Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER FOUR

Regret

I’m sure most girls do everything in their power to stage a run-in with Ashton Henley after getting drunk and making out with him on a random street corner.

But I am not most girls.

And I have every intention of avoiding him for the rest of my Princeton career.

Unfortunately for me, fate has decided that forty-eight hours is all I get.

After standing in line at the bookstore for hours, I’m rushing back to the dorm to unload twenty pounds of textbooks before I can join the late-afternoon campus tour. This 250-odd-year-old campus, with acres of stunning Gothic-style architecture, is rich with history that I want to see in person. I don’t have time for diversions.

Of course, that’s the perfect time for an ambush.

“What do ya got there, Irish?” A hand swoops in and grabs the course registration paper that’s tucked in between my chest and my books. I suck in a breath and shiver as his finger grazes my collarbone.

“Nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t bother with more as there’s no point. He’s already intently reviewing my course list and is chewing a very full bottom lip in thought. So I just sigh and wait silently, taking the opportunity to notice things I couldn’t when I was drunk and it was dark. Or when I was naked and cornered. Like how, in the late-afternoon sunlight, Ashton’s shaggy hair has more brown in it than black. And how his thick brows are neatly groomed. And how his eyes have the tiniest green speckles within the brown. And how his impossibly long, dark lashes curl out at the ends . . .

“Irish?”

“Huh?” I snap out of my thoughts to find him staring down at me with that smirk on his face, implying he said something to me and I missed it because I was too busy gawking.

Which I did. Because I was.

I clear my throat, my ears burning with the rest of my face. I want to ask him why he keeps calling me that, but all I can manage is, “Pardon?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease me. “How’s the tat?” he asks as he slowly slides the paper back to where he got it from, his finger once again grazing my collarbone. My body, once again, shivering and tensing at his touch.

“Oh . . . great.” I swallow, hugging my books closer to my chest as I avert my gaze in the direction of my residence. At the groups of students milling about. Anywhere but at the breathing reminder of my night of scandal.

“Really? Because mine is annoying the hell out of me.”

“It is kind of itchy,” I admit, glancing back to see Ashton’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, displaying dimples that are smack dab in the middle of his cheeks and deeper than Trent’s. Deep enough to make my breath hitch now. Deep enough that I remember admiring them in my drunken stupidity. I’m pretty sure I stuck my finger into one. And possibly my tongue.

“At least your itch is on your back,” he says with a sheepish look. His skin is so tanned that it’s hard to tell, but I’m sure I see a slight flush in his cheeks.

A giggle escapes me before I can hold it back. He joins in with a soft chuckle. And then I’m hit with a flash of us—facing each other and giggling. Only my fingers are entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck and his tongue is flicking one of my earlobes. I abruptly stop giggling and pull my bottom lip in between my teeth.

“Of all the dumb things to do,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “At least it’s small.”

I’m still trying to push the previous image of us out of my head as I hear myself agree with him, not thinking. “Yeah, I could barely read it until I really leaned in—” My stomach hits the ground like a bag of rocks, taking all the blood from my face with it. Did I just say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

By the twinkle in his eyes, I know without a doubt that I did. I think I’m going to be sick. “It . . . I wasn’t . . . I really need to get going.” I start sidestepping around him as a bead of sweat trickles down my back.

Stepping with me and nodding toward my books, he says, “You’re taking a lot of science classes.” Escape plan thwarted. What is he doing? Why is he chatting me up? Is he hoping for a repeat? Would I want one?

My eyes flitter across his appearance. Yes, I’ll admit it. He’s beautiful. As Reagan pointed out, he may well be one of the hottest guys on campus. I’ve been here four days. I have nothing to base it on, and yet I’m confident that it’s true. And I’ve had too many face-flushing memory flashes in the last few days to try and deny that I didn’t enjoy that night.

But . . . no, I don’t want a repeat. I mean, when I look at him, all I see is wrong. He doesn’t even look like a Princeton student. Not that there’s one specific type of person at Princeton; there isn’t. From what I’ve seen, it has a wonderfully diverse student body. Nothing like the sweater-vest-spoiled-brat stereotype portrayed in countless eighties movies.

But Ashton just doesn’t fit in my mental image of Princeton. I don’t know if it’s his faded jeans that hang just slightly too low, or the thin gray shirt with sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, or the tattoo snaking up his inner forearm, or the frayed leather cuff around his wrist . . . I don’t know what it is.

“Irish?”

I hear him call my name. Gah! Not my name. His name for me. By that crooked smirk on those full lips, he’s caught me staring again and he’s enjoying it.

I clear my throat and abruptly force out, “Yup. All science. All but one.” An English lit class. It’s impractical, useless for my medical career, but it will satisfy Dr. Stayner’s “suggestion” to pick one course that I would otherwise skip right over in the course calendar.

“Let me guess. Pre-med?”

I nod, smiling. “Pediatrics. Oncology.” Unlike so many students who toil over what to do with their lives, I’ve known my chosen career since the day my friend Sara Dawson died of leukemia. I was nine. The decision came quite easily. I cried and asked my dad what I could have done. With a gentle smile, he reassured me that there was nothing I could have done for Sara, but that I was bright enough that I could grow up to be a doctor and save other kids. Saving kids sounded like a noble life. A goal that I’ve never questioned or wavered from since.

Now, though, as I look at Ashton’s scowl, you’d think I told him my dream was to work in a sewage plant. There’s a pause, and then he changes topic completely. “Look, about Saturday night . . . Can we just pretend it never happened?” he asks, sliding his hands into his pockets.

My mouth drops for a second as my brain replays those words. The words I’ve been playing over and over in my own head for the last three days. Can I? I’d like to. It would make it easier if I could just press a Delete button on all the images that still blaze in my head, making me suddenly blush and lose focus on . . .everything. “Sure,” I say with a smile. “Well . . . as long as we can get my sister and Reagan to pretend as well.”

One arm lifts to rub the back of his head, pulling his shirt tighter against his chest, enough that I can see the curves. The ones I had my hands all over. “Yeah, well, I figure your sister can’t cause too much trouble, being from out of town.”

“No, she can’t,” I agree. She can just randomly text me pictures of a chubby bald man holding a tattoo gun to your ass, like she did yesterday. I promptly erased it, but I’m sure that’s not the last of them.

“And Reagan won’t say a word,” I hear Ashton say. Dropping his arm to his side, he looks off in the distance, muttering more to himself, “She’s good like that.”

“Okay, great, well . . .” Maybe I can just put all this behind me and get back to being me. Livie Cleary. Future doctor. Good girl.

Ashton looks back at my face, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second, likely because I’m chewing on the bottom one so much I’m about to gnaw it off. I feel as though I should say something more. “I hardly remember it, so . . .” I let my voice drift off as I deliver that lie with a degree of coolness that surprises me. And impresses me.

His head tilts to the side and he looks off again, as if deep in thought. Then an amused grin touches his lips. “I’ve never had a girl tell me that before.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I look down to study his sneakers, feeling like I’ve finally scored a point. Livie: one. Mortifying conversation: a million. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

His low, throaty laugh pulls my attention back up to see twinkling eyes. He’s shaking his head as if thinking of a private joke.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” There’s a pause, as though he’s not sure whether he should say it or not. In the end, he decides to, delivering my pinnacle of humiliation with a wide grin. “You had a lot of firsts that night, Irish. You kept pointing each one out.”

I can’t keep the strangled sound from escaping, as if I’m dying. Which I might be, given my heart just stopped beating. I don’t know whether my arms slackened or I actually threw them in the air to cover my gasp, but somehow I’ve lost the death grip I had on my textbooks. They end up scattered all over the grass. Right next to the last shred of my dignity.

I practically collapse to collect my books as I rack my brain. The problem is, I don’t remember talking to Ashton a whole lot. And I certainly don’t remember pointing out all my—

That stupid vault opens up in my brain, just enough to let another explicit memory slip out. A flash of that brick wall against my back and Ashton against my front and my legs wrapped around his waist and him pressing against me. And me, whispering in his ear that I’ve never felt that before and how it’s harder than I thought it would be . . .

“Ohmigod,” I moan, clutching my stomach. I’m sure I’m going to be sick. I’m going to become an exhibitionist vomiter.

My heart is back to beating—racing, actually—as a new level beyond mortification slams into me. I sounded just like the actress in that awful video of Ben’s that Kacey made me watch over the summer. Literally. I accidently walked in on those weirdos watching it one night. Kacey took that as an opportunity to pin me down on the couch while Trent, Dan, and Ben howled with laughter at my flaming cheeks and horrified shrieks.

My sister is the Antichrist. This is all her fault. Hers and Stayner’s. And those stupid Jell-O shooters. And—

“Irish!” My head snaps up at the sound of Ashton’s voice. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s crouching in front of me, holding a textbook, a curious look on his face. His hand cups my elbow and he pulls me to my feet. “You’re in your head a lot, aren’t you?” he muses, holding my textbook out.

I’m not sure how to answer that, so I don’t. I simply purse my lips for a moment, accept my book, and say quietly, “Consider Saturday night forgotten.”

“Thanks, Irish.” He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “I didn’t want that getting out. I regret it. I mean . . .” He cringes as he looks at me, as if he bumped into me and is checking to see if I’m hurt. I hear the slightest exhale, and then he takes a few steps backward. “See you around.”

I offer him a tiny nod and a tight-lipped smile. Inside, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, “Not a chance in hell!”

“Dammit,” I mutter, arriving at the rendezvous location for the tour ten minutes late. I glance around but see nothing that resembles a tour group. They’re gone, off to learn about the historical significance of this foremost college, and I am stuck here, replaying the entire conversation with Ashton over and over again. Each time, those words—his words—suspend in my thoughts.

I regret it.

He regrets me. The man whore regrets messing around with me. Enough to track me down and ask that I not tell anyone. He even felt bad when he let that fact slip. That’s what that cringe was.

It was one thing when I was regretting him. I mean, I did something stupid and completely out of character. I gave away a whole pile of firsts to a guy I don’t even know. Who’s probably had a hundred drunken one-night flings that went farther than the one the other night did with me.

Who regrets me.

I take a seat on the steps and stare vacantly down at my hands. Every rational bone in my body is telling me to stop thinking about it, but I can’t. I swallow several times, but the dryness in my throat won’t abate as I run through all the reasons why Ashton might regret me. Does he find me that unattractive? Was waking up on Sunday one of those “coyote ugly” mornings Kacey always talks about? I know I must have looked terrible, with my hair a wild rat’s nest and my eyes bloodshot and my breath harsh enough to wilt daisies.

Maybe it was my “skill level”? I sure as hell know I’m not experienced, but . . . was I that bad?

I’m so wrapped up in trying to comfort my ego that when I hear a guy say “excuse me” nearby, I keep my focus on the ground, dismissing him entirely, hoping he’s talking to someone else. His next words, though—not so much the words but how he says them—make my head snap up, searching for the owner.

“Are you okay?”

I know my mouth is hanging open as I watch him take a seat next to me on the step, but I don’t care. I just nod in awe as I stare at the deep green eyes and pleasant smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a soft chuckle. His chuckle is just as pleasant as his smile.

“Are you from Ireland?” I blurt out before I’m able to control it. Closing my eyes, I try to explain myself by stumbling over my words. “I mean . . . I thought . . . you have an accent . . . you sound Irish.” And you sound like a moron, Livie.

“I’m Connor,” he says. “And I am. I’m originally from—”

“Dublin,” I interrupt as a bubble of excitement grows inside me.

He nods once, beaming as if pleased. “I moved to America when I was twelve.”

My grin widens. I can’t stop. I must look like an idiot.

“And do you have a name, miss? Or should I just call you Smiley?”

“Oh, yes, right.” I purse my lips to get my face under control and I thrust out my hand. “Livie Cleary.”

His eyebrow shoots up as he accepts my hand. His is warm and strong and . . .comfortable.

“My dad grew up in Dublin. Your accent . . . you sound like him.” My dad had moved to America when he was thirteen, so he’d lost the thickness of the brogue, but it was still there, slipping in and out of his words gracefully. Just like Connor’s.

“You mean your dad is charming and smart as well?”

I giggle as I drop my gaze momentarily, biting my tongue before I accidentally correct him with the past tense. Was charming and smart. Two minutes into a conversation isn’t exactly the time to be bringing up my dead parents.

There’s an easy silence between us and then Connor asks, “And why are you sitting here, all by yourself, Miss Cleary?”

I wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, I was supposed to take the historical tour but I missed it. I got delayed with . . .” My thoughts drift back to my previous conversation, taking a part of my comfort with it. “An asshole,” I mutter absently.

Connor does a quick scan around us and asks with a smile. “Is the asshole still around?”

I feel my face turning red. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Ever since that week when Stayner made me inject a variety of swear words—of my sister’s choosing—in every sentence that came out of my mouth, I’ve found my vocabulary unintentionally more colorful. Especially when I’m upset or nervous, though I find that I’m suddenly neither, right now. “And, no. I hope he’s far away.” Deep in a well, with a slew of girls he doesn’t regret to keep him occupied.

“Well”—Connor stands and holds out a hand—“I doubt my tour will be nearly as educational but I’ve been here for three years, if you’re interested.” I don’t even hesitate, accepting his hand. Right now, there isn’t a thing I’d rather do than walk around the Princeton campus with Connor from Dublin.

It turns out that Connor from Dublin knows surprisingly little about Princeton history. He does, however make up for it with enough embarrassing personal stories. My sides hurt from laughter by the time we reach a secluded, medieval-looking courtyard outside my residence hall, one I didn’t know existed and am glad that I’ve discovered because it looks like a perfect place to study. “ . . . and they found my roommate in nothing but black socks right here the next morning,” Connor says, pointing to a wooden bench, an easy smile on his face.

Somewhere between our meeting spot and now, I started to appreciate just how attractive Connor is. I hadn’t really noticed it immediately, but it was probably because I was still so ruffled after seeing Ashton. Connor is tall with sandy blond hair—tidy but stylish—and smooth, tanned skin. His body is lean, but I can tell by the way his pressed khaki pants fit him as he walks and how his button-down checked shirt stretches across broad shoulders that he’s fit. Basically, he’s the guy I’ve always pictured myself walking around this campus with someday.

But I think it’s Connor’s smile that makes me gravitate toward him. It’s wide and genuine. There’s nothing hidden behind it, no deception.

“How do you pass your classes? It sounds like all you do is party,” I ask as I lean against the bench, pulling one knee up on the seat.

“Not as much as my roommates would like me to.” Just hearing his easy chuckle makes me sigh. “The parties are over once classes start. Until after midterms, anyway. To each their own, but I want to go home with an excellent education, not a failed liver and an STD.”

My eyes flash toward him in surprise.

“Sorry.” His cheeks flush slightly, but he quickly recovers with a grin. “I’m still a bit annoyed with them. They threw a bloody toga party on Saturday. We’re still cleaning up the house.”

My body instantly tenses. Toga party? The same toga party where I was wasted and making out with Ashton? I swallow before I manage to ask in strained whisper, “Where did you say you lived?” I have no clue where that party was, so knowing the address makes no difference. What does make a difference is whether Connor was there to witness my spectacle.

He slows to look at me with a curious expression. “Just off campus, with a few other guys.”

Just off campus. That’s what Reagan said when we headed out that night. Maybe there was more than one toga party that night?

“Oh yeah?” I try to make my voice sound light and relaxed. Instead I sound like someone’s choking the life out of me. “I went to a toga party on Saturday.”

He grins. “Really? Must have been my house. Not many people throw toga parties anymore.” With an eye roll, he mutters, “My roommate, Grant. He’s cheesy like that. Did you have fun?”

“Uh. Yeah.” I watch him from the corner of my eye. “Did you?”

“Oh, I was in Rochester for my cousin’s wedding,” he confirms, shaking his head. “Kind of sucked that it was the same weekend, but my family’s big on . . family. My mom would have killed me if I missed it.”

I let the air release from my lungs painfully slowly, just so it’s not obvious how relieved I am that Connor wasn’t there. Although if he had been, he probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.

“I heard it got pretty wild, though. Cops shut it down.”

“Yeah, there were some drunk people there. . . ,” I say slowly and then, wanting desperately to change the subject, I ask, “What’s your major?”

“Politics. I’m pre-law.” He watches me closely as he talks. “Hoping for Yale or Stanford next year, if all goes well.”

“Nice,” is all I can think to say. And then I catch myself staring at those friendly green eyes and smiling.

“And you? Any ideas what you’re going to major in?”

“Molecular biology. Hoping for med school.”

A rare frown furrows Connor’s brow. “You know you can still apply to med school with a humanities major, don’t you?”

“I know, but sciences are easy for me.”

“Huh.” Connor’s eyes appraise me curiously. “Beautiful and smart. A deadly combination.”

I duck my head as a blush creeps into my cheeks.

“Well, here we are.” He gestures toward my hall. “Gorgeous building, isn’t it?”

I tip my head back to take in the Gothic architecture. Normally, I’d agree. Now, though, I find myself disappointed because it means my tour, and my time with the smiling Connor, is over. And I’m not ready yet.

I watch as he backs away, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It was nice to meet you, Livie from Miami.”

“You too, Connor from Dublin.”

He kicks a loose stone around with his shoe for a few awkward seconds as I stand and watch. Then he asks, almost hesitantly, “We’re having little party over at our house this Saturday, if you’re interested. Bring that wild roommate you talked about, if you want.”

With my head tilted and my lips pursed, I say, “But I thought you said the parties were over once classes started.”

His eyes search my face, a thoughtful gleam in them. “Unless it’s an excuse to invite a beautiful girl over.” Then his cheeks redden and his gaze drops to the ground.

And I realize that, on top of being good-looking, Connor is about as charming as they come. Not sure how to answer, I simply say, “See you Saturday.”

“Perfect. Say, eight o’clock?” He rhymes off a street name and house number and, with one last, wide grin, he takes off at a slight jog as if late for something. I lean against the bench and watch him go, wondering if he was just being nice. And then, as he’s about to slip behind a building, he slows and turns to look back in my direction. Seeing that I’m still watching, he blows a kiss my way and disappears.

And I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.

This day is definitely looking up.