Page 48

She heads for the door, then calls back, “And don't redo your eyeliner again!”

“I wasn't going to!”

“Bullshit!”

I laugh as the door closes behind her.

I go back to the mirror and get one earring in. I'm reaching behind my back for the zipper of the green dress when there's a knock at the door.

I hurry over, still fighting with the zipper, and open the door without looking up.

“What did you forget—”

But it isn't Nadia.

It's Wyatt.

He's standing in my hallway wearing a hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he's unsure whether coming here was a mistake.

The hallway light isn't doing him any favors. Or maybe it's doing him too many, catching the copper in his hair and the line of his jaw, and I hate that I notice either.

Then I wonder what he's doing here.

“Hey,” he says. “I, uh… I came to collect my hoodie.”

Oh, right.

I don't know where the slight disappointment comes from, but I ignore it.

Now that we've established he's here for no other reason, he won't mind helping me with my zipper, right?

“Can you help me with this?” I turn my back to him and show him the zipper.

He hesitates a beat too long before moving, like his brain has to send the order twice.

As I stand there with my back to him, waiting, I feel a mixture of triumph, giddy anticipation, and arousal.

Finally, his fingers brush the back of my neck as he pushes my hair out of the way, and I feel the warmth of his hand before the zipper actually moves.

He's careful with it, working the little metal tab loose from where it's caught on the fabric. It gives easily enough once he pulls, but neither of us moves right away when he's done.

I can feel him just behind me, close enough that I'm aware of every place we're not quite touching—the inch of air between his chest and my shoulder blades, the space where his hand still hovers near my spine.

“There,” he says quietly. Then he clears his throat.

My own voice is raspy, too. “Thanks.”

“Quinn.”

A beat passes as he seems to think about what exactly he wants to say.

“If this guy's not decent to you—like, actually decent, not fake-decent—you call me. I don't care what time it is.”

I turn around to look at him, and there's nothing teasing in his face right now. Nothing angling for a laugh, no easy joke loaded and ready to fire.

"I can handle myself."

“I know you can.” He shrugs. “Just saying. If you need anything, call me.”