless pit. Somehow, though he doesn't say the words, I know Giles blames himself for his father's suicide. And I wonder if his mother blames herself, too.

"And your mom?" I ask. "Is she doing okay?"

His eyes lock on mine and I can't look away. Not that I want to. His lips remain closed but I can almost hear the thoughts buzzing around in his mind. He gives his head a small shake. It's not a response to my question, it's a gesture that ends the conversation. That's the end of it. I know it just as clearly as if he'd spoken the words. His mom is where he draws the line of his sharing. He's either not willing or not able to go there.

He gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. I try to return it, but I can't. I let out a breath, feeling sad inside. My heart aches for him, sensing the pain and turmoil dancing just behind those seemingly carefree eyes. For the first time, I've glimpsed past the layers of him. And it's leveling me.

His candor doesn't surprise me, exactly. There's something about the sheets being over our heads that makes the space under them safe and secluded, like nothing could reach us here in our grown-up fort.

Giles yawns and I yawn, too. As though the act is contagious, as if staring into his eyes is pulling me under a spell. That's what it feels like as sleep tugs harder on my eyelids. Like I'm floating away somewhere, though my chest's still heavy with a sadness I don't fully understand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Giles

T
HE
MORNING
AFTER
A
hookup is always awkward. After waking up, there's a tense silence followed by overly casual small talk. The type where we both pretend we are still strangers whose bodies weren't just bumping in all the dirty ways bodies bump. It's like a hangover, where you wonder for a moment if it was worth it, but the moment passes so quickly, all that's left is the faint memory of a good time.
 

It's a new experience for me to have
only
spent the night in a bed with a girl. In my own bed. To wake up to her and not immediately commence the art of making a swift departure.

I watch as Julia stirs, eyelids fluttering a few times before her chocolate colored irises come into view. Confusion flashes briefly across her face before the memory of last night seems to settle on her.
 

She pulls in her brows and, in a groggy voice, says, "So we're friends now, huh?"

"Yeah. Looks like we are."
 

"I like our sleepovers."

I cringe. "Jesus, don't say it like that."

"Why not? It's what it's called when you sleep with someone without actually sleeping with them."

"It kind of makes me feel like I failed. You know, in trying to get in your pants."

"Well, you did fail."

I suck in a breath then let it out. "I've friend-zoned myself, haven't I?"

She smiles then nods. "You so have. But isn't this better? Friendship is a decision not an impulse. That's why it lasts longer."
 

That's why it lasts longer.

Those words resonate with me, but I can't put my finger on why, exactly.

"How do we deal with jealousy?" I tease.

"What do you mean jealousy? Of what?"

"Well, if we aren't screwing each other, are we screwing other people?"