Kids scurry to clear a path as he struts toward me. He’s as big as the others and hot shit on campus. His striking blond hair is spiked, and his clean-shaven face and cologne scream of a man who spent more time getting ready for tonight than I did.
“Hey.” He starts talking with still a few feet between us. “Layla . . . right?” And now he’s right up in my space.
I rock back to try to gain a few inches between us. “Yeah, um . . .” I squint one eye. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”
He smiles in way that feels patronizing, as if it’s absurd that I wouldn’t know who he is. “Stewart.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s right.” I don’t really remember, but it does sound a little familiar now. I think.
“Wow, you look”—he drops his gaze to my feet then makes his way back up to my eyes—“really interesting.”
“Thanks?”—I shake my head and desperately need something to do with my hands, so I fumble with my cup—“I think.”
Where do we go after the non-compliment? My cheeks flame as his gaze burns against my skin. An awkward silence builds between us, and it’s almost as if he’s finding enjoyment in watching me squirm.
“It’s um . . . colder than I thought it’d be.” It’s lame, but I’m desperate for a diversion, something that will get his eyes off me.
He blinks, jerked from whatever he was thinking about. “Oh yeah, you cold?” He starts to shrug off his letterman jacket.
“No!” I hold up my hand.
He freezes and his eyes narrow.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I mean no thanks. I’m good. I think I just need a beer. That’ll help.” A stupid girlie laugh falls from my lips, and I internally growl at how easily this guy can unnerve me.
“Suit yourself.” He adjusts the collar of his jacket and slides his gaze down the line of people waiting for the keg, me being at the end of the line. “You’re going to be waiting here all night.”
The line moves up one tiny step, punctuating his statement.
More silence.
“Yeah, well . . .” Well what? This is freakin’ painful. Maybe if I turn my back on him, he’ll leave.
“How ’bout this?” He moves in closer to me, leaning to say something in my ear. “See that?” He nods toward a fire pit, his hot breath blowing against my skin.
“Yeah?” I swallow hard, nervous about how close he is. Why has this guy never made an effort to talk to me before, and now he won’t freakin’ leave me alone? Or give me room to breathe?
“Why don’t you come over there with me? We’ve got a small ice chest with some beers, shots, and mixed drinks.” He leans back, his blue eyes flashing with . . . what is it? Humor? Excitement?
I avoid whatever it is and turn back toward the crowd clustered around the fire. The heat of the flames is enticing, but the company is absolutely not. It’s them, the popular kids: a group of guys in various forms of preppy flannel shirts and khakis, and girls in half-shirts more appropriate for a weekend in Florida than Seattle.
“That’s okay, but thanks.” I motion to the line with my empty cup. “I’ll take my chances here.”
He tilts his head again, giving me a look as if he’s trying to read my soul but then flashes a smile that’s friendly and even kind. “We don’t bite, Layla.”
“Ha!” That’s it? Ha!
“Come on. You’re practically shivering.” His logic can’t be argued. I am shivering, although it has little to do with the temperature. “At least come grab a beer with us and warm up until the line dies down.” He lifts one eyebrow.
Pushing up on tiptoes, I lean around the people in front of me to see how much further I have to go. The sound of cheering comes from the keg. What the—?
“Keg stands.” He shrugs one shoulder and takes a sip of his beer. “They’ll probably go on most of the night.”
I worry my lip with my teeth. Crap! I was hoping for a tiny bit of liquid courage before I faced Trip. The fire does look nice. Maybe one beer and a warm up? Surely I can avoid conversation for one beer, not that any of them will want to talk to me. And from that side of the yard, I’d have a better vantage point for seeking out Trip.
“Okay, sure.” I throw my shoulders back and nod. “One beer.”
His face lights up in a wide smile, teeth too white and a little too straight. Are they fake? “Great.” He grabs my hand—grabs my fucking hand—and leads me to his friends.
Flashes of every teen-nerd movie I’ve ever seen flicker through my mind. I’ll end up the butt of one of their pranks, something I’ve seen many times over the last two years of high school, the very reason I keep my head down around them.
I tug my hand, ready to make the excuse that I have to run out to my car and get something. I see a hint of black leather and a gasp falls from my lips.
He’s here. My heart kicks double-time, breath speeds up, and goose bumps skate down my arms.
Trip.