She opened the mailbox at the bottom of their private drive, hoping to find the scores for her PSATs. They were supposed to be in any day now, and she’d had a good feeling about them—a better feeling, in fact, than she’d ever had about any other test. Unfortunately, there were just a pile of bills, info from her dad’s many investment accounts, and a brochure addressed to Ms. Spencer J (for Jill) Hastings from Appleboro College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Yeah, as if she’d go there.
Inside the house, she put the mail on the marble-topped kitchen island, rubbed her shoulder, and had a thought: The backyard hot tub. A relaxing soak. Awww, yeah.
She greeted Rufus and Beatrice, the family’s two labradoodles, and threw a couple of King Kong toys out into the yard for them to chase. Then she dragged herself along the flagstone path toward the pool’s changing room. Pausing at the door, ready to shower and change into her bikini, she realized, Who cares? She was too tired to change, and nobody was home. And the hot tub was surrounded by rose bushes. As she approached, it burbled, as if anticipating her arrival. She stripped down to her bra, undies, and tall field hockey socks, did a deep forward bend to loosen up her back, and climbed into the steaming tub. Now that was more like it.
“Oh.”
Spencer turned. Wren stood next to the roses, naked to the waist, wearing the sexiest boxer brief Polo underwear she’d ever seen.
“Oops,” he said, covering himself with a towel. “Sorry.”
“You don’t get here until tomorrow,” she blurted, even though he was very clearly here, right now, which was obviously today and not tomorrow at all.
“We don’t. But your sister and I were at Frou,” Wren said, making a little face. Frou was this haughty store a few towns over that sold single pillowcases for about a thousand dollars. “She had to run another errand and told me to play with myself here.”
Spencer hoped that was just some bizarre English expression. “Oh,” she said.
“Did you just get home?”
“I was at field hockey,” Spencer said, leaning back and relaxing a little. “First practice of the year.”
Spencer glanced at her blurry body under the water. Oh God, she was still wearing her socks. And her high-waisted, sweaty panties and Champion sports bra! She kicked herself for not changing into the yellow Eres bikini she’d just bought but then realized how absurd that was.
“So, I was just planning to have a soak, but if you want to be alone, that’s okay too,” Wren said. “I’ll just go inside and watch TV.” He started to turn.
Spencer felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. “Um, no,” she said. He stopped. “You can come in. I don’t care.” Quickly, while his back was turned, she yanked off her socks and threw them into the bushes. They landed with a soggy slap.
“If you’re sure, Spencer,” Wren said. Spencer loved the way he said her name with his British accent—Spen-saah.
He shyly slid into the tub. Spencer stayed very far on her side, curling her legs under her. Wren leaned his head back on the concrete deck and sighed. Spencer did the same and tried not to think about how her legs were getting really cramped and sore in this position. She stretched one tentatively and touched Wren’s sinewy calf.
She jerked her leg away. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Wren said. “So field hockey, huh? I rowed for Oxford.”
“Really?” Spencer said, hoping she didn’t sound too gushy. Her favorite driving-into-Philadelphia sight was of the Penn and Temple men’s crew teams rowing on the Schuylkill River.
“Yeah,” he said. “I loved it. Do you love field hockey?”
“Um, not really.” Spencer took her hair out of its ponytail and shook her head around but then wondered if Wren would find this really skanky and ridiculous. She’d probably imagined the spark between them outside Moshulu.
But then, Wren had gotten into the hot tub with her.
“So if you don’t like field hockey, why do you play?” Wren asked.
“Because it looks good on a college application.”
Now Wren sat up a little, making the water ripple. “It does?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Spencer shifted and winced when her shoulder muscle cramped into her neck.
“You okay?” Wren asked.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Spencer said, and inexplicably felt an overwhelming wave of despair. It was only the first day of school, and she was already burned out. She thought of all the homework she had to do, lists she had to make, and lines she had to memorize. She was too busy to freak out, but that was the only thing keeping her from freaking out.
“Is it your shoulder?”
“I think,” Spencer said, trying to rotate it. “In field hockey, you spend so much time bending over, and I don’t know if I pulled it or what….”
“I bet I could fix it for you.”
Spencer stared at him. She suddenly had an urge to run her fingers through his shaggy hair. “That’s okay. Thanks, though.”
“Really,” he said. “I’m not going to bite you.”
Spencer hated when people said that.
“I’m a doctor,” Wren continued. “I bet it’s your posterior deltoid.”
“Um, okay…”