It was as if I knew him—yet I didn’t.
My eyes followed him the entire night, the way he stalked across the stage as if he was fearless, the way his lean and muscular body whipped around, moving with the rhythm of his gritty and evocative music. With an excuse to Marge that I had to go to the bathroom, I’d even followed him outside during the break where I watched from the doorway as he smoked a cigarette, leaning his head against the brick of the building as he blew smoke up into the air. He hadn’t noticed me . . . of course. There’d been too many girls around him vying for his attention. In a nutshell, he was way out of my league.
Forget about him.
Right.
What I should be doing is focusing on convincing my adoptive mother Anne to let me attend NYU this fall.
As if she knew I was thinking about her, my phone pings with a text from her.
Did Marge behave herself? Growing up, she was quite wild.
From Anne, this really means she thinks Marge is a slut. I was actually surprised when she agreed to let me visit Marge, and I attribute her acquiescence to her own recent surprise pregnancy and subsequent hasty marriage. That’s right. My uptight, forty-five-year-old adoptive mom had a one night stand and got pregnant.
I type out a reply. She was great. Very hospitable. Her apartment is close to NYU.
Her reply is quick and fast, and I picture her fingers typing the words furiously. She hates any mention of NYU and every time I bring up attending there, she shuts me down.
I know NYU seems exciting, but Winston University is smaller and here in town. Plus, you’ve been accepted. It’s too late to apply to NYU. Only a few more weeks and you’ll be graduating high school. Love, Anne
Only Anne texts as if it were a term paper, with complete sentences and correct punctuation.
I sigh, my fingers running idly over the surface of my phone. I don’t want to attend Winston. Exclusive and located just ten minutes from Highland Park, it’s just like the prep school I currently attend, only with older students. It’s also where Anne went to college. I mean, I’m grateful she’s providing me with an education, but I’d like to have a say in the matter.
She’s under the impression that this trip was just a quick visit to see her cousin and take in the sights on spring break. She doesn’t know that I secretly already applied to NYU months ago and recently got the acceptance letter. I just have to talk her into it.
A well-known Dallas philanthropist, I first met Anne after two years of being shuffled around in the foster system. That day, she’d sat with me in the office at the Department of Human Services and marveled over my hair color (a mix of brown and auburn) and complimented me on my perfect skin. I read her right away, a rich lady looking for an accessory, and I used it to my advantage, telling her about my above average test scores and my dream of getting a doctorate in psychology someday.
It worked, and once she took me in and adopted me, I was given a complete makeover: a new layered hair cut with a tutorial on how to style it, conservative clothing, and a course on manners and etiquette. Want to know where the water glass should be at a place setting? Just ask me . . . approximately one inch from the tip of the dinner knife. She molded me into her idea of what a perfect girl should be.
I sigh as guilt tugs at me for going to the bar in New York . . . for even wanting to attend NYU. She’s given me so much, and I shouldn’t want to get away from her, but I can’t breathe in Highland Park. With famous residents such as past Presidents, country music celebrities, and Texas bigwigs, I simply don’t belong in the wealthy suburb.
Before we have to turn our phones on airplane mode, another text comes in, this time from Trenton.
Butterflies go crazy in my stomach as I read it.
Senior Spring Fling is coming up. Wanna go?
Senior Spring Fling is a notoriously secret party sponsored by the popular kids at Claremont Prep and held the first weekend in May, usually at a destination that’s only revealed at the last possible moment. If you don’t get the invite, you’re a nobody—which I am. I don’t really care about going, but Trenton is popular and attractive, and I’d be crazy to tell him no.
Yes, I reply then quickly lock my phone before I say anything else like, Is this a friend thing or a date thing?
He and I have been flirting with each other for a while . . .
Whatever. I can figure all that out later.
Glancing up from my seat, I see Spider—yes, I know his name from the bar last night—stalking down the aisle like a Greek god. Wearing expensive black jeans with holes in the knees, motorcycle boots, and a gray leather jacket, he has major bad boy vibes all over him.
Completely dangerous.
Completely panty-melting.
Not going to lie, he has the kind of face that takes your breath and stops you in your tracks. Just looking at him straight on makes me blush. He isn’t classically handsome like Trenton, with his square chin and athletic shoulders. Instead, he grabs your attention with his hollowed cheeks, the sharp edges along his jawline, and the thick black lashes that surround his eyes.
He comes to a halt right next to my seat and props his muscular forearms on the overhead bin. He’s lean yet toned with sharply defined muscles, his height at least six three. My breath hitches when his gaze lands on mine. He stares at me, and I don’t look away. Warm and honey-colored, his eyes are pools of sunlight shining through whiskey. I could get drunk in those pools.
Oh . . . wait. I blink.
He’s sitting here? With me?
Sweet baby Jesus. I’m a goner.
Stay strong, Rose.
I tuck my Kindle down into the seat.
He smirks, his eyes following me, and I grimace, realizing he probably saw what I was reading.
“Great,” he says. “I get to sit next to Pillow Girl.”
Ignoring the nickname, I shrug. “And I get to sit by the guy who lies to little old ladies about his girlfriend dumping him—and we can’t forget the poor dead collie you recently lost. And dabbing at your eyes with that napkin—great touch.”
I don’t know why I’m so annoyed with him.
Yes, you do.
I exhale. Okay, I do. I really wish he remembered me from the bar. I wish he were as fascinated by me as I was by him. Last night after his show, I even dreamed of him and this morning when I woke up, he was the first thing on my mind. Strange.
What was it about him that pricked at me? I don’t know.
His lips twitch. “I nearly cocked that whole thing up. I’m not exactly at the top of my game today.”