Very Wicked Things
Page 28

He seemed perplexed and sat. I checked behind him and then over my shoulder, but no one seemed to be encouraging him. Huh. At first, I thought Spider might have put him up to messing with me, but he was in detention this week for fighting.
Cuba smiled. “No joke. I dreamed about you.”
“Do tell,” I said, eyeing the black knit shirt he wore, not missing how it clung to his chest. Then, because I’m practical, I wondered how much he spent on it. I bet it was designer; I bet for the price of his shirt, I could eat out for a month.
He leaned in. “You may not know this, but my mother’s a gypsy. She tells me what my dreams mean.”
“Really?” I said. “I thought your mother was Brazilian. Aren’t gypsies Romanian?”
“My father’s side is Romanian.”
“Ha.” I packed my lunch up. “Everyone knows your dad is Archie Hudson, owner of the Dallas Mavericks, and as American as apple pie.”
He grinned.
I got out my math homework and ran a quick finger down the page, checking the answers. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away. I didn’t have time for a rich boy who went through a new girl every month. And why would this hot as hell guy be interested in me anyway? With my consignment shop wardrobe and plain features, I wasn’t exactly his type.
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go, so I gathered my things and shifted my body to get up from the table.
“Wait,” he said. “You didn’t ask about the dream. Don’t you want to know?” He blushed, and I watched in amazement as it spread up his neck, across his face, making even the tips of his ears turn a delightful shade of red.
Could he be for real?
I settled back on the hard chair. I did have a few minutes, I suppose. “Okay, I’m curious. Tell me about this dream.”
He smiled big this time, his lips tilting up in a delicious way. A perfect mix of white and Latino, his skin was the color of pale honey, his longish, dark hair streaked with red high-lights from the Texas sun.
I stared at him, perhaps blatantly, getting sucked in by his unusual eyes. Bordering on bizarre, they were nearly yellow, and right now they stared at me as if I was a tall drink of water and he was dying of thirst. Huh. How many other girls got this particular look from him? I’d wager about one or two a day.
He cleared his throat. “It started out with you in this blue dress, cut down to here.” He grazed his hands down to his stomach. I eyed his obvious hard abs.
“Blue isn’t my color. I’m more of a black girl. Sometimes grey.”
“My dream and it is your color.”
Well, okay then. I nodded.
“Anyway, this dress had lace on it and…I don’t know…stuff. And it matched your eyes, a deep blue like a stormy sea.”
“You’re very poetic,” I commented, cocking an eyebrow.
“Thank you.” His tone was serious, but his mouth twitched.
I chuckled. I couldn’t help it.
“I made you laugh. I like it,” he said in a deeper voice, like he was sharing a secret with me, something just between the two of us.
“Okay, blue dress, very revealing. Is there more?” I asked, waving my hand. Let’s get this over with. Sarah and I could laugh about this at dinner tonight.
“You had on these amazing heels. I don’t remember the color. Maybe an animal print. But I do remember they made you tall, your face almost level with mine.” He rubbed his chiseled jaw. “I liked those shoes.”
“Like these?” I stuck out my leg, showing him my plain Jane flats. Same thing I wore every day.
His heavy-lidded eyes lingered over my legs a millisecond too long for it to be casual, and my breath quickened. Oh, he was good. Very good.
“No, but I like those too,” he said, eyes at half-mast.
Really? Dude was lying. These shoes were functional only.
“Your legs are long, Dovey. It’s hot.”
I straightened up in my seat. “I don’t think I like where your dream is headed.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was just you standing on these stone steps, maybe in front of a museum or a library waiting for someone. And when I showed up, you ran straight into my arms. Like we were a couple.” He bit his bottom lip, worrying it, his teeth scraping across it in the most mesmerizing way. “And then I kissed you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Tongue?”
“Most definitely,” he murmured.
“Long? Short?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Hot and deep. Languorous.”
“Languorous? One of your SAT words?”
He grinned. “It means leisurely and unhurried. It fits”
Oh. That was, um, well…
I nibbled on my nail, visualizing it: me…him…those full lips.
“Is that it? No nudity?” Did I sound disappointed?
He put his elbows on the table like he was settling in. “Nope. Isn’t it enough to be the most romantic kiss known to mankind?” He sighed. “Incredible doesn’t even touch it. The way your mouth fit to mine was perfect.”
Oh. My toes wanted to curl he was so smooth. What girl doesn’t like to hear that a hot guy had a sexy dream about her? But still.
I said, “This is good stuff. Maybe you should turn it in to Playboy.”
“There wasn’t any sex, so I don’t think Playboy would want to hear about it.”
He crossed his arms, and I stared at his tat, a twisting vine of gorgeous red roses that encircled his entire arm, from the top of his wrist all the way up under his shirt. The vine was thick with green leaves and long, sharp thorns. One lone black rose caught my attention. I’d always wanted a tat, and I had a thousand questions for him on the tip of my tongue. How far did it go? Did it dip over his shoulder and go down his back?