My feet make their way to Gabby’s room. My knuckles are about to meet the wood of the door when I hear them. Eww. I turn to walk away, and a steely body pushes me until I’m against the wall, then boxes me in with his arms. My nostrils are filled with the scent of leather, rum, and vanilla. My eyes dance up his chest and wander into his velvety brown eyes. His hair is a mess, spiked and in disarray. I gulp down my pulse that feels like it’s about to beat out of my throat. “What are you doing?”
His lips nearly brush mine, but our mouths never touch. Instead, he brings a finger to them and says, “Shh.” The smell of alcohol envelops me.
“No, I’m not.”
“I’ve had some drinks to dull”—he glances around us like there’s something there other than air—“whatever this is. But I’m not drunk, Samantha.”
When he calls me that, my knees buckle. No one ever calls me by my whole name, and I’ve never liked it until him. “What do you want?”
“You.” He closes his eyes. “I mean, I miss you. Our friendship.” Like we can ever go back to being what we were, as if I even know the definition of what we had.
I grimace. “It was your ultimatum.”
“I didn’t think you’d choose him.” His forehead rests on mine. “Why’d you choose him?”
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