Текст книги "Four Years Later"

Автор книги: Monica Murphy

Соавторы: Monica Murphy
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CHAPTER 8

Owen

“How’s the tutoring going? Are your grades picking up?” Fable asks, sounding distracted. I hear the baby coo in the background and I know she’s holding Autumn. Fable can’t seem to concentrate on just me anymore. She’s always multitasking and juggling a million things at once.

Sometimes, when I have these thoughts, I yearn for the old days. When it felt like it was just me and Fable against the world, doing whatever we had to do in order to survive. When I could take off and claim I was with Wade at his house when really the two of us were out fucking around. My biggest responsibility back then had been homework.

Oh, and taking care of Fable and my mom. That had always weighed heavily on my shoulders.

It still does.

“They are. I turned in a bunch of assignments at the end of last week.” I’d even been allowed to come to Saturday’s game, though they hadn’t let me play. I sat on the bench the entire time, suited up and ready to go out onto the field, but the coach wouldn’t let me.

I think he had me sit there to prove a point.

See what you can’t have?

It worked. I slaved away on the portfolio for my Creative Writing class most of Sunday. Begged my boss at The District to start giving me more hours again when I went in to work my lame-ass four-hour shift that evening. And I plan on going to practice later tonight after I meet with Chelsea and hopefully present my coaches with my new grades so they’ll allow me to play.

My life is coming together again. I’m getting back on track, and this is a good thing.

So why do I feel this nagging, incessant buzz just beneath my skin, as if I’m forgetting something or someone?

Chelsea.

Yeah. She’s pissed at me. I went in to see her after that semi-disastrous night with her at my house and she’d been distant. Not cold or bitchy, but … preoccupied. All business, no friendliness, and she’d shot out of her chair and exited the room the minute our hour was over. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

It sucked.

“Your coach called Drew,” Fable says nonchalantly.

I collapse in the overstuffed chair in my room, sitting on top of the pile of clothes I always leave there as I lean my head back and close my eyes. This could be either really good or really bad. “What did he say?”

“That he’s impressed with the way you’re playing and wishes he could have you back on the team. Drew said he’s eager to work with you again. He can’t wait for you to pick up your grades.” She pauses. “Sounds like you’ve done that. I’m proud of you, Owen.”

“My English teacher said she talked to my tutor and that my grades are going to be updated within the next couple of days,” I say.

“That’s awesome. So you like the tutor, then? You two get along and it’s working out?”

Wish she were working out beneath me, but that’s definitely not going to happen. I screwed all that up by being a crude asshole and offending her. “She’s nice. Super smart.”

“Cute?”

“Gimme a break, Fabes.” I crack open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Chelsea is more than cute. She’s beautiful. Intelligent. Sweet. And she hates me. Because I’m a foul-mouthed idiot who acts like a little boy every time I get near her.

“That means you think she’s cute.”

“She’s out of my league.” The words leave me before I can stop myself. No way did I want to admit that to my sister.

“Please. No one is out of your league. You’re good-looking, smart, and you’re on the freaking football team. What girl wouldn’t want you?” She bursts into laughter. “What am I saying? I ran from Drew as fast and far as I could when I first met him. Maybe you intimidate her.”

“No, that’s not it.” She intimidates me. Chelsea has her shit together. I’m just some jackass still out fucking around, smoking too much weed, trying to please someone who’s only using me for money—and just so happens to be my mother—and I can’t keep my life together unless someone is right there beside me with a checklist, asking if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. “Why am I even having this conversation with you? There’s nothing going on between me and Chelsea.”

“Oooh, Chelsea. Your voice changed when you said her name. Got all soft and stuff. I think you like her.” Fable’s teasing me, just giving me shit, but it cuts too close to the bone.

Because I do like her. In more than a hey, let’s bang kind of way, too. I like talking to her. Looking at her, just basking in her presence. She offers up these little tidbits about herself that are never enough for me. I want to know more, more, more, but I don’t push. I’m afraid she’ll push back. I have enough secrets—she’d go running if she discovered them.

But Chelsea? She’s a mystery. And I desperately want to figure her out.

“My voice did not change.” Jesus, she may be a wife and mother, but Fable is still my pain-in-the-ass sister sometimes.

“It so did. Say her name again.”

“No.” I push out of the chair and go to the mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. I need to get a shirt on and get to school soon. Probably should take a shower before I do all that because …

Yeah. Because I’m seeing Chelsea today.

Sucker.

“Oh come on, Owen. Say it. I dare you to.”

Hell. She knows that’s my weakness. “Fine.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. I think Fable’s enjoying this.

Correction: I know Fable’s enjoying this. I miss her. I think she misses me, too. I hate that she’s so far away, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. Drew could be playing for a team clear across the country. I’d never see them then.

“Okay. Repeat after me.” She pauses and I can hear the baby coo again, a soft, sweet little sound that strikes me right in my heart. Damn it, I wish we were all in the same room together. “‘I’m in love with Chelsea.’”

Now it’s my turn to burst out laughing. “I am definitely not saying that.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughs, too, but it’s tinged with sadness. I need to go see her. I don’t know when I can find the time, but I want to see Fable and the baby and Drew. I want to watch Drew play live. It’s been too long.

I miss my family.

“I don’t ever plan on falling in love,” I say, turning away from the mirror so I don’t have to see myself when I say something like that. It’s such a macho, assholish remark and I know Fable’s going to give me shit.

Maybe I said it on purpose so I can get her to stop talking about Chelsea.

“You can’t make such a broad statement like that. It’s guys like you who are the ones that fall hard and fast. Just ask Drew,” she says, ever my wise and level-headed sister.

“Whatever. Love is for sissies.” I flop onto my unmade bed and stare up at the ceiling, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. “I should go, Fabes. I need to get to class soon.”

“Be good, okay? Have fun with your tutor. What’s her name again?” She asks the question innocently, trying to get a rise out of me, but I don’t take the bait.

“Chelsea.” I say her name again because I want to. I like how it rolls off my tongue. And yeah, my voice did soften when I said it, but I’m not going to examine that too closely.

I might not like what I discover.

“Yes. Chelsea.” Her voice softens, too. It’s taking everything within her not to make total fun of me. She’s a total brat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do with your precious Chelsea.”

“Ha, that leaves it wide open.” I laugh.

“Jerk,” she says good-naturedly. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Fabes.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the mattress beside me, my gaze locked on the ceiling fan circling lazily above my head. Inhaling deep, I recognize the pungent smell of weed and I wrinkle my nose.

No way can I bring a girl into my room with it smelling like this.

You’re not thinking of just any girl. You’re thinking of …

I close my eyes and fight my thoughts about Chelsea. I don’t know her that well. There’s really nothing to know. Within the next few weeks, everything will be over between us and I’ll never see her again. We definitely don’t run in the same social circles.

Resting my hand on my chest, I feel my heartbeat beneath my palm. The steady thud, thud, thud letting me know I’m alive. But I don’t feel alive. Not really. Everything just … happens. I work hard and it’s the same old thing. I work not as hard and it’s still the same thing.

Nothing changes. I go to school, I play football, I work, I get high, sometimes I get drunk, I want to knock Wade and Des’s heads together. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then Chelsea walks into my life and I’m thinking differently. I think … I want to ask her out. On a bona fide date. And I never want to date anyone. I fuck around and that’s it. Something lasting isn’t what I want. A quick lay? That’s always worked.

But it’s not working when it comes to Chelsea. I want more. And I doubt she wants to give it to me.

Chelsea

I’m nervous. Owen should be here any minute for our meeting and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The last time we saw each other, I’d been so stiff and uncomfortable I hardly said anything to him. Then I bolted out of the room like a frightened chicken without saying goodbye.

He probably hates me.

I pace the classroom, too agitated to sit. Back and forth in front of the whiteboard, my gaze constantly straying to the door no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care when he shows up. I’d prefer he never show up.

I am also a complete liar.

Yet again I dressed with care, wanting to impress him despite myself. Another good pair of jeans; these are old and worn, a little faded and comfortable, yet they make my legs look long. Not that I care about what my legs look like. Or any part of me. I just want to look nice. Not because I’m trying to catch Owen’s eye or whatever.

God, I sound like such a failure even in my own mind. I stop pacing and hang my head, staring at my feet. I’m wearing fake Ugg boots—it was cold this morning—and I have my jeans tucked into them. And a big, slouchy cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off my shoulder and revealing my pale pink, lacy bra strap.

I withhold the groan that wants to escape. My entire outfit looks calculated. Even Kari asked me earlier this morning when we were both getting ready for class who I was dressing for, and I lied. Told her no one. She doesn’t know about Owen. She never seemed to care what happened that night at The District when I left her with Brad. I told her I found a ride home when she asked. That I saw someone I knew and he offered.

She never questioned me beyond that. Kari’s too wrapped up in her own thing lately. I know she’s been seeing Brad casually but he’s not giving her the attention she wants.

What a surprise.

The door creaks open and my gaze jerks to the door. There he stands, looking like complete male perfection, wearing a blue-and-red plaid flannel unbuttoned shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans with boots that are for whatever reason unlaced. His hair is a haphazard mess and that sexy golden-brown scruff still shadows his face.

My God, he’s just … devastating.

“Hey.” He pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet click, then leans against it. “How’s it going?”

Swallowing hard, I flip my hair back, exposing my bare shoulder and the pink bra strap. His gaze drops immediately to it and my skin warms as if he actually touched me. “It’s … going well.” I tug my neckline up but it immediately falls off my shoulder again. I should have worn a tank top.

“You look good,” he says as he pushes away from the door and slowly saunters toward me.

Oh. I hadn’t expected such a quick compliment. Or any sort of compliment. “Thank you.” I clear my throat, pray for strength. Just like that, it comes to me. “You look good, too.”

He smiles crookedly, without revealing any teeth, as he approaches the table I’m standing next to. “So you’re talking to me.”

I have to tilt my head back when he stands so close so I can meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be talking to you?”

“Last time we met here, I think you might’ve said fifteen words to me, tops. And every one of them you had to force out.”

“You were counting?” And am I flirting? This is … so unlike me.

“I figured I pissed you—” He presses his lips together, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Made you mad.”

Really? When was I supposedly mad at him? Freaked out? Yes. Embarrassed? Oh yeah.

“You know, when I kept saying that one particular word to you.” It’s as though he can read my mind. Freaky. “You ran out of my house like your shoes were on fire, and then we met here the next day and you hardly talked to me.” His eyes seem to bore into mine. “I figured you might not show up today.”

“Oh, now I am offended. I never, ever ditch my tutoring appointments unless I’m sick. Like on-my-deathbed sick.” And even then, I’ve missed only one session since I started working. I take all of my jobs pretty seriously.

“You’re really offended?” He raises a brow and my heart trips.

I roll my eyes. “No. I think … we might’ve had a misunderstanding.”

“I think so, too.” His voice lowers and he shuffles closer to me. So close I can see tiny golden flecks in his green, green eyes. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not.” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m proud of you. You’ve completed all the assignments you needed to do so you could catch up in your English class. Right now, you have a solid B minus.”

He smirks, looking pretty proud of himself. “I have one more test to take. I bet I can bring that grade up to a B.”

“I bet you can, too. I also hear you’re going to get back on the football team within the next few days.”

Pulling out the chair he was holding onto, he indicates for me to sit with a wave of his fingers. I do so, consciously aware of his hands at the top of the chair, pushing it closer to the table. When he pulls them away, his fingers brush against the skin of my bare shoulder and a shiver moves through me.

If he can make me all shivery with an innocent touch, I’m in huge trouble. Imagine what might happen if we decide to take it further?

Keep dreaming, Chelsea.

“Where’d you hear that?” He pulls out the chair next to mine and settles in, just like he did that first day we met and he set me on edge by being so close.

I’m having a total repeat performance. Just like that, I’m on edge. If he nudges that thigh of his any closer, it’ll be brushing next to mine. Anticipation curls through me at the thought. “I had a meeting with your counselor this morning. She’s actually the counselor for a few of my students.”

“Are you talking about good ol’ Dolores?” He grins and shakes his head. “How old do you think she is, anyway?”

Poor Dolores. She’s a former chain smoker; her face is covered in wrinkles and her voice is so raspy I almost mistake her for a man when I talk to her on the phone. She’s sweet, but she probably should have retired about five years ago. “I don’t know. Fifty?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I really hope that was a joke.”

“Definitely.” I smile and zip open my backpack, reaching in to pull out his file so I can flip it open. “I hear she’s seventy-plus.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it if she was ninety-plus.” He flicks his chin toward the open file. “Why do you have that?”

“Just because you’re off the hook with English doesn’t mean you don’t still have work to do.” I tap the edge of the file with my index finger. “You have your creative writing portfolio to work on.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “About that. Can’t I just drop the class? Isn’t it an elective?”

“Well, you could, but it’s already kind of late. You pull out now, you’ll have a big, ugly W on your schedule and that’ll mess up your grade point average.” I pull the file closer to me and look over the list of assignments he still needs to complete for his portfolio. I decide to push him. “I thought you were a decent writer. A lot of this stuff you need to do isn’t too hard.”

He puffs out his chest. “I’m better than just a decent writer.”

“Prove it.” I push the assignment sheet toward him so he can read it over. “Write something. Like a poem or whatever.”

He glances at the list, then looks up at me. “Do you like to write poems?”

I wrinkle my nose. I’m not a flowery kind of girl. I prefer facts and figures. Math and history. Though I am strong at composition when I set my mind to it. Truly, I shouldn’t have been assigned to Owen. I’m not the perfect match for his tutoring needs, but I was one of the few people available and they chose me. “Not really.”

“I thought all girls liked to write about love and sadness.”

Is that what he writes about? I doubt it, but who knows? “I’m not like most girls.”

“I know.” His smile softens as his gaze roves over my face. “That’s what I like most about you.”

Oh. I am so. Done for.

CHAPTER 9

Owen

I’m racking my brain for a subject. I don’t normally write poems. Well, I used to, when I wanted to be just like Drew Callahan when I grew up, but nothing—and no one—inspired the supposed poet inside of me, so I gave it up near the end of my freshman year in high school.

I still can’t believe what I said to her. It’s as if I took some sort of truth serum before I showed up and I can’t help but be honest with her. Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice, saying what I want and not playing any games. What’s going on between Chelsea and me isn’t all about sex or a one-time thing. It’s almost like we’re friends.

Right. I’m becoming friends with a girl I’d also really like to get naked with. That sweater she’s wearing is sexy as hell. It keeps slipping off her shoulder, revealing creamy pale skin and a lacy bra strap that just begs for my fingers to push it off. Kiss her there …

Shit.

“There must be something you want to write a poem about,” Chelsea says.

Glancing up, I find her watching me expectantly, her eyes sparkling, her smile infectious, and I smile back, feeling at a loss for words. I need a topic, and quick. And I’m thinking maybe she can provide it. “Tell me. What’s your middle name?”

She frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Come on. Humor me.”

“Fine. It’s Rose.” She rolls her eyes. “I was named after my grandma.”

“Chelsea Rose.” The name rolls off my tongue easily. I like it.

“It’s lame, right?” She laughs, sounding uncomfortable, and I hate that. I don’t want her to feel that way around me. I wonder how many guys she’s gone out with.

I have a feeling the number is pretty small. That fact would normally send me running far, far away.

Instead, I’m sitting here thinking of all the things I could teach Chelsea. While we’re naked. In my bed.

“No, not at all,” I say. “I think it’s pretty.”

Her laughter dies. “Really?”

“Really,” I say firmly. Has no one ever showed her any sort of attention? She acts sort of starved for it sometimes. Not in a psycho-chick way, not even close. More like she’s a slowly blooming flower that grows brighter and even more beautiful the more you water it and talk to it …

Hmm. My brain is churning.

I think of Drew’s tattoo for Fable. How he always wrote her little poems, spelling out words with the first letter of the first line. Crazy, sappy shit that used to drive Fable wild. Like make her cry and kiss Drew and tell him how wonderful he was.

Memories flood me … the time I punched Drew in the mouth, one of my favorite memories ever. Not because I punched Drew, but because I became this angry, almost inhuman thing who could think of nothing but defending his sister. That I knew I could jump to her defense without thinking twice and be her hero pumped me up. Made me feel strong.

Made me feel like a man.

Plus, I mean, come on—it was pretty damn epic, flattening Drew Callahan to the ground with one punch. I know I had the advantage since he hadn’t expected it, but still. I told everyone at school I knocked him out. Maybe 15 percent of them believed it happened, and I’m being generous with that figure. Everyone was skeptical.

But I know the truth.

“You should probably get to work,” she says, not sounding too thrilled by the prospect. I’m starting to think we might be on the same page more than I first realized. She points at my backpack, which I set by my feet. “Did you bring your laptop?”

“Well, yeah.” I reach down and unzip my backpack, pulling out my laptop and opening it. I bring up a Word doc and stare at the blank screen, at that damn blinking cursor I always want to sock in the face since it feels like it’s taunting me, and I start to type. I come up with something totally stupid.

Real

Open

Sexy

Extra pretty

Frowning, I delete it all. That’s Drew’s specialty, not mine. Besides, Chelsea’s not that open with me. Not yet.

So I try a different approach.

Prickly with thorns, pretty little rose.

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“So? What did you write?”

Her voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance up, startled to find her watching me, her expression open and hopeful. She’s got her elbow propped on the edge of the table, her chin resting on her fist, and she looks freaking gorgeous. Her pretty blue eyes sparkle like a clear summer sky and … yep, I see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wonder how many there are. I wonder if she’d let me get close enough to count them.

“I really hope you came up with something good. You’ve been working on it for almost a half hour,” she says.

“I have?” I’m shocked as I glance down at the clock on my computer screen to see that she’s right. “Uh … yeah, I came up with something. It’s sort of rough, though. Like, it still needs a lot of work.” More like I need to change the entire thing.

The poem is about sex. As in, I’m talking about fingering Chelsea and making her come.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

You want her. That’s what’s wrong with you.

“Can I read it?” She scoots her chair closer to mine, trying to catch a glimpse of the poem. I immediately slam the laptop shut and she rears back, her tempting mouth turned down in a frown. “Guess that’s a no.”

“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”

“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.

“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”

“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”

“What?” Her jaw drops open and this time she does tug her hand out of mine, almost recoiling. Reminding me of that flower I described at the beginning of my poem. The one I had to gently coax open. “What do you mean?”

“Are you doing anything after this? Do you have to work later tonight?” I hate that stupid job she has at the diner. It makes me worry about her.

She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m off tonight. Though I do have a paper I should start on.”

“When’s it due?” If she turns me down, I’m not asking her out again. A guy can take only so much humiliation, and I hadn’t been lying to Fable when I told her I thought I was beneath Chelsea. Her refusal would only prove my point.

“Right before Thanksgiving break,” she admits, and I chuckle.

“Chels. That’s weeks away,” I point out.

“I know. I just like to think ahead and be prepared.” Her voice drifts and she glances down, lifting that one bare shoulder, the one I’m dying to touch. Trace the pale pink lace of her bra, slip my finger beneath it and slowly tug the strap down her arm. “You think I’m a freak.”

“No, I think you’re kind of mean.” She lifts her head, her eyes so wide they look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “You’re leaving me hanging here, Chels. You want to do something with me tonight or what?”

“Oh.” She blinks at me again and leans back against her chair. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yeah. I am.” My schedule is going straight to hell within the next few days. I’ll be back at work, back at practice, and back in action. I won’t have time for girls. For Chelsea.

Meaning I shouldn’t string her along and get her hopes up. But hell, sitting here, breathing in her scent, seeing her pretty face tell me everything she’s feeling and thinking, I know I have to do this. I want to do this.

I want to be with her. Even if it’s only for tonight, for a few hours. We don’t have to do anything. I have zero expectations. She’s not the type of girl who’ll put out. She has more respect for herself than that. I respect her, too.

But nothing says I can’t kiss her. I’m going to try my damnedest to taste those soft, pink lips of hers before the night is through. That’s a fucking promise.

“All right,” she says, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear her. “I’ll go out with you tonight.”

Relief floods me, and it takes everything within me not to reach out and tug her into my lap. “Want to go out to dinner?”

“Okay.”

“A movie?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I can hardly sit still through them.” When I don’t say anything she makes a funny little face. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“So going to a movie with me is wasting time?” I’m almost offended.

“Yes, when I could be spending those two-plus hours talking to you instead.” She smiles dreamily and fuck, that’s it. I’m done for.

“Hey, Chels?”

“Yes?”

“What you’re wearing right now? Wear it tonight.” Reaching out, I give in to my urge and draw my finger across her shoulder, trace the lacy bra strap. Her skin is so fucking soft. I wonder if she’s that soft all over. “I like it. A lot.”

A shiver moves through her. I feel it beneath my finger, and that little hint that my touch affects her kick-starts my heart. Makes it pump wildly in my chest.

Damn. I have got it so bad for this girl it’s scary.

Chelsea

“You’re going on a date,” Kari says, her voice flat, her expression full of utter disbelief.

“Yes. I am.” I tug a brush through my bone-straight hair, then toss it onto the counter, where it lands with a loud clatter. “And I totally hate my hair.”

“Why? It’s so pretty. Such a rich color and so thick.” Kari stands just behind me, that stunned, I-can’t-believe-you’re-going-out-with-someone look still on her face. “So you wear this sexy little sweater, show off some skin, and now you’re going on a date? With whom?”

I smile, wishing I could keep my secret to myself for as long as possible, but I know Kari is going to keep at me incessantly until I have no choice but to confess. She could convince just about anyone to reveal all their secrets. She should go work for the CIA or something, she’s that good. “It had nothing to do with the sweater.”

Okay, it probably did, though I don’t necessarily want to give the sweater that much credit in Owen asking me out on a date. Yeah, he liked it. And I liked it when he traced my bra strap, his finger moving beneath the lace to actually touch my skin.

I’d wanted to die, all over a too brief touch that had somehow set fire to my skin. I can still feel his finger on my shoulder, and it happened over an hour ago.

Which means I need to get a move on, because Owen will be here soon to pick me up for our date.

I’m so excited, I feel like I’m going to burst.

“Don’t act all mysterious, you little bitch.” Kari starts to laugh when I shoot her a dirty look. She loves getting a rise out of me, too. “Tell me who you’re going out with. And please don’t say it’s Tad.”

Grimacing, I shake my head. “No way. I haven’t seen him since that night at The District.”

“Lucky you! I’ve seen him a few times when I’ve been with Brad. He’s just as moody as ever,” Kari mutters.

I don’t even bother asking her for any more details. I really don’t care. The very last person I want to talk about is stupid, mean Tad. “Will you curl my hair for me, Kari? I want it to look pretty.”

“I told you, it already looks pretty,” she says as she moves around me so she can grab the curling iron that’s sitting on the counter, plug it in, and flick the switch on. “Stop holding out, Chelsea. I need to know who this mystery date is with.”

“You probably don’t know him.”

“You’re probably right.”

I give her a look in the mirror. “Don’t be mean.” I bet she thinks my date is a big, studious loser like me.

“I’m not. Just stating fact.” She shrugs, then grabs the brush I threw onto the counter and starts running it through my hair. “You sure you want me to curl it?”

“Yes.” Pressing my lips together, I grip the edge of the bathroom counter and count to three before I start my confession. “He’s one of the students I tutor.”

“Ooh, scandalous, babe! I thought you swore some oath or something. Like you had to sign in blood that you wouldn’t date your students.”

“Nothing like that.” It’s definitely frowned upon, though. Not that I’ll tell anyone beyond Kari that I’m going on a date with Owen. I mean, who else would care? “He’s a football player.”

Kari lifts a delicate brow. “Now we’re talking. What’s his name?”

“Um.” I squeeze the edge of the tile counter, the words sticking in my throat. He’s mine to savor and hold onto and keep quiet. Once I confess to Kari, it becomes public and real and … kind of weird. “His name is Owen Maguire.”

“What?” Kari’s screech hurts my ears and I wince, thankful she hadn’t started curling my hair yet. She probably would have burned me. “Are you freaking serious?”

I nod, my heart in my throat. I dread hearing what she’ll say next. It can’t be good.

“Everyone knows who Owen Maguire is. And he’s a total player, Chelsea.” The worry on Kari’s face is clear. “He’s got a horrible reputation.”

“Like what kind of reputation?” So dumb to ask that, but I have to know. I don’t want to, but it’s like a bad car wreck. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help yourself.