Only With You (Knights #2)

21

LANDON

I’m frustrated, ruminating whether I should book a hotel room tonight.

Julianna has been in her room for about ten minutes, but even though she’s not physically standing in front of me, I can still smell the scent of her perfume.

It bides in the air, making me feel like I’m stuck in a bubble of whatever she had on. The worst part about it is that I don’t hate it. In fact, I like it so much, I want her to come back out just so the scent remains.

There are so many things wrong with that thought.

This is laughable. Not too long ago, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible, but now, I’m wishing she’d come out, even for a minute.

I should leave. Being here is a mistake.

Having my mind made up, I stand but stop myself from grabbing my stuff from the coffee table when her door opens.

“Hey, are you awake?” she quietly asks as she softly pads into the living room.

Snowy white and electric sapphire swirl in my head.

My mouth dries and my heartbeat dramatically slows, so much so, I can physically feel each beat purposely knock against my rib cage.

“Yeah.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

Julianna stands a few feet away from me, face clear of makeup, but her lips are stained a strawberry colour. Her long hair is still down in soft waves.

But that’s not the reason why I’m struggling to remain indifferent.

It’s the cream, long-sleeved, body-hugging pyjamas she’s wearing. They’re covered in mini hearts and cherries with bows for stems, and they’re short, and the neckline—fuck me—it’s low. I get an insane view of her breasts.

This must be some kind of test, because how the hell am I not supposed to look? Her tits are practically pouring out.

I look away, casting my gaze to my keys, wallet, and phone on the coffee table. It won’t take much for me to swipe them and leave, but for some reason, I can’t move.

“I’m making hot chocolate. Do you want some?” She moseys over to the kitchen, and I swear it takes every inch of my willpower not to look at her arse. “I also have other drinks that are nonalcoholic. I know you said you don’t drink, so I’ve got options for you. Juices, teas, milk, coffee, and water.”

She was drunk when I told her I don’t drink. I wasn’t holding it against her to remember, but she did. It’s the bare minimum, but I appreciate her not making a joke or trying to persuade me to drink.

I don’t fall under the pressure, but it’s annoying when people think I’m going to change my mind. They try to make alcohol sound like it’s the best thing in the world.

My mother died from alcohol poisoning, so I don’t see how it would be.

“You remembered I don’t drink?”

She stops rummaging through the cabinets to look at me. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“You’d been drinking that night. I didn’t expect you to remember.”

She leans over the counter, bracing her elbows on it. “Just because I’d been drinking doesn’t mean I hadn’t been paying attention. I know you didn’t like that I made that assumption about you and I’m sorry. It’s kind of easy to get lost in the idea that everyone in college drinks, but I shouldn’t have assumed regardless. I’m sorry.”

I nod to fill the silence, because she’s not the only one who’s made assumptions. We’re both guilty of it, but still, I beat her on being an immense dick.

Which reminds me.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

She stands up straight, brows rising, no doubt surprised I brought it up. For a moment, she stares at me, but the impact of my words only lasts a second before she plasters a smile on her face.

“It’s fine. You said what you said. I said what I said. It’s nothing new, right? We’re used to it.” She resumes searching for what she needs.

I refrain from rolling my eyes, because she has a tendency of acting as if everything is fine. We may not have great history, but I’ve picked up on a few things about her over the past few years and even more so these past few weeks.

Stepping in the kitchen, I watch her set all of the stuff she’s going to use to make hot chocolate.

“It’s not fine. It obviously bothered you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t plaster that fake smile on your face and pretend it’s all good. When it’s not. What I said was really shitty, and you have the right to be mad at me.”

She flinches, but angles her chin upward, staring at me like I’ve got it all wrong, but I can see the strain in her eyes. Her taut shoulders and white knuckles also give her away.

“I don’t want to do this. We said we wouldn’t argue.”

“We’re not arguing. We’re talking.”

“I know, but I know where this conversation is heading. We’ll end up arguing and then I’ll have to explain to Gabby and Polly why you’re dead on the kitchen floor.” She deeply breathes.

“There’s going to be no murder or arguing tonight. I made a deal with you. Remember?”

She props her hip against the counter, folding her arms against her chest.

I’m in some kind of hell, because I’m tempted to do something I shouldn’t. No one has the right to look that good in pyjamas.

“We did, but you and I don’t talk .”

“We do. We’ve managed to talk these past few weeks.”

Her gaze coasts over the jar. “Yeah, but it always ends with an argument. Or have you forgotten that’s why that jar is filled with money?”

She’s right, but I’m always trying to keep it civil. She just gets offended when I say anything. I don’t mean to come off as abrasive, but the things I say sound right in my head. I also just don’t have patience for bullshit and never overthink my words. I just say what I feel.

Though Reid doesn’t agree with my communication skills, and has made it his mission to help me improve them.

“We made a deal. I’m not going to argue with you. I’m just trying to talk and apologise.”

She regards me with caution, then shifts her attention to the thick chocolate bar wrapped in a gold foil. “You don’t have to apologise. I overreacted. Let’s move on. I’m over it now.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

I step closer to her, but I’m still far enough I don’t hover. “Pretend like you’re fine.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

I bite back a groan. “Then why the fake smiles? It must be exhausting forcing them all the time.”

She blows out a dejected breath and removes the foil from the chocolate. “Are you going to want hot chocolate? Or do you want something else?”

I’m tempted to push to know why, but I can tell she’s close to snapping at me. I also know I’m stepping into a territory I’ve never cared to step in before.

It pains me to admit that she enthrals me. She shouldn’t, but she does. I’ve tried to extricate her from my mind, but she’s relentless and refuses to let go.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re about to have the best hot chocolate of your life.” She beams as she breaks the squares and throws them in a small pot. I bask in the genuine curve of her lips. Not because she has a pretty smile, but because she’s not forcing or pretending.

“The best hot chocolate of my life? That’s highly doubtful.”

I realise what I said before I can take it back, but she doesn’t take offence or chew me out for that comment. She softly laughs as she measures heavy cream into a cup and pours it into the pot, then sets it on the stove stop.

“I can’t wait for you to burn on your words.”

“It’s choke on your words,” I correct her, keeping a straight face, but it’s hard not to get lost in her smile and mirror it.

“Nah, I want you to burn your tongue for that little comment of yours.”

“That’s not very nice of you.”

“I never said I was nice.” She side-eyes me, her smile a little wicked. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and put some music on?”

I roll my eyes with feigned annoyance. “I assume you know how to say please?”

Now she rolls her eyes and grabs a wooden spoon from the ceramic jar that holds the utensils. “Please.”

“Yes, Hollywood.” I smirk and connect my phone to the TV’s Bluetooth.

She pins me with a glare, but I shrug. “Nicknames weren’t on your terms and conditions.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Next time, be more specific, Angel.”

“I’m still plotting your downfall.”

“And I’ll still be waiting.”

I hear her grumble, but then it’s replaced with a soft hum. She’s humming along to the song I picked. I would’ve asked her what she wanted to listen to, but seeing as she likes what I post, I didn’t bother.

“I will be very critical of this hot chocolate.” I lean against the fridge, watching her slowly stir. “If it doesn’t meet my expectations, I will rate it poorly.”

“I don’t expect anything less from you.” She pours milk into the pot and resumes stirring. “But just so you know, this is going to be the best damn hot chocolate you’ll ever have in your life.”

I revel in her confidence. Julianna typically is, but occasionally and usually during our tutoring sessions, she’s not. She’ll find it, though, she believes it’s because she’s never been good at math, but I find that unlikely. Sometimes, it feels like her mind is on something or someone else, like she’s worried about whatever she’s thinking.

“We’ll see…” I trail off, my gaze sweeping down to her bubble bum.

I tried hard not to look, but—and I mean this is the nicest way possible—she looks like a wet dream.

The song changes to “Innerbloom” and she peers over her shoulder, looking a bit surprised. Thank God she can’t read minds because she’d kick me out.

“Wow, RüFüS DU SOL? Can’t believe I’m saying this but you’ve got great taste.”

Little does she know.

“What did you expect?”

“Rap or something along those lines.” She stops stirring and turns the stove top off. “Do you mind grabbing two mugs?”

I push off the fridge and grab them.

A few weeks ago, I found out she’s obsessed with mugs when I opened the cupboard and found a multitude of them stacked on top of one another. I seriously don’t understand who needs that many, but she insists she does. She also said she has more, but because of the limited space, she has them stored away.

“I do, but I also listen to other things, too.”

“What do you listen to?”

“Music.”

Steam rises as she pours the hot chocolate into the mugs. “But what kind?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” I take a step back, feeling a little overwhelmed. I shouldn’t, but I’m not used to this unless it comes from Reid, because I know it’s his job, but even then he irks me.

“I guess.” She grabs the bag of mini marshmallows and counts fifteen before dropping them in. “To make it fair, you can ask me questions, too.”

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Who said I wanted to know anything about you?”

Her face scrunches at my voice. “Fine, be an ass. I just thought I’d make it fair, but forget it. I don’t want to know anything about you.”

I tuck my chain inside my shirt, feeling more than overwhelmed. I don’t like being poked or prodded with questions. Not by my best friends and certainly not by a girl I hardly know.

“You can’t expect anyone to understand you if you’re not willing to give a little of yourself.” Reid had said in one of our sessions.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“I’m sorry.” I shift from one foot to another under the weight of her inquisitive stare. “I’m not used to the questions, but I’ll answer.”

I hate myself as she forces a smile. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I pushed.”

“Don’t apologise. You did nothing wrong.” I grab the mug as she hands it to me, but my breath hitches as her fingers brush against mine. “I’ll answer your questions.”

Her eyes flick to our fingers, and quickly, she pulls them back and grabs her own. “Are you sure? I really don’t?—”

“Ask me.”