Free Confess by Colleen Hoover Page B

his eyes as they move from my jaw, to my cheekbones, to my forehead, back to my eyes again.
    “I’ll paint you from memory,” he says as he releases my face. He takes two steps back until he meets the counter behind him. I don’t realize how heavily I’m breathing until I see his gaze fall to my chest for a brief second. But I honestly don’t have time to worry about whether or not my reaction is obvious to him, because all I can focus on right now is how to get oxygen back into my lungs and a voice back into my throat. I inhale a shaky breath and realize it isn’t coffee I need right now. It’s water. Ice water. I walk toward him and open a cabinet and proceed to pour myself a glass of water. He props his hands on the counter behind him and crosses one foot over the other, grinning at me the entire time I down half the glass.
    The sound the glass makes when I set it on the counter is a little loud and dramatic, and it makes him laugh. I wipe my mouth and curse myself for being so obvious.
    His laugh is cut short when his cell phone rings. He quickly stands and pulls it out of his pocket. He glances at the screen, silences his phone, and slides it back into his pocket. His eyes move around the living room once more before they land on me again. “I should probably go.”
    Wow. This went well.
    I nod and take his cup when he slides it toward me. I turn around and begin washing it. “Well, thanks for the job,” I say. “And for walking me home.”
    I don’t turn around to watch him leave. I feel like my obvious inexperience just killed the entire vibe we had going. And I’m not upset with myself for that; I’m upset with him. I’m upset that he would be turned off by the fact that I’m not being forward or throwing myself at him. I’m upset that he gets one phone call, more than likely from Hannah, and he immediately uses it as his opportunity to hightail it out of here.
    This is exactly why I never do things like this.
    “It wasn’t a girl.”
    His voice startles me and I immediately spin around to find him standing right behind me. I start to respond, but I don’t know what to say, so I just clamp my mouth shut. I feel stupid for getting so angry just now, even though he has no idea what was going through my head.
    He takes a step closer and I press myself against the counter behind me, leaving the two feet of space between us that I need in order to remain coherent.
    “I don’t want you to think I’m leaving because another girl just called me,” he says, explaining his remark in more detail.
    I love that he just said this, and it makes all the negative thoughts I was having about him disappear. Maybe I was wrong. I do tend to have irrational reactions from time to time.
    I turn around and face the sink again because I don’t want him to see how much it pleases me that he wasn’t making up an excuse to leave. “It’s not my business who calls you, Owen.”
    I’m still facing the sink when his hands grip the counter on either side of me. His face moves close to the side of my head and I can feel his breath on my neck. I don’t know how it happens, but my entire body moves involuntarily until his chest is flush against my back. We aren’t nearly as close as we were during our dance, but it feels a whole hell of a lot more intimate considering we aren’t actually dancing.
    He rests his chin on my shoulder and I close my eyes and inhale. The way he makes me feel is so overwhelming; I find it difficult to continue standing. I’m gripping the counter, hoping he doesn’t notice how white my knuckles are.
    “I want to see you again,” he whispers.
    I don’t think about all the reasons why that’s such a bad idea. I don’t think about what my focus should be on. Instead, I think about how good it feels when he’s this close to me and how I want so much more of it. All the bad parts of me answer him and force my voice to say, “Okay,” because all the good parts of me are too weak to offer up