“No, really, what’s so fascinating? You’re, like, not even listening to a word I’ve said,” she whines, forgetting I’m impervious to “that” voice. It only works on Sebastian.
Me: That’s because she IS wholesome. That’s Mrs. Thurman, THE PASTOR’S WIFE! Walk away, playboy. WALK. AWAY. And I know you’re not enrolled in her Religion class, so why are you near her? Oh God. (No pun intended.)
“I’m done trying,” Savannah huffs. “Have fun with your Trivia Crack, or whatever’s got you so busy over there. See ya at your truck later.”
She storms off and I feel sort of bad, but not enough to lift my head or respond.
I scarf down the rest of my lunch and go through the motions of dumping my trash, grabbing my books from my locker, and walking to my class. But all the while, I’m looking forward to my phone vibrating again.
Which it does, in fifth period: my last class of the day on the high-school campus.
It’s another picture.
Um. Wow.
Me: Kingston, that’s A GUY.
Kingston: Are you sure?
Me: Quite.
Kingston: Did you laugh?
Me: Yes.
Kingston: Then my work here is done. So you’ll be smiling when I see you in just a bit?
Me: Most likely.
Kingston: Looking forward to it.
So am I.
~~~~~
Savannah spends the entire ride to the college hounding me for information. Why do I seem so cheerful? Why am I so distracted? Why am I not giving her the usual 100% of my attention?
I pacify her with short, evasive answers, proud of myself for resisting the urge to turn the radio on full blast.
I don’t know what this “thing” between Kingston and me is, exactly, but I know it’s ours—mine. And I just want to enjoy it while I can without examining it or getting advice, which Savannah would give. And give. And give.
Once we park, she’s out of the truck and running to the social circle gathered on the sidewalk, suddenly unconcerned with all the burning questions she had on the trip over. But, as always, I remind myself of our long-standing friendship and the acceptance that comes, on both our parts, with it.
As previously agreed upon, I enter the classroom and head for the back row while Kingston’s eyes find me. He gives me nothing more than a small smile and wink.
Luckily for him, continuing our “game” doesn’t draw attention to me and I can do calculus in my sleep, so I damn near giggle when my phone stirs in my pocket.
Kingston: The one on my left…Echo Meter?
I know of the girl to his left, and want not only to make sure he understands, but to up my repartee to make things more interesting. I Google quickly just to confirm my usage is correct, then reply.
Me: She’s a strumpet. Definite 0. Maybe even -1.
Kingston: Strumpet, you say? Bloody brilliant!
Me: You’re too good to be a punter.
Oh, he’s impressed. And I know this because he turns in his seat, links our gazes, and dazzles me with a pleased smile.
There’s no sense in denying the fluttered breath that whooshes past my lips, and I bow my head quickly to hide my blush.
Kingston: And the one to my right?
Me: Is. My. Brother’s. Girlfriend.
Kingston: I know that. Does SHE?
Me: Yes. She’s just a flirt, and trying to keep up with all the other girls hogging your attention.
Kingston: I’d feel safer if I came back there and sat by you.
I scoff out loud, and hear his responding chuckle from across the room.
Me: You’ll be fine.
Kingston: Doubtful. But if I survive, wait for me after class?
Me: Okay, but just you. By my truck. Lose the harem.
Kingston: Done.
~~~~~
Even though I sit in the back row, I’m the first one out the door when class is over. Savannah told me earlier that she was going shopping with one of the girls in class after, so I could jump in my truck and hightail it out of here right now.
If I wasn’t anxious to see why Kingston wanted to meet.
“Love.”
He saunters up to me, alone, wearing a smirk that oozes with saucy confidence. He’s dressed in a dark-green button-up that highlights those peridot flecks in his eyes that once you notice the first time, you notice every time.
“Text addict,” I reply, earning his deep, hearty laugh. “To what do I owe this impromptu meeting?”
“I have an idea, to which I’m hoping you’ll agree.” It’s subtle, but he moves in closer, and his voice drops to a sinister octave. “Let’s go do something fun tonight, just you and me.”
“Like?” I’m sure the skepticism in my tone matches my expression, but I also know it certainly contrasts that of my inner excitement.
“Lady’s choice.” He takes my hand and brushes his plush lips over my wrist lightly. “You’re even more radiant than usual today—playful. I’m inclined to prolong that for as much time as humanly possible.”
“You’re pretty ornery yourself today.” I don’t know what I’m doing with my voice and body language that feels foreign—possibly a really pathetic attempt at flirting?