The tinge of pink on her cheeks tells me she just might be.
Her gaze settles on my smiling face. She licks her lips and says, “Hey. What’s up, Brent?”
I hold up the keys to my father’s 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California. Also known as the Ferris Bueller’s Day Off car.
Less than a hundred were made and, just like in the movie, it’s my father’s pride and joy. And it’s parked downstairs right now.
I found out today that Kennedy doesn’t have her driver’s license. With her family’s chauffeurs, her mother didn’t see the point.
And I’m going to rectify that.
“Ready for your first driving lesson?”
? ? ?
“. . . then you ease your foot back at the same time.”
We’re in the big empty parking lot of a darkened building a few miles from the hotel. Kennedy listens to my instructions intently, brow furrowed, adjusting her glasses. She seems excited, determined, and totally adorable.
“Got it?”
“Got it.” She nods.
And she goes for it.
There’s a grinding sound as she moves the stick shift, and I mentally thank the clutch for his brave sacrifice. We start to move forward, bucking, inch by inch and I tell her, “Now gun it. Hit the gas.”
And then we’re moving.
Kennedy’s smile is huge and bright, like Christmas morning and the Fourth of July rolled into one.
The car gives a slight stutter as she shifts into second gear, but smooths back down after her foot is off the clutch. With one hand on the wheel, she grabs my arm with the other.
“I’m doing it, Brent!”
It’s awesome, and I chuckle. “Yeah, you are.”
? ? ?
“You need a nickname. Kennedy is kind of a mouthful to say.”
We’re parked at a picnic area high above the lights in the town below. It’s still and quiet. The top of the car is open, but the sky feels like a dark canopy above us, dotted with countless bright stars.
We didn’t crash into anything and the car is still running, so in my mind, Kennedy’s driving lessons were a roaring success. She said she wasn’t ready for the open road, but I’ll get her there eventually. The look on her face when she really got the hang of shifting—it was pure elation and gratitude. Seeing that expression felt just like when I block an opposing team’s goal—like something I was born to do again and again.
“My name is too long? Do you often have difficulty with big words?” she asks with a smartass smirk. “Maybe you should see someone about that.” Then she asks, “What’s your nickname?”
“BC.”
She frowns, trying to figure it out. “Because your middle name is Charles?”
I shake my head and tell her with the straightest face, “Big Cock.”
Kennedy laughs. “Did you think of that all by yourself?”
“The guys on the team gave it to me. It’s a lot to live up to—don’t want to disappoint the younger classmen. But in the immortal words of Spider-Man, with great power comes great responsibility.”
“Uncle Ben, actually.”
“What?”
She tilts her head. “Uncle Ben said that, not Spider-Man. Remember?”
I do. But the fact that she remembers . . . is pure fucking awesome. It does things to me—deep, thoughtful, serious emotion type of things.
But I’ve never been the serious kind of guy, so I tease, “How about Randy? Randy Randolph. Can I call you that?”
Kennedy frowns. “Not if you expect me to answer.”
We talk more, about everything and nothing in particular. And somehow, even though it wasn’t what I planned—or expected—my arm ends up around her shoulders, her head resting against my collarbone.
Slowly, I slide her glasses off and carefully fold them before placing them on the dashboard. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I dip my head and press my lips against hers. They’re achingly soft and warm. I trace her lips with my tongue, but they stay tightly closed, and I laugh against her mouth.
She pulls back. “What?”
I look into the gorgeous eyes of the girl I’ve known my whole life, and my only thought is, what the hell took me so long to do this?
My thumb slides slowly across her jaw. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
The last time we talked about it, sophomore year, she hadn’t.
But she doesn’t blush or recoil at the question. Her voice is low and kind of panting. “Of course I have. Why? Are you saying I’m bad?”
I don’t know who the hell she’s been kissing, but whoever it was—they must’ve been piss poor at it. This pleases me.
“Nope. But you’re about to get even better.” I lean forward, brushing against her lips again. “Open your mouth for me, Kennedy.”
Then there’s only kissing—head-turning, lip-sucking, tongue-sliding kind of kisses. Her taste makes me feel a little drunk. And the whisper of my name from her lips makes me feel a little crazy.