The Boys are Back in Town

The Boys are Back in Town: Nine

I was fairly certain Alek could feel my pulse beating erratically where his fingers touched my neck. For a second I thought he might kiss me, but he simply moved closer and laid his head on my shoulder.

"Alek?"

"Give me a second," he murmured. His hair tickled my jaw, and my nose picked up the smooth, pepperminty smell of his aftershave. Goosebumps rose on my skin when he started brushing circles on the nape of my neck with his thumb, but it loosened some of the tension on my back and I relaxed.

"Alek," I said softly. "I'm pretty sure we're blocking the sidewalk."

He chuckled, lifted his head a little and pressed a kiss to my collarbone. "All right."

I looked at him curiously as he settled into his seat again. For a moment he sat there, and his fingers drummed restlessly against the steering wheel. That one week when we were together he was forward with his affections. He always took my hand first, kissed me when I least expected and brushed his fingers against my hair or my face.

Despite the unfortunate cake incident, Alek and I became fast friends. We were fiercely protective of each other. Even as friends he constantly reached for me, invited me, made sure I knew I had a place with them.

Only now did I realize that I'd never been as forward with him. Though my eyes always went to him first, I was too shy even with him.

Before I could think too much on it, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He didn't look at me, but my breath stuttered at the slow, upward curve of his mouth.

***

I didn't want to feel awkward about inviting him up to my room, but I did a little. I'm pretty sure neither of us had forgotten about what happened the last time we were alone in my room. Alek's amused smile made it all the more embarrassing for me. Nevertheless, he followed me upstairs without comment.

My room had changed considerably in two years. My once white walls were now painted a light blue, and I'd taken down a lot of posters and replaced them with some of my paintings from art class. I was overly conscious of the fact that Alek was looking at everything with fresh eyes.

"The painting in the kitchen..."

I nodded. "It's mine. It was a gift for my parents on their last anniversary."

"It's beautiful," he said. "All of these are."

"Thanks," I said, smiling.

His gaze moved to the small bookshelf pushed against the side of my bed, which also functioned as my nightstand. It was filled with books we'd read together while he was away, as well as copies of books he'd sent me for two birthdays and two Christmases. I hoped he wouldn't notice, but when his eyes passed over them, I knew by the way his smile widened that he definitely did.  

"Is this a special shelf?" he asked innocently.

I rolled my eyes. "If you must know, those are my favorite books."

"Oh?"

"They were recommended to me by a friend."

"Your friend has a very good taste in literature."

"Yes," I said, shrugging. "But I'm worried about him. He reads too many sad books."

Alek's eyebrows jumped at that. "Sad books?"

I nodded at my bookshelf. "Nearly every single one has made me cry."

"Really," he said. I've never admitted to crying over the books we'd read before.

"Yes. Kleenex called to ask if I was okay."

"Tiger Lily made you cry? You love Peter Pan!"

"Did you not read the letter part?"

He sighed. "I'll find a non-tear-jerker for us."

"You do that," I sniffed.

Alek made himself comfortable on my reading chair, looking through the pages I'd tabbed on the books we read, while I unpacked my bag and started on a French essay. Every once in a while I asked him to translate a sentence or check my grammar. I knew he took a minor course in French at Grierstone and his level was more advanced.

An hour and a half later, he moved to stand next to me and read over my shoulder while I wrote my last sentence. Une nuit sans alcool, mais j'ai été...

"How do you say 'drunk' in this context?" I asked, glancing up at him.

He quirked a brow. "'Ivre'."

I flushed and finished the sentence quickly. Alek looked like he wanted to laugh, but said nothing. According to my clock, it was almost seven so I closed my notebook and stood up to get ready for dinner.

I was halfway to my closet when he asked, "What was the essay supposed to be about?"

I paused, then said, "Happy regrets."

A night without alcohol, but I was drunk on him.