Filed to story: Addicted To My Hockey Stepbrother
I pulled out my tutor evaluation form and flipped it over. Clicked my pen. All business.
“One. Nobody knows it’s fake. Not Sienna, not Zara, not your teammates. If one person finds out, the whole thing collapses.”
“Agreed.”
“Two. Public displays of affection to sell it. Arm around the shoulder. Maybe hand-holding. Nothing excessive.”
“Define excessive.”
“Nothing that would make my mother cry.”
“Your mother’s about to marry my father. She’s already emotionally compromised.”
“Three.” I ignored him. “Private sessions stay professional. Tutoring is tutoring. No – ” I waved my hand vaguely. “No repeats of the restaurant.”
“You mean no fingering you against the counter while your mom passes the bread basket?”
“Do you want me to write that down verbatim or-“
“I’m just clarifying the terms.”
I wrote NO PHYSICAL CONTACT IN PRIVATE in capital letters and underlined it twice. He watched me write it with an expression that said he was already planning to break that rule and wanted me to know it.
“Four. This ends when I say it ends. If I’m done, we’re done. No arguments.”
“Fair.”
“Five. You actually try in tutoring. I’m not putting my academic reputation on the line for a guy who won’t open a textbook.”
“I’ll open the textbook.”
“You’ll do the readings.”
“I’ll do the readings.”
“You’ll write the essays.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
I held out the pen. He took it – our fingers brushed and I pretended I didn’t feel it everywhere – and signed his name at the bottom of the form. Messy. Aggressive. The signature of someone who’d been signing things he didn’t read his whole life.
He set the pen down. Looked at me.
“You forgot one.”
“What?”
“No falling in love.”
I stared at him. “That’s not funny.”
His face didn’t change. No smirk. No amusement. Those grey eyes were steady and serious and looking at me like he was saying something important that he’d disguised as a joke because that was the only way he knew how to say important things.
“Wasn’t trying to be funny.”
The room felt very small.
“Fine,” I said. “Rule six. No falling in love.” I wrote it on the form. My handwriting was less steady than before. “Signed and sealed. We’re done.”
“One more thing.”
“What now?”
“We need to practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Kissing.” He said it like he was suggesting they grab coffee. “If we’re going to sell this in public, we can’t look like two strangers who’ve never touched each other.”
“We’re not strangers who’ve never touched each other. You’ve literally been inside me.”
“In a bar bathroom. Drunk. In the dark.” He stood up. Walked around the table. Stood in front of me. “This is different. This is sober, in daylight, in front of people who are going to be watching for cracks. One kiss. Quick. Just so we’re not awkward.”
The logic was sound. I hated that the logic was sound.
“One kiss,” I said. “Quick.”
“Quick,” he agreed.
He stepped closer. His hand came up – slow, deliberate, giving me time to stop him – and settled on the back of my neck. His fingers threaded into my hair. His thumb rested against my jaw.
It was not quick.
