open up and swallow me whole , I pray. Like, as in right freaking now. Seriously.
I look up to see Weston standing there in his masculine glory staring down at me with expectation in his eyes - one hand holding his dinner and one hand stuffed in the pocket of his black Adidas athletic pants. His hair is wet, presumably from the shower he took after his game.
There is a red gash in his bottom lip that's obviously new.
Holy shit is it hot.
Stop staring at his lips, Molly. Stop it.
I must have hesitated far too long because those amazing lips hitch up into a small smile and he shrugs, "It's cool. I didn't mean to bother you." He says the words but makes no effort to walk away.
"No, no. It's fine. You surprised me that's all." I shut the book and slam it down onto the table, pushing it upside down to the corner of the table. "I usually have the place to myself."
"Yeah?" That one uttered word has a lilt to it that sends heat racing through my body in places that have long been dormant. I resist the urge to visibly shiver as I invite him to share my booth.
"Yeah. Here, sit."
Weston slides into the booth with a gracefulness you wouldn't expect from a guy his size. Setting his plate down, he unrolls his utensils from the paper napkin - than its fork on the left side of the plate, knife on the right. He shocks me even further by laying the napkin across one knee.
My, my, such good table manners.
He clears his throat, than says "I don't think we've ever really been introduced. I'm Wes." He is holding his hand across the table for me to shake, and I stare at it like he intends to shock me with a Taser. Large and calloused, this is the hand of a guy who's seen his share of hard work.
I unintentionally slide my hand slowly into his palm, sending a ripple of sensations coursing through my body. His hand is steady and warm, and suddenly I'm in no rush to leave.
"I'm Molly." My voice is soft, just above a whisper.
"Hi, Molly," His voice is like satin sliding across my skin.
Say my name again, please.... Just once more....
I don't think I've ever met a boy with a voice this baritone and erotic. Take Bryan Bossner for example: at 17 years old, his voice still cracks if he's shouting in gym class. Suddenly it's makes more sense to me why girls always seem to be fawning over Weston McGrath - it's not because of the hockey, and it's not because he's so damn good looking. Nope. It's because his voice could charm the pants off a nun.
I mean, if nuns wore pants.
Finally releasing my hand, Weston points at his ears. "What are you listening to?" He is already digging into his pasta, which has steam rising from it.
"Huh? Oh my gosh!" How rude of me! Quickly I remove my ear buds and wind them around my iPod, setting them on top of my book.
He chuckles, low and deep in this chest and I can't help it - I shiver.
"Cold?"
Oh my god, shoot me now .
"Um, sort of. I left my sweater in the car." To validate my lie, I rub my hands up and down my arms a few times and say " Brrr ...."
I am such an idiot . The action must have drawn Weston's attention to my shirt, which is a navy tee bearing the resorts logo where I work. He raises his eyebrows.
"You work at Mount Olympia?"
I nod. "Yup. In the gift shop. Nothing all that exciting, but I do get a lift ticket every season for half off, so...."
"No shit. You board?"
"Why, do you consider yourself boring ?" I tease.
He screws his face up and looks at me like I've lost my mind. "No Molly, I meant do you snowboard."
Seriously, an idiot ...
"Um, no. I ski actually - what about you?"
"Yeah, I board. Well, not as much as I used to because of, you know. Hockey."
I nod in understanding. "I can imagine that you're crazy busy."
Across from me, Weston starts fiddling with his fork, pushing a few noodles around on his plate. He looks at me directly and what comes out of his mouth next genuinely dumbfounds me. "Look Molly, about the other day at school...I..." he pauses and lets out a long breath.
I look up to see Weston standing there in his masculine glory staring down at me with expectation in his eyes - one hand holding his dinner and one hand stuffed in the pocket of his black Adidas athletic pants. His hair is wet, presumably from the shower he took after his game.
There is a red gash in his bottom lip that's obviously new.
Holy shit is it hot.
Stop staring at his lips, Molly. Stop it.
I must have hesitated far too long because those amazing lips hitch up into a small smile and he shrugs, "It's cool. I didn't mean to bother you." He says the words but makes no effort to walk away.
"No, no. It's fine. You surprised me that's all." I shut the book and slam it down onto the table, pushing it upside down to the corner of the table. "I usually have the place to myself."
"Yeah?" That one uttered word has a lilt to it that sends heat racing through my body in places that have long been dormant. I resist the urge to visibly shiver as I invite him to share my booth.
"Yeah. Here, sit."
Weston slides into the booth with a gracefulness you wouldn't expect from a guy his size. Setting his plate down, he unrolls his utensils from the paper napkin - than its fork on the left side of the plate, knife on the right. He shocks me even further by laying the napkin across one knee.
My, my, such good table manners.
He clears his throat, than says "I don't think we've ever really been introduced. I'm Wes." He is holding his hand across the table for me to shake, and I stare at it like he intends to shock me with a Taser. Large and calloused, this is the hand of a guy who's seen his share of hard work.
I unintentionally slide my hand slowly into his palm, sending a ripple of sensations coursing through my body. His hand is steady and warm, and suddenly I'm in no rush to leave.
"I'm Molly." My voice is soft, just above a whisper.
"Hi, Molly," His voice is like satin sliding across my skin.
Say my name again, please.... Just once more....
I don't think I've ever met a boy with a voice this baritone and erotic. Take Bryan Bossner for example: at 17 years old, his voice still cracks if he's shouting in gym class. Suddenly it's makes more sense to me why girls always seem to be fawning over Weston McGrath - it's not because of the hockey, and it's not because he's so damn good looking. Nope. It's because his voice could charm the pants off a nun.
I mean, if nuns wore pants.
Finally releasing my hand, Weston points at his ears. "What are you listening to?" He is already digging into his pasta, which has steam rising from it.
"Huh? Oh my gosh!" How rude of me! Quickly I remove my ear buds and wind them around my iPod, setting them on top of my book.
He chuckles, low and deep in this chest and I can't help it - I shiver.
"Cold?"
Oh my god, shoot me now .
"Um, sort of. I left my sweater in the car." To validate my lie, I rub my hands up and down my arms a few times and say " Brrr ...."
I am such an idiot . The action must have drawn Weston's attention to my shirt, which is a navy tee bearing the resorts logo where I work. He raises his eyebrows.
"You work at Mount Olympia?"
I nod. "Yup. In the gift shop. Nothing all that exciting, but I do get a lift ticket every season for half off, so...."
"No shit. You board?"
"Why, do you consider yourself boring ?" I tease.
He screws his face up and looks at me like I've lost my mind. "No Molly, I meant do you snowboard."
Seriously, an idiot ...
"Um, no. I ski actually - what about you?"
"Yeah, I board. Well, not as much as I used to because of, you know. Hockey."
I nod in understanding. "I can imagine that you're crazy busy."
Across from me, Weston starts fiddling with his fork, pushing a few noodles around on his plate. He looks at me directly and what comes out of his mouth next genuinely dumbfounds me. "Look Molly, about the other day at school...I..." he pauses and lets out a long breath.
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