I stop in my tracks. Losing my best friend sucks. I let myself feel the ache, then continue forward. One day Isaiah will realize that we’re just friends. One day he’ll find me—even if I’m at the ocean. Friendships like ours are too strong to die.
Today is parent–teacher conferences and I can’t think of a better way to spend a day free from school than with Ryan. Actually, I can’t think of a better way to spend any day. My HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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time with Ryan is dwindling and I want to make the most of every moment with him.
Thump. I first heard that sound when I came out of the woods. Every few seconds, the sound repeats. Thump. Instead of heading
straight for Ryan’s house, I decided to follow the thumps and I’m glad I did when I see beautiful, glistening, sun-kissed skin. Wearing only a pair of nylon athletic pants, Ryan winds back then hurls a ball toward a painted target on a piece of plywood. Thump. The ball hits square in the middle.
“And you wonder why people think jocks
are stupid,” I say. Ryan whirls around with wide eyes and I continue, “It’s fifty degrees outside and you aren’t wearing a shirt.”
A cold breeze blows through the open
pasture, causing goose bumps to prick my
arms. Okay, possibly not the smartest opening line since rubbing my arms would be the definition of both hypocrisy and irony.
Ryan grabs his shirt off the ground and
walks over to me. The early-morning rays
highlight the curves of the muscles in his abdomen. My heart flutters like a bird shaking water from its wings. God, he’s gorgeous.
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Sexy. A vision. Too perfect for someone
like me.
“I’m cooling down,” Ryan says. Caught up
in staring at his body, I have to pause to remember what I last said. Ryan gives me a cocky smile and to my mortification, I blush.
What is with me and all this blushing?
Ryan caresses my burning cheeks, and my
heart trembles again.
“I love it when you do that,” he says.
Pull it together, Beth. This is not why you’re here. Ryan has dealt with enough of my crap over the past two months and for some reason he insists on looking at me like I’m the princess to his prince. He is a prince. I’m not a princess, but I can help with his happily-ever-after before I leave his life for good.
Ryan withdraws his hand, but remains
annoyingly close—with his shirt still off.
“Don’t you ever get tired of baseball?” I ask.
“No.” Ryan finally pulls his shirt over his head. “I wake up every morning at six, run two miles, then pitch. There’s not a morning it gets old.”
His routine fits him. Perfectly. But then I think of him at his computer. His fingers flying HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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over the keyboard. His eyes seeing a world beyond the one his body belongs to. “Do you write every night?”
Ryan combs his fingers through my hair and my roots flip over. What normally is a motion that sends tingles down my spine instead brings a sense of dread. His eyes narrow at the roots and I know what he sees: a half inch of golden-blond hair.
He tears his eyes away and does a good job of pretending the malformation doesn’t exist.
“With that short story due? Yeah, I write every night.” Ryan shrugs and stares at the ground.
“And I think I might keep it up when the story is done. I don’t know, maybe start another.”
Good. It’s the image I’ll take with me when I go: Ryan pitching balls in the morning and lost in his beautifully written words at night. I kick at the ground. “Do you have plans for today?”
“I do if they include you.”
I try to hide my smile, but I can’t. “Get cleaned up and pick me up in an hour.”
Tickling my skin, Ryan’s fingers graze the pink ribbon still tied to my wrist. “Yes, ma’am.”
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Ryan
“YOU’RE A WUSS.” My little black-haired threat flips through the University of Kentucky student directory. “You can move a car across a pasture, but you can’t see your own brother.”
“That’s different,” I say. “I moved the car on a dare.”
Outside the guys’ athletic dorms, I attempt to stand in front of Beth as she searches for my brother’s room number. Beth wears a cotton Tshirt that hugs her slim form and ends a half inch short of her low-rise jeans. With her smooth skin tempting me in very right, yet wrong, places, I would bet my Jeep that the outfit doesn’t have Scott’s seal of approval.
Don’t get me wrong, I love it, and so does every guy walking in and out of the dorms.
She’s my girl and I prefer to be the only one looking at her.
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My girl. We’re not official—not yet—but
Beth said four critical words when she climbed into my Jeep this morning: “I let Isaiah go.”
Which means she’s with me and not him. Later today, I’m asking Beth to make us exclusive.
Beth stabs her finger into the book.
“Jackpot.” She scribbles the room number onto the palm of her hand. “I double dog dare you to talk to your brother.”
“Do you know nothing about dares?” I ask