Page 71 of Down Bad

I shrug, then say, “Yep,” as my fingers clench in my pockets.

He drops his hand. For half a breath, he literally looks like he’s devising an escape plan. Then he lets out a short laugh, goes quiet again, and starts rubbing the back of his neck.

And his face is turning red.

I stare at him.

Mouth going dry.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Why’s he just standing there? Why is he killing me with this white-hot silence right now?

I can’t stand it. “Thunderstorm room, huh?”

The question comes out choked. Not even in my voice. Like an alien took over and I’ve got no hope to shut my ass up.

He looks at me. “The what?”

I step inside. “Y’know … what you just called this room, the place to stand in during a thunderstorm.” I stop by a fancy couch, the kind you’d see in some 17th century palace. “I don’t see any big thunderstorm out there.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he warns. “My phone did show a 5% chance of precipitation tonight.”

“Would it be the worst thing?” I take a few steps closer.

“Um, yes? Cissy would have a … a conniption.” He’s starting to ramble nervously. “Do you realize how much planning went into tonight? She had to postpone the whole thing by three weekends because of the concert last month. Not sure why, but she did. She’s probably more messed up about her son leaving than she admits. Oh, and not to mention everyone got all dolled up tonight, and if it dares to start raining—”

“You got pretty dolled up yourself.”

He goes quiet.

Then looks at me again.

I’m closer. A lot closer.

His eyes drift down to the pretty flower he put on my chest, his pink boutonniere. “And you,” he says softly.

The way he’s looking at my chest.

The thoughts I’ve gotta assume he’s having.

Us playing footsy under his table again, ignoring his delicious soup, hearts fluttering all over the damned place.

I don’t know how much game I’ve got left.

I ain’t a flirt. I hate flirting. Not used to pursuing anyone. Guys in the past, they just happened. No conversation needed. One peek across the room. A look back. He’s into me. I’m into him. Done.

Whatever’s going on here, me and Wyatt, I don’t get.

Where this courage is coming from, it’s gotta be whatever I got at that bar and choked down before we left the table.

It’s all I’m running on now.

Liquid courage and not much else.

I’d normally laugh it off, tell him I’m kidding, or not go for the joke at all. We would already have moved on to the next room, forgetting thunderstorms and tall-ass curtained windows and this stupid couch I’m leaning against.

In the next breath, he reaches for my jacket.

I freeze, surprised by his action.