“Wow, you’re reaching.”
“Am I? Fine. Let’s say you aren’t bullshitting. At least have the decency to tell me why I’ve spent two hours of my life staring at the entrance of the coffee house wondering why I’m unworthy of your time and attention.”
“Two words, Campus Casanova.”
“Jesus, really?” I’ve heard it more than once, especially during track season last year, and somehow it stuck. “That’s bullshit based on absolutely zero fact.”
She shrugs. “Rumors are often based on some version of the truth.”
“Fine, I want my sweatshirt back.”
Her eyes dim. “Well, you’re not getting it.”
“Whatever, take care, Whitney.”
Regripping my backpack, I turn and make it mere feet away before she speaks up. “I’m not a one-and-done-girl.”
Turning, I see her legs are stinging red due to the cold and take a step toward her.
“A date, that’s all I asked for, and I’m not even sure I like you anymore.”
She grins. “Then this date isn’t going well already.”
“Nuh huh, I’m picking a new time, new place.”
“Fine, where?”
“I’ll let you know. And wear pants, you know, just to be on the safe side,” I quip, letting her see my exaggerated eye roll before I turn and walk off.
“Hey, Casanova,” she calls, clear flirtation in her voice as I fake annoyance, looking back at her over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Were you really going to give up?”
She shivers in the cold as I slide my gaze down her frame, “I guess you’ll never know.”
The close of the SUV doors prompts my own exit as Whitney follows her parents toward the front door of the cabin. Halfway up the steps, Whitney glances back at me, and I’m right back there, staring at her in her inch-long skirt, asking myself the same question as she looks at me thoughtfully before she turns and heads into the house. My answer rings in as clearly as it did on campus that day as I walked back to my apartment.
Fuck no.
“Could you hand me some gumdrops, Eli?” Gracie asks as she plasters her gingerbread house with more frosting. Even so, it’s clear to me it’s not her first rodeo by the way she’s expertly piping it on with the baker’s bag.
“Sure.” I hand her the bag of sugared gumdrops—the table cluttered full of Gingerbread house supplies—before adding the last of the roofing to the second floor of my gingerbread house. Ruby set up the table while she prepped dinner, demanding we make a house the old school way, ‘without the fancy kits they have nowadays.’ I rolled up my sleeves, ready for the challenge, and determined to win the grand prize—the first cup of snowman soup, which is apparently the world’s best hot chocolate.
Since we began constructing our houses, the friendly family competition seems to have kicked up a notch as I scan the faces of those at the table. Conner decided to pair up with Peyton—which prematurely ended with them both covered in icing—and Serena whisked them into the tub within minutes of their start. Allen disappeared just after shopping, and Brenden opted for a recliner nap with Wyatt. Erin decided to do some wrapping, which left the four of us remaining, Thatch included.
Whitney sits across from me, a tiny part of her pink tongue clamped between her teeth, her brows knit in concentration, her expression much the same as it was when we studied together in college. Hands busy, fiercely determined, she ignores her surroundings. With everyone distracted, I study her unabashedly while sinking into another memory of our beginning.
“Do you want to come in?” Whitney asks as we approach her apartment door.
“Maybe some other time,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“Okay, Casanova, what gives?” Whitney stops just outside her apartment door and turns to me expectantly.
“I wish you would stop calling me that,” I retort dryly. “And what do you mean what gives?”
“This.” She lifts our clasped hands. “This is what I mean. We’ve been on four dates, and all you’ve done is hold my hand.”
“For a girl who was certain she was just going to be another conquest for me, you sure this isn’t moving too fast?”
“I’m just wondering what the deal is.”
“Maybe I like holding your hand.” I shrug, and her nostrils flare in annoyance.
“I’m not like complaining or anything—”
“You clearly are. You want a kiss? That’s what you’re griping about?”