SERAPHINA
This week has flown by. Not only have I been incredibly busy with school, but I also went to the new Reese Witherspoon movie with Chloe, hit up the mall with Siobhan, took my mom to two different medical appointments, and made a respectable dent in unpacking and organizing my things. Admittedly, the last one is still ongoing, but I can see the floor again so that’s progress.
Tyler’s been even busier than I have. We haven’t had any time together aside from a handful of stolen kisses and daily marathon text sessions. Luckily, our drought is about to end. Chase and Dallas left for their couples weekend an hour ago, and I’m at home waiting for Tyler to get back from working with his goalie coach. We’ve flat-out abandoned our questions today in favor of torturing each other via the dirtiest messages possible in preparation for later.
Hades: I can’t stop picturing you fucking yourself with that toy.
Tinker Bell: I can’t wait until you’re the one fucking me instead.
I’m what some might call excessively prepared for this occasion. I’ve shaved everything from the neck down, applied perfume (including behind my knees), opted for waterproof mascara so it’ll hold up better during sex, and selected the sexiest matching bra and underwear I own. Not that I expect either of those to stay on for very long.
According to the clock, I still have nearly two hours to wait. I settle onto the couch with a cup of coffee and my lap desk, opening my laptop. I’ve been secretly working on a poem for the magazine contest Chloe told
me about. No one else knows yet, and depending how things play out, it’s possible they never will.
Forty-five minutes in, my coffee is empty and so is my brain. I’ve been tinkering with the same three lines over and over again, trying to arrange the words for maximum oomph. Biting my lip, I re-read the stanza. Something is off but I can’t place it.
I check my email and find a message alerting me to new grades in the student portal. Maxine was sick last week, so she was late marking our first assignment. We’ve since handed in our second and I’m so nervous about them both it hurts.
Holding my breath, I wait for it to load.
Seraphina Carter, Student ID 29989797 Introduction to Creative Writing Assignment 1: 91
Assignment 2: 92
No way. My hand flies to my mouth, and I let out a happy little squeak. According to the class’s grading scale, those are both As. For some people, this is a regular occurrence. Possibly even an expectation. For me, it’s an anomaly. I rarely get As. I don’t get all that many Cs, either. My grades tend to hover within a nice, predictable, B- to B+ range.
Though it is only an introductory class. Maybe she’s an easy grader.
Closing my browser, I navigate back into the word processor and pull up the thesaurus bar on the right in hopes it will help solve my wording woes. It’s tempting to get fancy with vocabulary sometimes, but I also have to be careful not to fall prey to substituting synonyms that aren’t strictly identical in meaning.
I read through the passage again, lingering on the part that isn’t working. His face… No, maybe it should be, His features… That isn’t quite the same, though. Neither is right. Is there really only one word for “face” in the English language? How limiting.
“Tink.” A deep voice startles me.
I jump in my seat, slamming the laptop shut. “Hi!”
Tyler studies me, a smile playing on his lips. He’s freshly showered and changed into his street clothes in his omnipresent shades of black and gray.
As irrational as it may sound, I can tell just by looking at him that he smells amazing.
“Looking at something naughty?” He nods to the gold MacBook in front of me. “I said your name three times and you didn’t even react.”
“Um, I was…” I flounder. Any of the alternative explanations I can formulate seem even worse than the truth. “Writing, actually. It’s a poem I’ve been working on for class.”
My face heats, and I stop talking. Why didn’t I just leave it at “doing schoolwork”? I haven’t told anyone outside of class about my writing, and for good reason. It’s unlikely anything will ever come of it.
He lifts his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my palms on my skirt. Why are they so sweaty? Not cute.
“That’s cool, Ser.” He lowers onto the couch and rests a hand on my knee, warmth radiating from his palm onto my skin. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
The curiosity in his tone almost makes me want to open up. Almost. “It’s a secret.” This particular poem may or may not contain elements
that were heavily inspired by him, and that’s why he’ll never, ever read it. “So I was close, then. You’re writing something naughty.” His mouth
tips up at one corner in that delicious way that makes me want to grab his face and press my lips to his.
“Define naughty,” I hedge.
“Does it contain any of the things you let me do to you in the announcer’s box?”
“Not this one, but some of them might. Maybe I’m using you for sexy poem research.”
He chuckles. “Use away. Do you write often?”
“A lot, actually.” What the hell, Seraphina? No one knows this. Now that I’ve flung open Pandora’s Box of secrets, I can’t seem to close the lid.
Maybe it’s the mixture of admiration and desire on his face, tinged with a hint of tenderness. No one has ever looked at me this way before.
My ears burn and I untuck my hair to hide it. “Until now, writing has been something I did for myself. This class is the first time I’ve ever shared it with anyone.”
“I won’t pressure you, but I’d always be down to read something if you felt comfortable.”
That’s more terrifying than sharing it with my class. Maybe someday. “Let’s see how far I get on this one. It’s giving me a bit of trouble.”
Tyler’s expression shifts like he only just realized we’re alone. He takes the closed laptop from me, setting it on the coffee table. Then he pushes the lap desk aside and picks me up, hauling me to sit on him. He smells every bit as good as I expected.
He nudges my nose with his affectionately. “How are things, Tink? I feel like I barely saw you all week.”
“Better now.”
A contented sound reverberates deep in his throat, and his lips press to my jaw, then my cheek. I shift a little more, turning fully toward him. One hand snakes up to grip my face and he kisses me, long and deliberate and deep.
When he pulls away, I’m on cloud nine.
Instead of kissing me again like I expect, his gray eyes bounce back and forth between mine. “We never get to sit like this. It’s kinda nice.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “It is.”
Something in me eases slightly; a tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. As much as I’ve been eager for him to rail me, it’s oddly reassuring that isn’t the only reason we’re talking at the moment. I legitimately consider him one of my friends. In fact, I trust him more than some of my “friends.” I like to think we’d hang out together even if the sexual element between us wasn’t there.
Tyler runs his hands through my hair, and I nearly start purring at how good it feels. Asking him to pet me that night in his room gave him insight into one of my biggest weaknesses; an unfair advantage he didn’t need.
“What color is this, technically?” he asks. “I know it’s pink, but there’s some gold in here, too.”
“Most people call it rose gold, but my hairdresser back in Arizona called it strawberry champagne. It’s a little brighter and pinker than a regular rose gold. She blended the color specifically for me.”
A low laugh rumbles in his chest. “Of course you have a custom hair color, princess.”
“You got a problem with that?” I wriggle upright, pretending to glare at him.
“No, I love your hair.” He holds up a section, studying it in the light. “You know, it looks different depending on the lighting and the angle.”
If by “different” he means “brassy” then he’s correct. Beneath the living room lamp, it’s mostly copper with hints of rose. Red-based tones fade quickly, and even with special color-preserving shampoos and UV- protective styling products, I pay a hefty coloring fee on the regular to keep it looking the way I want. But having pink hair makes me happy, so it’s worth it.
“Probably because the color is starting to fade. I’m overdue for a touch- up. I need to find a salon here to make me pretty again.”
“You’re always pretty, Tink.” His mouth tugs into a crooked grin. If humans could melt, I’d be a puddle on the floor.
“I have an idea,” he adds, still running his fingers through the strands. “What’s that?”
“We’ve both had a long week. Let’s go grab something to eat.”
My stomach practically gurgles at the very suggestion. It’s nearly six, and I haven’t eaten since noon. Hanger territory is looming in plain sight. There’s one tiny snag with his plan, however.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, Hades. All the restaurants will be packed.”
He lifts a broad shoulder. “Yeah, but how often do we get the chance to do things together?”
True. It’s a lot harder to coordinate hanging out in or out of the house during the week, whether it’s due to our schedules, living situation, or all the other things standing in our way. Weekends are even less workable because he always has games both nights. This weekend is one of the only breaks they have.
Lately, I’ve been wondering if it would be simpler to bring our friendship out of the closet to everyone. There’s a risk they might do the math on the rest. It’s not that I think we’re doing anything wrong, it’s that I don’t think my brother would understand. Nor does he need to.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to get a table unless we’re talking about something like McDonald’s or Chipotle. But I’m good with something like that too. Anything works.”
“Let me see. I’ll check OpenTable to see what’s available.” Broad hands shift me on his lap, readjusting us. He grabs his phone and enters the passcode to unlock it, then taps at the screen. Brow furrowed, he scrolls with his thumb. “No… All-you-can-eat sushi sounds dicey. No… Definitely not. What the fuck is Bob’s Pancake and Taco Bar? Wait… There. We can
get a table at Rouge. There’s one reservation for two open at eight o’clock. Someone must’ve canceled at the last minute.”
“Rouge?” I echo. “Isn’t that really fancy? And expensive?” I’m vaguely familiar with it because Chase took Bailey there awhile back and while it was reportedly amazing, she confessed to me over Christmas that she’d had sticker shock at the prices.
Then again, money isn’t an issue for Tyler, and we both know it. His father is one of the most famous sports agents in the entire country. Chase knew who Tyler’s dad was from hockey industry news long before he ever met Tyler.
“Here’s my take,” he says. “You’ve been working hard at school, you haven’t been out much lately, and I think you’re due for some fun. And I’ve been killing myself with hockey. If you ask me, we both deserve the break.” “Gotta admit, I like your logic.” I’m a big fan of treating myself. If anything, I do it a little too much. Did a page of homework? Chocolate. Went to the gym? Celebration smoothie on the way out. Passed a final?
Sephora time. I can justify anything. And it’s especially hard to turn down doing something with Tyler.
It does sound an awful lot like a date, though. Is that against the rules? I guess the nice part of our arrangement is we get to make our own.
“Unless you don’t want to be seen in public with me,” he says, teasing. “In which case we can order a heart-shaped pizza and it should arrive in approximately three to five hours according to the internet.”
“Going out it is.”
