One Tiny Lie A Novel

not exposed. But he’s still on his knees and his eyes are still locked on mine. They never wander. Not as my pants reach the floor. Not as his hands glide back up, gripping my thighs as they climb under my shirt to my underwear. A second gasp escapes me as his fingers hook under the elastic band. He pulls them down until they simply fall to the ground. With a sharp intake of air, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening them.
    “Sit,” he whispers, and I do.
    He breaks his gaze just long enough to gently slip my damp clothes off around my injured ankle. Unfolding his track pants, he eases them around my ankles and pulls them up as far as he can. “Stand, Irish.” I do as asked, using him for support again as he slides them up and ties the drawstring tight. Never once touching me inappropriately.
    And if he had tried, I don’t think I would have stopped him.
    When he’s done, when I’m dressed and breathless and unsure of what happened but still standing there in front of him, he reaches down to take my hand. He lifts it up and places it flat over his heart, just as I had done earlier. Only he holds it there, his hand covering mine completely, trembling from cold or something else, his heart pounding too. I look up into sad, resigned eyes.
    “Thank you.”
    Swallowing my ball of nerves, I whisper, “For what?”
    “For helping me to forget. Even for a little while.” Giving my knuckles a kiss, he adds, “This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.”
    My stomach drops as he releases my hand. Turning, he walks toward the bathroom, his body rigid, his head bowed forward slightly, as if in defeat.
    I’m afraid if I don’t ask now, I’ll never be able to again. “What does a ‘forever girl’ mean?”
    His feet falter as he reaches the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other coming up to seize the frame, the bulge in his bicep tightening. His body sways forward into the bathroom and I assume I’m not getting an answer.
    “Freedom.” He shuts the door behind him.
    My forever girl. My freedom .
    All I can do is grab the crutches that are laid out on the bed and hobble out of there. I need time to think, and thinking around Ashton isn’t possible.
    This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.
    Dammit. Connor.
    I forgot about him. Again .

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Just Spit It Out
    “I went jogging. You know, trying out something new. Having fun.”
    “Oh yeah? And did you have fun?”
    “I’m on crutches, Dr. Stayner. I sprained my ankle.”
    “Hmm. Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun. But neither is jogging.”
    “No, it’s pretty much the opposite of fun.” Between ice packs and classes and a few awkward shower moments with Reagan, the last week and a half has been a nightmare. I missed my volunteer hours last Saturday because I was in too much pain. I would be missing this week as well if Connor hadn’t offered to drive me.
    “How is everything else?”
    “Confusing.”
    “Which boy is confusing you?”
    “Which one do you think?” I mutter as I watch for Connor’s white Audi. I told him I’d wait for him on this park bench so he could just pull up to the curb and let me hop in. I’m still so thankful that he’s taking an entire Saturday away from his schoolwork for me. I know he has a giant paper due next week.
    And I don’t deserve him after what I let happen with Ashton. His best friend.
    I’ve chalked it up to temporary insanity. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by a simultaneous full-scale Ashton assault on both my heart and my libido.
    Once I escaped the situation, Grant drove Reagan and me back to the dorm, where I struggled between icing my foot, pretending to study, squirming under Reagan’s penetrating stare, and setting my memories of the afternoon on repeat.
    And I’ve continued doing basically that—missing some classes in the process—for the past eight days. I’ve steered clear of Ashton. He hasn’t come looking for me, which is good, because I can’t handle seeing him while I’m dealing with the overwhelming shame I feel around Connor. Connor swings by to check up on me every day, bringing me flowers and cupcakes and a “get well” bear. It’s as if he has a “how to make Livie explode with guilt after secretly making out with my best friend” list and he’s checking the boxes off one by one. Guilt that makes my teeth grit to keep from blurting out my string of indiscretions, guilt that makes me pepper him with