My obsession is embarrassing, but I can’t help myself. It’s like a spotlight on him has been turned up, drowning out the rest of the room. Thankfully, I’ve spent a lifetime putting on a performance of my own. I watch him through my peripheral vision, only allowing myself direct focus when he speaks. If I can’t distract myself from him, at least I’m capable of pretending to.
It’s our friends that make it possible. We’re playing Jenga on the coffee table, Mac and Phoebe sprawled across the floor in front of the TV. Simone sits cross-legged on the couch next to me, serving as a buffer between me and Deiss, who snagged the chair on the other side of her, as far from me as possible. As if a human barrier weren’t enough, Deiss has moved from sitting on the chair to leaning against the back of it, adding an extra layer of leather between us.
Two weeks. There’s something utterly ridiculous about the fact that I’ve managed to go ten years without giving into Deiss’s magnetism. Now, two weeks into a promise not to touch him, all I can think about is how much I want him. There must be a book for this. The Practice of Deprogramming Your Desire, or How to Appreciate the Qualities of a Friend without Translating Those into Reasons to Love Him. As far as titles go, it’s a little wordy.
“Not that one,” Phoebe says as Mac’s finger inches toward a block that is clearly a stabilizer of the tower.
“It has to be this one,” Mac says seriously. “I don’t choose which pieces to pull out. They choose me.”
“You lose every time.” Simone shakes her head and slumps back against the couch, her eyes droopy. I’ve seen her dancing on a table after popping open her second bottle of champagne, but two glasses of whiskey have knocked her out. “If the pieces are guiding you, you should find out why they hate you.”
“I don’t lose,” Mac says. “I always pick the last piece, which means I play the longest of any of you. I’m the last man standing.”
I grin, and without thinking, I look to Deiss, expecting him to share my amusement. It’s a mistake he’s made as well, and for the first time since we were in the kitchen, our eyes meet. I freeze, and his brow furrows. Look away. The command pings in my mind, a well-worn principle for maintaining the upper hand. It’s a sign of weakness to be the one left staring, but I can’t help myself. I’m trapped in the glow of his spotlight.
A clatter startles me out of my haze, and I jerk toward the rubble of what used to be the Jenga tower. Phoebe and Simone are laughing, and Mac’s hand is still midair, a stunned look on his face. I fake a laugh and look back to Deiss, but he’s already turned away and is headed toward the kitchen.
“To the last man standing,” Phoebe says, tilting her cup toward Mac.
He beams at her as we all give half-hearted cheers.
“I’m going to bed,” Deiss calls behind him as he disappears into his room. “Simone, there’s a blanket in the closet if you want to stay on the couch.”
I tense, trying to keep my face blank.
“You’re not going to offer to share your bed?” Simone’s words slur together slightly. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman,” he says.
Simone pouts for a second before stretching her long legs out. “I wasn’t going to stay anyway. Crashing on sofas is for children.”
Relief slips through me like a light breeze, but it dissipates when Deiss comes back out of his room with earbuds dangling from his hand. There’s a look on his face that I don’t like. A smile that’s a little too sweet to be real.
“I assume you have a Disney playlist on your phone?” he asks Simone, squeezing in with her on the couch.
She nods, rightfully looking a little stunned by his thoughtfulness.
Gently, Deiss places the earbuds in her ears, one at a time. “There. Now you can play it as loudly as you want.”
My stomach sinks. I know as well as he does that she can’t resist such a gesture. She’d sleep on his floor now if he asked her to. Any chance of talking to him tonight has just gone out the window, which I’m certain was the point.
“Liv, can you please get me a pillow and blanket?” Simone says, confirming Deiss’s success.
I grab the blanket and a spare pillow off my futon and toss them to her before following Phoebe and Mac to the door, managing not to look at Deiss. I wish I’d never agreed to live here. The problem isn’t Deiss. It’s too much exposure to him.