Stay With Me (4 page)

But his thumb stays near my lips, and I don’t move.

Every point in my body is tuned to this, awareness shooting through me like a lightning bolt striking water. I feel more alive in this moment than I’ve ever felt before.

I don’t do anything but stay exactly where I am.

Caleb takes another step toward me. His legs touch mine, his body brushing lightly against mine.

I notice the blackberry is still in his hand. “You still haven’t eaten yours.”

“I haven’t.” He places it against my mouth. “Bite.”

I take a small taste and feel the juice stain my lips.

His thumb swipes over my lips, smearing the juice onto them even more. He presses the rest of the blackberry against me but doesn’t say a word. I take the fruit in my mouth, my lips catching over the tip of his index finger as I do so. The taste of him is all I can savor—male, the salt from his skin, and the sweet bitterness of the fruit. His gaze locks onto mine, and I swallow heavily.

“You’ve got berry on you,” he says.

I try to be arch, but my voice comes out soft and wanting. “That’s because
you
did it.”

“I did,” he admits. “I should take if off then.”

My breath hitches in my chest as his other arm slides around my waist and pulls me away from the island right to him.

“This might take a while,” he says.

I heaved out an exaggerated sigh of boredom that’s soon ruined when I shiver with delight as his fingers gather in the material of the t-shirt. “I guess I’ll just have to close my eyes and suffer through it.”

“No suffering,” he promises.

His hand slides up my back, and my muscles, already tightened with awareness, start to ache from wanting. His fingers skate up my neck, and my nerves jangle.

I’m suddenly wondering if he’s ever going to kiss me.

I stretch my hand over his chest, knotting his shirt in my grasp, and yank him to me. “Caleb.”

He lowers his head to me, and my eyelids flutter closed. I lean toward him, waiting—just waiting—for when he touches me. I tighten my hold on him, trying to urge him to do it now, but no, he doesn’t heed my unspoken demands. He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t rush. It’s like he has all the time in the world until he kisses me.

His finger gently swipes over my mouth, tracing it softly, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Like he’s trying to get all the details of my mouth down before he claims me. He presses lightly against my lower lip, dipping into the soft plumpness there.

I smooth my hands out on his chest. I’m pressed against him so tight that I can’t do more than reach up and grasp his shoulders. I want to slide my fingers through his hair.

But more than that, I want to feel
him
against me.

Almost as if he’s heard my thoughts, Caleb’s lips lightly press against the corner of my mouth, where he removed the berry stain only a few moments ago. I still, and his hand leaves my neck to slide down to rest at the small of my back before moving back up in a slow movement that has pleasure coursing through my body. I gasp, and his mouth flutters another kiss at the corner. Brief, these flutter kisses—never quite landing fully on my lips or staying too long.

I make a sound of want. I press even closer, as if I’m inking myself on his skin, in his blood, urging this patient, sexy man to take my mouth—to take it now.

He doesn’t.

His mouth finally touches mine, but it’s not a kiss that claims or declares intent.

He gives.

His lips give kisses upon mine, like rain watering parched land. His mouth moves against mine, gentle, strong, and it makes me cling to him, to give more to him, to open up in ways I never have with any man before.

His teeth catch on my lower lip, lightly tugging, as if asking a question, one that I answer by opening my mouth and letting him in. His tongue slides against me, tasting, seeking. He’s all I know, all I want to know, and I want him to know me in every possible way.

This might just be lust, but it doesn’t feel like it—not with this assured gentleness, this giving of a kiss, like he’s waited all his life for this—for me—and now that I’m here, he’s not going to do anything to mess it up.

He doesn’t make me feel weak in his kiss. I feel strong, treasured . . . desired.

His kiss turns hotter, as if he’s losing control of himself.

Oh yes,
I think.
Lose control, Caleb. Lose it with me.

I’m suddenly lifted onto the edge of the island, my legs falling slightly apart. He steps in between the space, and his hardness rocks against me. I moan and urge a little closer to him. It just feels
so
good, and I want him against me, rocking into me, sliding against me where I’m straining.

His mouth leaves mine, and I gasp his name. He trails kisses over my jaw line to my ear. “I want you.”

I open my mouth to tell him the same because I so want him too. To hell with good intentions.

But before I can do so, there’s the sound of the front door slamming shut.

We both jerk away from each other. I jump down off the island and clear my throat. We wait in tense silence, but the footsteps head upstairs. I relax and Caleb looks away, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says.

He’s . . . he’s
sorry
?

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Even worse, he regrets it.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have anything to say because I’m not sorry for anything, and I certainly didn’t regret the kiss until
right now
. What was I thinking?

He stays silent for a long moment. “Let’s get you home.”

“You know,” I say, backing away, “I think I can manage on my own. It’s really not that far away.”

And before he can say something to change my mind, I take my bags and my dirty clothes and run out the front door.

I don’t even care that I leave one container of the blackberries behind. After all, it’s not the only thing I’m leaving behind.

But I’m determined that this will be the last time I run from Caleb. Twice was more than enough; there won’t be a third.

Chapter 3

M
Y FIRST CLASS IS AT
8:30 a.m. on Monday morning, and when my alarm clock goes off at six, I hit the snooze button. I do this some more until I force myself out of bed at quarter of seven. I don’t feel like I’ve slept at all—and I look it. I spent all day Sunday working on my homework and went into the wee hours of the morning putting the finishing touches on the ten-paged paper on the role of women in
The Scarlet Letter
.

English 101 isn’t until after lunch, but Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my full days. Spanish 1 is the first class at 8:30, and I find it pretty boring. There’s nothing exciting about conjugating verbs. But since it fulfills a core requirement, I’m sticking with it.

I make it to Room 414 with five minutes to spare. The class started off with twenty-five students, but with drop outs it’s now sitting at twelve. Three tables make up the desk area, forming a square type of horseshoe. By this point, everyone has their “spot,” and mine—the end on the left side of the room—is still vacant. I sit down and grab my notebook from my bag. There’s never a lot of talking, and I can’t tell if it’s because Professor Marquessa is a formidable woman or because almost everyone is barely awake at the hour.

Class drags on by as usual, and the professor assigns us homework that requires the use of the language lab. I gather my stuff and head to the science building next door for my next core requirement. I chose Environmental Science because I thought it would be easy and, well, if I have to study science I might as well learn something more about the environment. The professor surprises us with a pop quiz on the reading material, and although I’ve read the pages, my brain seizes up on a few questions and I rely on the eenie-meenie-miney-mo method for choosing an answer. It sucks because I know I’ve failed it, and I really want to keep my GPA above a 3.5.

But I’m not sure if that will happen. Classes are harder than expected. I mean, I didn’t expect them to be easy, but I thought I’d be better at this. I thought getting good grades would come as naturally to me as singing, dancing, and acting does—
did
, I correct myself. I don’t do that other stuff anymore.

I just have to work harder, I tell myself. And not to just prove everyone wrong who said I’d fail at this but because I want to prove to myself that
I can do this
.

I don’t have a class until one, so I opt to head to the cafeteria for lunch. I haven’t gone to the cafeteria before—it’s even unbelievable to me how I’ve managed to avoid it. But the only times I’ve eaten in one has been for film or a music video; I’m actually scared and nervous that it’s going to be one of those horrible eating experiences where I’ll grab my tray and be eating alone.

Or, worse, I won’t be left alone and instead mobbed by a ton of people.

But it’s past time I eat there. I want to be normal, and there’s nothing more normal than eating cafeteria food with a bunch of other college students.

I get in line and search for my ID. I do have a meal plan, but only for once a day. There’s money on the card in case I want to go upstairs to The Deck, a hybrid of a café, grill, and snack shop. The Deck is smaller and won’t likely have any seats at this hour.

It might even be hard to find a seat in the main cafeteria, but I’m going to do it. The lunch clerk, an elderly lady with blue-white hair in tight curls framing a round face, swipes my card through the machine without looking up.

I grab a tray, placing silverware and a tall, empty glass on it. I’ll go for some salad, but on the way there I’m distracted by a cook bringing out a bin of just-out-of-the-oven French fries.

I don’t even know when the last time I’ve had French fries was.

My mouth waters.

I’ll just take a few. A few won’t kill me. And I won’t even have to work it off—like, if anyone from my former team knew what I was going to do, I’d be in the gym 24/7 for the next year of my life.

I grab the tongs and put some fries onto my plate. Then I decide to go for the chicken fingers and squirt some ketchup on the side. I’ll still get a salad, but I remind myself that I’m no longer part of the Hollywood scene, so I can eat whatever I want—within reason.

But I still fill my glass with iced water. It’s stupid girl eating logic, but since I’m not eating the healthiest food, I won’t compound it be getting a soda. Then when I’m done picking out my food, I head for the exit to the sitting area.

As I suspected, the room is crowded. It’s also loud and noisy, and people don’t stop and stare—they don’t even take notice of me.

Thank God.

I’m not brave enough to take my tray and sit with anyone because . . . what if they say no? I don’t want to face possible humiliation, so I choose an empty table on the side and near the front. It’s somewhat blocked by one of the huge pillars, and I sit facing forward.

It’s not like I haven’t eaten by myself before, but it didn’t happen that often. I would never go a day, let alone a few hours, without someone calling me to meet up for dinner, a nightclub, or a house party.

And I guess that I should’ve realized that when I got here—that making friends or even getting to know people I could hang out with was going to be a lot harder than expected. I mean, before it was just hanging out with people I worked with on sets . . . and when I was on tour, I was simply too busy with traveling to do anything social.

I had friends.
Had.

And I thought that I’d be able to meet friends from classes or even by chance in the apartment building I live in. But so far I haven’t. No one really speaks to me, and I kind of feel like a loser that I haven’t been able to make any friends on my own.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that it’s not until someone clears their throat that I realize I’m no longer alone.

I jerk my head up.

A curvy girl around my age and a few inches below average height, with long chestnut-colored hair and hazel eyes, stands before me holding a tray. She shifts from one foot to the other, like she can’t quite stay still.

“Hi,” she says. “Are you saving seats for your friends or something?”

“Um . . . no.”

She gestures to the table with her tray. “Would you mind . . .?”

“Definitely not.”

She sits down at the other end of the table, her body facing the crowd of the cafeteria. She pushes her long, side-swept bangs back off her face, and there’s a faint jagged scar that runs from the right side of her temple downward to her cheekbone. “Thanks, by the way.”

“No problem.” I sit there for a while, wondering if I should say anything else, but then if she’d wanted to talk she wouldn’t have sat so far away from me.

So I start to eat and stifle a groan when I see Caleb heading out of the food area with a bunch of guys, including Nick.

I hunch lower in my seat, hoping he won’t see me.

The girl notices my movement and gives me a weird look. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say easily even as I lower even further. The cafeteria has pretty much filled up by now, and Caleb and his friends are looking for seats.

“Then why are you—” Her cat-like hazel eyes widen. “Oh God, I’m such a frigging idiot!”

“I—”

She leans forward. “You’re Hailey Bloom, aren’t you? God, I should have known from the start! I should have.”

“Um, that’s okay. Really. But if you could just lower—”

“I’m sorry,” she immediately says in a hushed whisper. “God. You probably get that all the time. It’s got to get so old and annoying, and now you’re probably wishing you just said no to me eating here in the first place. I can totally get up and leave. I mean, I don’t even really like eating in the cafeteria anyway, and, you know . . . I’ll just leave.”

She starts to get up with her tray.

“No, no, don’t leave.”

But it’s too late. Her movement draws the attention of Caleb and his friends. A wide smile splits across Caleb’s face.

But his eyes aren’t on mine.

They’re on the girl who just got up.

“Daphne!” he booms.

“Fuck,” Daphne mutters darkly and just stands there.