Isn’t She Lovely is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Flirt eBook Original

Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Layne

Excerpt from Friday Night Alibi by Cassie Mae copyright © 2013 by Cassie Mae

All Rights Reserved.

Published in the United States of America by Flirt, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

FLIRT and the FLIRT colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54911-2

Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

Cover image: Image Brief

This book contains an excerpt from the book Friday Night Alibi by Cassie Mae. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

www.readflirt.com

v3.1

For LACT:

Thanks.

For the social media guidance. The tech-nerd expertise. The creative genius.

For the shared drink, and a listening ear.

For being there.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Excerpt from Friday Night Alibi

Chapter One

Stephanie

So, it’s like this … in movies, there’s this thing called the meet-cute.

The meet-cute is that moment when the romantic couple meets for the first time, and it’s supposed to be amusing or ironic or charming, or some shit like that.

You know, like that scene where the sarcastic, ball-busting female character mistakes her handsome new lawyer for the janitor? Or where the impossibly cute secretary rear-ends the BMW of the guy who turns out to be her new boss?

Then, of course, true love abounds, and everyone conveniently forgets that the entire thing is completely contrived.

And here’s what you don’t learn in Film 101: in real life, the meet-cute isn’t the least bit cute. It’s more like a meet-awkward. Sometimes even a meet-shoot-me-now.

And another thing they don’t tell you in film class?

It takes a hell of a lot longer than that brief moment to know that this other person is something other than a ginormous wart on your soul.

Basically, the meet-cute is this big, fat delusion created in the fantasyland of Hollywood.

Except sometimes … sometimes it’s real.

My mom always used to tell me that I wouldn’t really know myself until I turned thirty. I’m pretty sure that’s crap.

I’m twenty-one, and I already have a pretty good list of things I know about myself. The smell of roses makes me nauseous, I look sallow in green, small talk makes me queasy, and I’ve got a thing for old movies.

Oh, and I hate being late.

But it must be some sort of cosmic requirement that on the first day of a new semester you’ll sleep through your alarm, misplace your backpack, and naturally the subway will be running way behind schedule.

Not that being late to my Classic Film Narratives class is something to get worked up about, since it’s just an elective, but it’s like I said: I hate being late.

On the plus side, I’ve been at NYU for three years now and know my way around campus. At least I’m not lost, on top of having to do that awkward boob-jiggling half-run/half-walk thing as I make my way toward the classroom.

I’m digging around in my ancient black backpack for a granola bar since I skipped breakfast when I run smack into a wall of, well … beefcake, for a lack of a better word.

I’ve never done the whole round-the-corner-run-into-someone thing, but I always imagined it happening kind of slo-mo.

It doesn’t.

It’s more of a split-second flash of surprise and teeth-jolting discomfort followed by stinging humiliation.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that my shit’s now all over the ground or the fact that I’m gaping at the guy I just slammed into. He’s obnoxiously good-looking in a clean-cut, star-quarterback kind of way. Dark blond hair, strong chin, golden brown eyes, and yummy shoulders …

Totally not my type. I prefer the wiry artist type with soulful eyes. But still, he’s pretty if you like ’em tall, muscly, and hair-gelled.

Instead of apologizing like a good little plastic doll, he lets out the smallest of sighs, like he’s the one inconvenienced, even though he’s not the one who has tampons and notebooks scattered all over the floor.

“Awesome,” I mutter, bending down to pick up the mess.

He leans down at the same moment and I jerk my head back to avoid bumping skulls like in a B-movie scene. Unfortunately, my movement causes my chest to thrust up toward his face, and we both leap back just in time to avoid him face-planting into my boobs. Basically I just replaced a slightly awkward moment with the motherlode of awkwardness. Could this day get any better?

“Sorry ’bout that,” Pretty Boy says with a crooked grin. I don’t know whether he’s apologizing for our initial collision or for the humiliating near-miss of an inadvertent motorboat situation. Since he looks like he’s ready to bust out laughing, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

Asshole.

I keep my eyes locked on the mess of books and papers, because my face feels like it’s on fire. Of course I had to go with a skimpy tank top today. I’m not usually one to show a lot of skin, but it’s blazing hot, with the humidity at like 400 percent, and my usual collection of dark T-shirts seemed oppressive.

This is what I get for being practical.

The guy starts to help me gather my stuff, and I discreetly study him. His crisp white polo shirt and wrinkle-free plaid shorts are majorly out of place in the Tisch School of the Arts. Most of the students in my program look more like me: dark hair, dark clothes, three more swipes of eyeliner than necessary.

My eyes lock on his espresso-colored messenger bag, where there’s a discreet Prada logo.

“Are you lost or something?” I blurt out.

The guy gives a little laugh. “Just because I don’t come barreling around corners doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

“I wasn’t barreling,” I snap. “I’m just in a hurry.”

He picks up a tampon and hands it to me with an innocent smile. I try to look unfazed as I grab it and stuff it into the bottom of my bag. Really, of all the things to pick up, he goes for that one?

I snatch up the rest of my things and jam them into the bag, standing as I yank the zipper closed. “Whatever. I just thought I could point you in the right direction.”

“I’ll be a senior starting in September. I know my way around the campus,” he says, standing to tower over me.

“A senior here?” I gape. “Because you look like you walked off a Harvard admissions brochure.”

He raises an eyebrow that’s a couple of shades darker than his blond hair. “Stereotype much?”

I don’t even know why I’m engaging in an argument with the guy, but there’s something smug about him, and all that tidy perfection bugs the crap out of me. I prefer my dudes real, and this one isn’t.

I sort of wave my hand up and down in his direction. “It’s just that I think you forgot to change out of your country-club uniform.”

He takes a tiny step closer to me, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s about a foot taller than me and has a perfect view down my shirt.

“Does the surly mood come with the goth outfit?” he asks, giving me a once-over. “Or do you have to buy it separately?”

I hold up a hand to shield my eyes. “Could you please watch where you’re pointing your teeth? The glare from your caps is hurting my eyes.”

He runs a tongue over his ridiculously white teeth, looking thoughtful. “You know, sometimes if I don’t have enough light to study by, I just smile and use the reflection from these pearly whites.”

It’s a lame comeback, but I roll my eyes and let him win the sparring contest. I’m over this ridiculous conversation, and I head toward my classroom, well aware that I’m now a full twenty minutes late.

“You’re not even going to say good-bye?” he calls after me. “I picked up your tampon!”

I give a dismissive flick of my hand over my head, not bothering to turn around.

I quickly find my classroom and brace myself for that awkward late-girl moment. The room is overly full considering that this is a summer elective course, but then I guess that’s to be expected when the professor has two Golden Globes and an Oscar under his belt.

And actually, the professor isn’t a professor at all, but the current darling of Hollywood screenwriting. Martin Holbrook graduated from NYU’s Tisch School like a hundred years ago, and he guest-lectures at his alma mater every now and then to throw some wisdom at the undergraduates.

Of course, this class isn’t my only reason for sticking around New York this summer. Hell, it’s not even my primary reason.

But it’s still pretty freaking cool to work with a guy who’s done the red carpet and all that. Most of my professors’ experience is limited to behind-the-camera indie stuff.

“Ms. Kendrick, I presume?” Martin Holbrook says as I try to slink unobtrusively along the side.

“Um, yeah,” I say as I slide into the first empty seat against the wall. “Sorry I’m late.”

But to my surprise, Mr. Holbrook doesn’t seem fazed by my late arrival. Neither am I getting the usual collegiate-judgment stare from my classmates.

Instead, they’re all staring at the toothpaste commercial standing in the doorway.

Oh, good God. I think for sure we’re dealing with a wrong-room scenario.

“Ethan, it’s good to see you again,” Martin Holbrook is saying.

Wait. What? What does Holbrook mean, again?

Instead of skulking along the wall like I did, Ethan ambles easily toward the empty row of desks where I’m sitting, looking completely unperturbed by the fact that everyone is staring at him.

I glare at him in a way that I hope coaxes him to put a couple of desks between us. Instead, he lets his hip brush against the edge of my desk, tossing my smashed granola bar on my lap as he passes.

“You dropped this,” he says with a wink.

Everyone is staring at us in confusion, and I don’t blame them. I look like the troubled girl parents warn their kids away from, and Ethan looks like the homecoming king. In no ecosystem should we even be acknowledging each other’s existence.

And yet we both came in late, practically together, and now he’s being all winky and you-dropped-this, making it seem like we actually know each other.

Horror.

I catch the eye of Carrie Sinders, one of my closest friends at school, and she widens her eyes dramatically, as if to ask, What’s going on?

Good question, Carrie. Good freaking question.

The only good thing about the whole situation is that Martin Holbrook isn’t the prima donna I was fearing and doesn’t seem at all annoyed by the interruption. Probably because he played lacrosse with Pretty Boy Prada’s dad or something.

I pull out my notebook and a pen and try to focus on what Holbrook is saying when I feel a poke between my shoulder blades.

“Hey, Morticia, can I borrow a pen?”

I start to tell Ethan that I don’t have one, but of course he knows firsthand that I have about ten in my bag. I dig out a blue ballpoint and drop it onto his desk without looking at him. I don’t like people I can’t figure out, and his very presence in a place where he doesn’t seem to belong is unsettling.

That, and he smells good. Really good. Normally I hate dudes with cologne. But this is clean and sexy and smells kind of like summer in the Hamptons, and it’s more than a little distracting.

I shake it off and remind myself that I’m avoiding the male population in general since David. David, whose idea of cologne is deodorant.

“So everyone’s good?” Holbrook says. I panic a little because I haven’t been paying attention at all, and instead of there being notes to copy down, Holbrook has just written on the board a link to a website. I hurriedly scribble it in my notebook.

Luckily, there’s a total stoner in the back row who’s apparently as clueless as me, because he raises his hand in confusion. “Wait, so like … we just go online, pick out one of these common film narratives, and then write a screenplay based on one?”

Holbrook nods. “Pretty much. I’ll be here Tuesdays and Thursdays during the scheduled course time if you have questions or want to run something by me.”

I frown. Wait—we don’t actually have to come to class?

Normally this kind of freedom would be right up my alley, but I’ve kind of been counting on this course to keep me busy this summer. In previous summers I was able to stay on campus as long as I took a certain number of credits, but this year they’re repainting all the dorms, so on-campus housing isn’t available. Instead I’ll be subletting my cousin’s shoe-box-sized apartment in Queens, and I’m not sure she has Internet, much less air-conditioning. What am I going to do all summer?

Still … anything beats going home.

“Okay, unless there are more questions, I’ll connect you guys with your partners and you can be on your way.”

It takes my brain a second to absorb that.

Partners?

I am not a group project kind of girl.

“I had my four-year-old daughter draw names out of a cereal bowl last night, so this is as random as it gets,” Martin was saying, pulling a small notebook out of his bag. “Aaron Billings? You’re with Kaitlin Shirr. Michael Pelinski, you’re with Taylor McCaid …”

The list goes on, and Carrie looks at me, holding up crossed fingers.

Oh, please, God, let me be with Carrie. I can tolerate that. Mostly.

“Stephanie Kendrick …”

Oh, please, oh, please …

“… you’re with Ethan Price.”

My mind goes temporarily blank. Film students are a pretty tight-knit group, and I thought I knew everyone in the class.

Everyone except …

Oh, God.

Pretty Boy must have put the pieces together too, because I feel another sharp poke between my shoulder blades.

“You hear that, Goth? Partners!”

I close my eyes. This can’t be happening.

Instead of the carefree, find-myself summer I envisioned, I’ll be spending the next three months with my own life-sized Ken doll.

And that isn’t even the worst of it.

Chapter Two

Ethan

My new film class partner is hot in a scary kind of way.

Or maybe she’s just scary, but in a slightly hot way?

Either way, I’m not sure why I can’t stop looking at her. She’s not even close to my type. I prefer blondes, and the leggier the better.

This girl has dark hair—almost black, but not quite, and she can’t be more than five-two. And instead of wearing the flouncy sundresses and strappy sandals I’m used to girls wearing in the summer, she’s decked out in black cargo pants tucked into boots that belong on a Civil War battlefield.

And then there’s that skimpy little purple tank top. That tiny shirt is the only part of the outfit that I like.

This girl has got a fantastic rack for someone who’s so small.

Less appealing is the raccoon makeup thing. It’s like the intense black eye makeup is a big fuck you to summertime and happiness. Not to mention she’s bitchy as all hell.

Definitely not my type.

And now I’m stuck with her for the summer.

I guess it serves me right for being such a dick in the hallway when she obviously wanted to be left alone. Normally I would have just helped her pick up her crap and let her stomp away, but the way she so blatantly slapped a “prep school” label on me before I even opened my mouth pissed me off.

She was right, of course. I don’t fit in here. If I were to do some stereotyping of my own, the girls on this part of campus look like they spent most of their time sipping organic kale juice while discussing feminist literature. And most of the guys look like they’d know more about said feminist literature than the women.

Which is cool with me. To each his own, and all that.

I’m just more of the beer-and-football type while I’m at school. At home, it’s more chess and Scotch, but whatever. The point is, I saw at least five dudes in that classroom wearing nail polish. Nail polish.

I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.

So the weird girl is right. I don’t belong here, any more than she belongs at my Wall Street internship from last semester. But I’m not used to people actually saying these things out loud.

I resign myself to apologizing to the miniature goth monster. Maybe a peace offering will help us survive the summer working together. But she’s already out the door.

I catch up to her in a few strides, grabbing the top handle of her backpack. I’m tempted to lift her off her feet, simply because I know I can, but instead I yank just hard enough to let her know I’m there.

She glares up at me, and I’m startled for a second at the close-up view of her eyes. They’re wide and bright blue, and somehow totally incongruous with the rest of her personality. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t gone for black-colored contacts just to stamp out all the color from her life.

“How was your first day of second grade?” I ask, falling into step beside her. “I mean, seriously, who wears a backpack anymore?”

“We can’t all afford Prada,” she says, shooting me another of those death glares.

“Oh, wow, reverse snobbery. So unexpected!”

I see her blink in surprise that I’ve called her out. Most people seem to find it socially acceptable to jeer at rich people. Maybe they confuse our dollar bills with a shield; I dunno.

She doesn’t respond, and I’m becoming all too aware that I’m going to be spending a lot of time with this irritable mess of a human being and am not at all looking forward to it.

“Look, it’s Stephanie, right?” I ask, grabbing her backpack again when she tries to zoom off, and pulling her to a stop like she’s a little kid. “Do you wanna meet and talk about our project now, or do you have other plans? Killing cats, or getting another piercing?”

Her eyes flit from side to side like she’s looking for a weapon, but then she sighs and shakes free of my grip. “Maybe we have the option to work on our own if we want to,” she said. “I’m not really the social type.”

I lay a hand over my chest. “You, not social? I’d never have believed it.”

She gives me a dramatic eye roll.

“Come on, give me a chance,” I say. “How about a little get-to-know-each-other? I’ll start us off. True or false: you keep a shiv in your boot.”

For a second I think she’s going to smile, but instead she narrows her eyes and gives me a condescending once-over. “True or false,” she shoots back. “You usually have a pastel sweater tied around your shoulders.”

I don’t answer. I do technically own a pastel sweater, but only because my mom bought it for me. And I’d never wear it around my shoulders.

“Whatever,” she says. “I’m going to ask Holbrook if we have the option to work independently.”

I give her a fake sympathetic smile. “Trust me on this. Martin’s a good guy, but he’s not going to grant you any exceptions because you’re socially challenged.”

She raises an eyebrow at my use of Martin’s first name, and I make a mental note to start calling him Professor Holbrook on campus. I already feel guilty enough that he let me into a class that had a mile-long waiting list.

She chews on her lip, looking completely unconvinced.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be painful,” I coax, rapidly losing patience. “How about we just go grab a coffee and figure out our game plan.”

“Fine,” she says finally.

“Starbucks good?” I ask. “Or does their paper cup supplier kill too many dolphins or something?”

She gives me another of those baby-owl looks. “Exactly how many clichés do you have in your back pocket?”

“You started it,” I say, slowing my stride when I notice that she’s struggling to keep up. “You think I didn’t notice that you and everyone else assumed I arrived at that classroom by yacht?”

“You didn’t? I mean, Manhattan is mostly surrounded by water.”

I study her for a second, trying to figure out if she’s for real right now. I can’t tell, so I default to my usual sarcasm. “Nah, you’ll only find me on the yacht on weekends.”

This time she’s giving me a look, trying to figure out if I’m serious. This is almost enjoyable, in a warped, I’d-rather-be-dying kind of way.

“Stephanie, huh?” I ask, when she doesn’t respond. “You go by Steph?”

“No. Not Steph,” she says as we cross the street to the familiar green-and-white Starbucks logo. “My ex-boyfriend called me that, so I’m kind of over it.”

God, someone actually dated this cranky little midget? Then my eyes skim the perky cleavage beneath the tiny tank top. Right. There is that.

“Bad breakup?” I ask, holding the door open for her.

“I guess. I mean, I walked in on him exploring someone else’s vagina, and I can’t say I was exactly understanding.”

I choke back a little laugh at her description. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a girl use that word so casually in a sentence. It’s a little … alarming. “Got it. So no on Steph, then.”

For a second I feel a little stab of envy at her method of moving on from a bad relationship. I wish Ethan had an easy nickname so that I could erase … everything.

“Let me guess: you’re going to get something with soy,” I say as we get in line.

She lifts a shoulder, apparently resigned to this particular stereotype. “Grande soy mocha, no whip. And you’re going to go for a manly drip, right? Or maybe straight-up espresso?”

Even though I know I’m the one who took us down the path of trading clichéd stereotypes, I’m starting to hate that our assumptions about each other are mostly right, so instead of my usual tall drip, I get to the counter and throw out every fluffy word that I can think of: white chocolate, whipped cream, caramel, almond spice. “Oh, and don’t forget the sprinkles,” I add.

The barista gives a nod, clearly trying to figure out where to find room to write that on a paper cup already covered with the trademark black Sharpie scribblings. It’s a little emasculating, but I roll with it. I’m happy to be “metro,” or whatever it is they’re calling guys who actually brush their teeth and clip their toenails.

“You ordered that just to prove me wrong,” she says as we grab our drinks and head for a table.

“Just like you let me pay for yours because I was assuming you’d insist on paying for your own.”

“That, and it was hard to miss the wad of twenties in your wallet.”

“Drug money,” I lie, taking a sip of my drink. I wince at its painful sweetness, and Stephanie smirks, showing off a really cute dimple I haven’t noticed before. Probably because the girl’s not exactly throwing grins around for free.

“Tell me you understood some of that babble from class,” I say, shoving my drink aside. “What in God’s name is a ‘common film narrative’?”

I put air quotes around that last part, and I see her grind her teeth a little bit.

“I knew it,” she said, leaning forward. “You’re not a film student.”

“Eh, no. Whatever gave me away?”

She nods in the direction of my upper arms. “The biceps. No respectable film student would be caught dead with guns like that.”

I let out a small laugh. “Goth, nobody calls them guns anymore.”

For a second I think she’s blushing, but then she resumes that dead-behind-the-eyes look. “So why are you in this class then? I thought it was Tisch students only, and I know there was a waiting list. I was on it.”

The guilt stabs again, and I just try to remember that had I not weaseled my way into this course, I’d be all gussied up in a suit right now for yet another Price Holdings internship. Which normally I would actually enjoy. But not this summer.

Since Stephanie looks pretty gung-ho about her little movie class, I’m not about to tell her I enrolled only because there were no summer business courses available on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Nor am I going to spill my guts and explain that I’ve got school is the only excuse my father would accept for why I can’t be his right-hand man at the office.

And I’m certainly not going to tell her why I don’t want to be spending a lot of time with my dad this summer.

I force a smile. “I guess something opened up.”

Big blue eyes roll. “I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll check out that website tonight. I’ll figure out the easiest theme to work with, and I can email you the game plan.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up a hand. “I get no say? Because I’m pretty sure this is a group project.”

She leans forward, looking all fierce and scary and weird. “Do you know what a ditty bag is used for?”

I choke out a laugh, my eyes inadvertently dropping to her chest. “That’s a thing?”

She doesn’t even crack a smile. “It’s for hauling around camera equipment on set. And can you name even one Hitchcock film? Do you know what a key grip is?”

Shit. Of all the possible partners, I get a pit bull puppy.

“Okay, look, you caught me,” I say, raising my hands. “This isn’t my thing. But I do have a four-point-oh GPA, and I’d like to keep it that way. And how do I know you won’t go rogue on this project and turn in our screenplay with a dead bird smashed on the front?”

By now I’m done expecting a laugh from this girl, but she surprises me, letting out a little giggle that reminds me of a rainbow escaping from a mud puddle.

The laugh fades as quickly as it appeared, but she leans back in her chair, and she seems to have relaxed a little. “Look, I promise not to screw it up, okay? Screenplay writing’s not my focus, but I know my way around a script and I get pretty decent grades myself. And I wouldn’t hand in a dead bird on a school project.”

“Good to know,” I mutter.

“I never take my dead bird collection out from under the bed.”

This time it’s me who’s caught off guard, and I laugh, but she’s already moving on to a lecture about what the assignment will be, based on the course description in the NYU brochure. Yeah. Because everybody reads those.

I dutifully try to pay attention as she rambles on about how once she figures out our narrative focus, we’re supposed to come up with modern cinematic examples.

As I listen to her babble, I try not to stare at her boobs, absently wondering why all these film geeks are lurking around in New York City instead of invading Hollywood. Not that I can picture this little gremlin in Southern California, but she obviously knows her way around the world of movies.

“Your backpack’s buzzing,” I say, gently kicking her bag and interrupting her tirade about why she thinks Casablanca’s overrated.

“Sorry,” she mutters, grabbing the bag and digging around for her phone. Why she doesn’t utilize the front pocket of the bag is beyond me.

I’ve never understood why the girls in my life make everything needlessly difficult. With Olivia, practicality ranked somewhere between monster truck shows and fishing on her priority list. Her car keys were always in the bottom of her purse, never the side pocket. She never could tie back her hair when it was windy. An umbrella on a rainy day? Forget it. And apparently this is a trait shared by Park Avenue princesses and whatever graveyard this girl clawed her way out of, because Stephanie’s still digging for her phone.

I mean, it’s not as though I expect them to carry around flares and a Swiss Army knife on their belt or anything, but sometimes it’s like chicks go out of their way to be unprepared.

“Hello?” Stephanie finally finds her phone and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she listens to whoever’s on the other end. I notice that she has like five earrings, and for some reason I find it kind of hot. Olivia only ever wore the pearls that I got her for high school graduation.

I realize that Stephanie’s doing a lot more listening than talking, and I tear my eyes away from her ear long enough to see that she looks distraught.

“It’s no biggie,” she says finally to the person on the other end. “I have until the end of the week before I have to be out of campus housing. I’ll find something before then.”

“Everything okay?” I ask as she drops her phone back into the bag. The bottom of her bag.

She shrugs. “That was my cousin. I was supposed to be subletting her apartment for next to nothing while she went home to Arizona, but her plans there changed, so she’s staying in town.”

It takes me a second to comprehend what she’s saying because her tank top’s slipped down a little bit, and I’m not a pervy lecher, but damn …

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

She stares out the window for a second, and I’m expecting her to look a little annoyed or worried, but instead she looks totally resigned to the shit card she’s just been dealt. As though she doesn’t deserve any better.

“I’ll see if I can crash with David, I guess. At least he lives close to campus.”

“Who’s David?”

“My ex.”

I squint at her profile as I try to put the pieces together. “Wait, the guy you caught exploring a dodgy vagina?”

“That’s the one.”

She says it in this flat, whatever voice that totally bums me out, and I almost open my mouth to offer something stupid, but that haunted look on her face stops me. I have no use for new girls in my life at the moment, especially weird ones. Nobody’s ever accused me of being the sensitive type, and I’m not going to start now. I’ve got my own shit to figure out.

“That sucks,” I say, pushing my gross drink toward her as though it’s supposed to be consolation to a girl who’s probably a vegan or some crap like that.

Stephanie gives an apathetic shrug. “Pretty much par for the course, actually.”

Huh.

Maybe somebody else’s life does suck worse than mine.

Chapter Three

Stephanie

I’m not what you’d call a girl’s girl. Like, at all.

I used to be.

I used to have vitally important debates with my friends about whether we should paint our nails blue to match our cheerleading uniforms or yellow because we read in some magazine that it was that season’s “it” color.

I used to pay attention to brands of lip gloss, whether my lingerie matched, and pedicures. When my mom told me that lime green wasn’t my color, I listened, and when I found that my best friend had a crush on the boy I secretly liked, I backed off simply because that was the girl code. I used to know who’d be at every party, and would plan my outfit accordingly … a month in advance.

In other words, I was your typical teenage nightmare.

That was before my whole world went to shit. But now?

Now I find female friends suffocating and interfering. They ask too many questions and demand too many answers.

And parties? Parties are my personal version of hell.

But I do make exceptions. Both on the friend front and the party front.

Jordan Crawford would never admit it, but NYU was never her dream the way it was mine. I mean, sure, it was on her list of schools when we used to sit around eating ice cream and talking about life after high school. But I don’t know that it would have even been on her radar if I hadn’t been so dead set on New York. Although back then it wasn’t about film school. It was about the bright lights and the high heels and the fact that people in New York were doing stuff.

And New York was big. When you grow up in the smallest state in the country, big can feel really important.

Anyway, Jordan and I have never really talked about why she came to NYU. But senior year of high school, after my mom was gone and Caleb was out of the picture … Well, all of a sudden Jordan was going to NYU with me. Just like that.

Which is not to say we’re in each other’s back pocket or anything. When I miraculously got into Tisch School of the Arts, Jordan merely said “Yikes” and showed me her pamphlet for NYU’s Carter Journalism Institute. She wants to be a sportscaster someday. It sounds awful to me, but Jordan will totally rock it. She’s got that classic just-one-of-those-guys charm, but without looking like one of the guys. Basically, she’s every dude’s dream girl.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to see if there’s an extra room at the sorority house this summer?” she asks, linking her elbow with mine.

I give her a look. The one that says, Do I look like I belong in a sorority house?

She acknowledges the validity of my silent point with a long sigh. “I can’t believe that between the two of us, we can’t find a single alternative housing arrangement for you for the summer.”

“I can believe it. My social circle’s more like a social dot.”

Her glossy lips press together for several seconds, which I’m able to translate perfectly since we’ve been friends since eighth grade: You used to have a social circle.

“Well, I’ll ask around at the party tonight,” she says. “We have three days before you have to be out of campus housing. We’ll find something.”

“Okay, so about this party,” I say, feeling the familiar tug of dread. “You’re sure it’s just a small get-together?”

She stays silent, and I groan. “Jordan. This is a Greek party, isn’t it?”

Jordan gives me a guilty smile. “Please, Steffie? It’s the last one of the season. Finals are over, summer’s here … Don’t you want a break?”

My stomach has more knots than a chapter of Moby-Dick. “You know why I don’t go to big parties.”

“But I’ll be right there by your side the whole time,” she says, grabbing my hand and giving my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Just don’t drink anything unless I hand it to you. It’ll be fun. And we haven’t hung out with each other on a Friday night in forever.”

That’s not entirely true. We hang out a fair amount. It’s just always in my dorm room. Usually watching some black-and-white movie with wine. Not frat parties with keg cups and puking sorority girls.

I’m dragging Jordan down, and I know it. She’s always coming onto my turf, playing by my rules. I owe her at least this.

Plus she’s probably right. Maybe I should try to get out more. This whole housing crisis has made me painfully aware of how few friends I have. Hell, how few acquaintances I have. Maybe this stupid party will be the first step in avoiding a future of living on canned beans and having a thousand cats.

There’s some Greek symbol on the door of the thumping house, but I have no idea what it means … guys, girls, whatever.

But the smell is painfully familiar. Booze, sweat, too much cologne.

I take a deep breath through my mouth and try to block out the memories. You can do this.

Jordan is immediately mobbed by a pack of squealing girls who largely ignore me, despite the fact that Jordan’s still holding my hand. It’s cool. I don’t belong. I get it.

I pull my hand away gently and she gives me a questioning look, which I return with a quick smile: I’m good.

And I am. Because I’ve totally figured out how these parties work. Avoid the keg cups, and you’re good. Pick the wrong keg cup, and your life is turned upside down.

I walk past a handful of couples making out and ignore the way a group of guys in the corner ogle my boobs. The kitchen’s even worse. It’s a shit show of bottles, kegs, and pitchers of some neon liquid.

I move on. Although I don’t know what I’m looking for, really. A quiet corner to stand in, I guess. A tall redheaded girl who looks sort of familiar spots me and gives me a wide smile. “Hey, Steffie! Can I get you a drink?”

Steffie. I hate that name. I only allow Jordan to call me that for old times’ sake, but apparently some of her friends have picked it up, and I can’t think of a way to correct this girl without sounding like a total bitch. And at least this one acknowledges me.

“I’m good,” I say, giving what I hope is a friendly smile as I move on.

I mentally scold myself as I walk away. That could have been the opening I needed to start a conversation and maybe see if she knows somebody who knows somebody who’s looking for a roommate for the summer. But my knack for small talk evaporated a long time ago, and now nobody is even looking at me, much less talking to me.

I have to turn sideways to slide along the crowded hall leading to what I hope’s a living room, or maybe a side door or even just a giant hole in the ground that will swallow me up and get me the hell out of here.

I’m almost through the hallway when one of the meatheaded dudes in front of me stops suddenly and lifts his hand to give his friend a high five. He inadvertently catches my chin with his elbow as it goes up.

“Shit!” he says, looking down at me. “Shit, my bad—”

His voice breaks off, and I forget all about the fact that my teeth are still rattling. It’s him.

“Ethan Price,” I say, gingerly rubbing at my jaw. “How is it that I’ve made it through three years as an undergrad without seeing you, and now I can’t even go a week?”

I wait expectantly for one of those glib comebacks that seem to roll off his tongue like witty diarrhea, but all I get is an awkward silence.

I look at him more closely, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize that this isn’t the same too-charming guy who crashed my film class and bought me coffee.

It’s still Ethan Price, but he’s … different. This version is closed off. His jaw is tight and his brown eyes are wary. His walls are up for some reason.

He’s still gorgeous, though, even though he’s glaring at me. Hell, maybe he’s more gorgeous because he’s glaring at me. The Ethan I met earlier in the week put me on edge with his cutesy comebacks and easy grin. This version is more like me. Guarded. Maybe a little bit angry.

Oddly, I find I want to know why.

I see him scan the crowded hallway nervously, and suddenly it clicks. This Ethan is painfully aware of his image, and a girl like me is not going to help his manly rep. It was okay to talk to a weirdo like me when he was amid a bunch of other weirdos. But these beefy jocks and skinny sorority girls are his people. In his world, people like him don’t talk to people like me. And we both know it.

Whatever.

It’s not like I care. Not really.

But still, I want to snub him before he snubs me, so I start to shoulder past.

His fingers find my arm before I can move; it’s a little more caveman than I would expect from someone who probably gets manicures.

“You okay, Goth?” he asks gruffly, his dark eyes searching mine.

For a second my stomach flips at his question. When was the last time somebody asked me if I’m okay?

Then reality sets in, and I realize he’s not asking if I, Stephanie Kendrick the person, am okay. He’s simply making sure I didn’t lose a tooth when he elbowed me in the face. Probably making sure I won’t take revenge with some sort of voodoo trick.

I’m startled by my own disappointment.

“Sure, I’m good,” I say in response. And I really am. Now that my teeth have stopped rattling, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

Then it happens.

Someone jostles me from behind, pushing me into Ethan so I’m pressed up against this macho jock, my boobs landing softly against his chest and my hands finding his shoulders.

Shit. Awkward.

Move, Stephanie

But I don’t.

He feels safe somehow, which doesn’t make sense.

My nose barely reaches the middle of his chest, and I try to order my hands to push against him so I can regain my balance. I tell myself that I am not registering how firm his broad chest is beneath my palms. But I’m a liar, because I definitely notice.

My shirt’s ridden up a bit, and when he puts his arm around me to help steady me, his hand finds the bare skin of my lower back and we both suck in a breath at the contact.

Suddenly I’m way too hot, and it has nothing to do with the stifling hallway we’re standing in. It’s him.

What the hell is going on here? Just three days ago I was cursing his very existence, wondering if there was a subtle way to poison his coffee. I don’t even like this guy. I didn’t like the snarky smart-ass version, and I certainly don’t like this macho, sulky version.

But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Ethan gives a quick glance over his shoulder before his free hand moves, and he’s hooking a finger beneath my jaw and tilting my face upward.

His hand is warm, his fingers gentle, and for some stupid reason my breath catches. He scans my face and gives a quick nod—I guess to reassure himself that I’m not oozing blood all over the ground.

Okay, then. Time to back away.

His hand shifts again. Barely. Just enough to run a finger along my jaw, and although I’m pretty sure he’s just making sure he didn’t do any serious harm, the sensation feels oddly like a caress.

“What the hell are you doing here, Goth?” His voice is quiet. Annoyed.

Our eyes meet, and I’m dying to see the same sort of confused attraction on his own face, but he’s totally unreadable. He’s completely unlike the guy who teased me and bought me coffee and crashed my film class. Although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the real Ethan Price either.

I’m dying to know which version is the real one. I suspect it’s neither.

A huge black-haired guy appears next to us. “Dude. Price. What the fuck are you doing?”

Ethan jerks his arm back so fast, he almost elbows another girl, and I want to ask if he’ll go caress her face too, except I don’t really want to know the answer.

I tear my eyes away from his and start to move away, even as I hear his friend make some lame joke about how I look like an extra from The Crucible. I’d bet that uncultured jackass has never even seen The Crucible.

I lift a hand to my jaw, not because it hurts … but because it tingles with awareness.

An awareness I haven’t felt in so long.

Unable to help myself, I give a quick glance backward, only to find a pair of sulky dark eyes watching me.

He looks away the second my eyes find his, and I’m oddly gratified that he was watching me against his will. Or at least I would be gratified, if only I knew what the hell just happened.

Chapter Four

Ethan

What the hell is she doing here?

The odd little munchkin from that godforsaken film class is skulking around my house’s end-of-the-year party, and it’s bugging the shit out of me.

She doesn’t belong here.

After the hallway groping, I saw her seek out Jordan Crawford, which is weird. Jordan is one of those cute, smiley blondes whom everybody likes. Pretty much the opposite of the edgy, dark brunette who’s skulking in corners, not drinking so much as a soda.

But her presence isn’t what bothers me. Everyone else is too drunk to care whether or not she’s Greek, and we let friends of friends into parties all the time.

What’s bothering me is that my eyes won’t stop seeking her out. Every time I move to a new room or go for another drink, she’s there. Standing in the corner, mostly. Her posture is nonchalant, as though she doesn’t notice the occasional second glances she’s getting. Like she doesn’t care that she stands out.

But I’ve seen those wide blue eyes up close. Seen them go wary. She cares more than she lets on.

I’ve also seen those blue eyes go hot and smoky.

Fuck.

What the hell was I thinking, touching her like that? I’ve had a few beers, but I’m not damned near drunk enough to be attracted to a tiny, angry brunette.

But for a second there, I felt something. A little zip of awareness when she pushed against me. The same awareness I felt when she rammed into me that day in the hallway.

It doesn’t make sense. Between the piercings and the biker-chick makeup, she’s pretty much Olivia’s exact opposite.

Maybe that’s why I like her.

Except I don’t like her. Not really. She’s irritable, skittish, and a little weird. But hot. Definitely hot.

I hear an enormous beer belch to my left and don’t have to turn to know it’s Cody Wagner, better known as Wag. He’s a big blob of a guy who’s somehow gotten it in his head that chicks find these nasty beer burps sexy.

Wag is perpetually single.

“Where’s Liv?” he says, taking an enormous swallow from his keg cup.

I tear my eyes away from Stephanie Kendrick’s cleavage and take a sip of my own beer, even though it’s lukewarm and tastes like piss.

Wag sways slightly, but he’s still looking at me as though waiting for an answer. Obviously he didn’t get the memo that Olivia and I are no longer together.

Not surprising. I certainly haven’t been advertising the fact.

“Not here,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

He nods, as though it’s totally normal that I’m attending a party without my long-term girlfriend. It’s not. Olivia and I weren’t joined at the hip or anything like that, but her sorority girls were tight with my frat guys, so we almost always ended up attending these things together. Hell, half the time we ended up planning them, like some sort of king and queen of the Greeks.

For the first time I realize that if I’m not Olivia’s boyfriend, maybe it means I won’t have to play that role anymore. The thought is oddly freeing.

“Mike here?” Wag says, looking behind me as though I’ve been hiding my best friend.

Former best friend.

This time I don’t bother responding at all, but Wag is finishing his beer and doesn’t notice.

He belches again as he scans the room. “Tits in the corner,” he says, his eyes doing a slow once-over of some poor girl who’s probably about to be subjected to Wag’s legendarily bad come-on techniques. Hope she likes beer breath.

“There are tits all over the place,” I mutter, feeling bored with this whole scene.

“Not like these,” he says, all but salivating.

Being human—no, being a guy—I of course have to turn and look. Ah, shit.

I don’t know why I’m surprised to see that it’s Stephanie who’s caught Wag’s horny interest. Wasn’t I ogling that very same chest just a few minutes ago? Seriously, those little tank tops of hers are sexy as hell. They manage to be revealing without trying too hard. Unlike all those plunging V-necks or perfectly tailored designer tops that the other girls are wearing, Stephanie’s simple black tank seems to scream, Hey, I just threw on the first thing I found in my closet, and I have no idea that I fill it out so completely.

I can’t blame Wag for noticing, but at the same time I kind of hate that he does. There’s something fragile about the way she tries so hard to be fierce. And as mean as her glares are, I’d expect her to have scales or spikes or something, but her skin is ridiculously soft.

Which I shouldn’t know. I mean, accidentally elbowing a girl in the face is not grounds for fondling her at a crowded party. I still don’t know what made me do it. I’d like to think I did it just to get under her skin and piss her off because she clearly loathed the very sight of me. But for a few minutes in the hallway it didn’t feel like she hated me. Not when her breath hitched the moment I touched her.

Not when mine hitched as she fell against me, all soft curves and smelling of soap.

“Leave her alone,” I hear myself grumble to Wag.

He gives me a surprised look. “You know her?”

“Taking a summer class together,” I say, finally giving up on my beer and setting it on a side table already teeming with keg cups and abandoned bottles.

Wag’s not so drunk that he doesn’t raise his eyebrows at that. “What the fuck is the almighty Price doing taking a summer class? You flunk Macro or something?”

I’ve never flunked a class in my life. Never gotten lower than a B. But there’s no way I’m going to explain myself to a guy who thinks burping’s a hobby. I don’t even know what I’d say. Nah, I’m taking some stupid class about movies just so I don’t have to spend the summer in the office with my dad.

No way.

“Just leave the girl alone, ’kay?” I shoot a quick glance toward Stephanie, but she’s disappeared. I should be relieved for her sake, since it means she won’t be subject to Wag’s special brand of ass-pinching seduction.

Instead I just feel grumpy.

“What’s with you tonight, man?” Wag says, giving me an exasperated look.

“What do you mean?”

“Normally you’re the life of these things. The first to tap the next keg, but also the first to throw out anyone who gets too shit-faced. Tonight you’ve had like half a beer and get pissed at anyone who tries to talk to you.”

It’s true. I’m not acting like myself.

But normally Michael and Olivia are by my side. Without them I feel … off.

And the feeling is fucking annoying. I’ve never thought of myself as the type who couldn’t cope without my best friend and my girlfriend, but I guess I’ve taken for granted that they’re always there. Until they were gone I never really noticed that when I was tired or introspective, one of them would be there to soften my edges.

Just like I never noticed that when I was in what Michael called “Price Charming mode”—which was most of the time—they always stepped back and let me shine.

I certainly don’t feel charming tonight.

Someone calls my name, and I see my usual group of guys gesturing me over to the keg, all of them too wasted to see that I’m clearly not interested.

I give them a sort of vague gesture as though to indicate that I’ll be there in a minute, and with a muttered bye to Wag, I head in the direction of the bathroom. Not because I have to piss, but because I need a minute alone. But there’s a line a mile long, made up mostly of scantily dressed girls. A tall, skinny blonde grabs my hand as I walk by, and I don’t miss the way her fingers graze my palm in a totally unnecessary gesture.

“Hey, Sarah,” I say, giving her a brief jerk of my chin as I start to move away.

“I hear you’re all alone tonight,” she says, not letting go of my hand.

I’m not surprised that she knows. Sarah is one of Olivia’s best friends. But I am surprised by the suggestive undertone in her voice because she’s one of Olivia’s best friends.

“Yup, and I plan to stay that way,” I say, refusing to give her supermodel body a once-over. Sarah’s pretty, but there’s no way I’d hook up with one of my ex’s friends. I may be pissed at Liv, but I’m not total trash.

“Ah, come on, Eth,” she says, trying to tug me closer as she leans forward slightly. “I can make you feel better.”

The blatant invitation to her best friend’s recent ex is a turnoff, so I merely give her a quick half smile and pull away. I make it about five steps toward the back door before another girl whose name I can never remember locks her arms around my neck, pushing herself against me like a kitten who accidentally drank too much vodka. She’s talking at me, and I catch the word dick and suck and drunk, but she’s slurring too much to make a full sentence, and instead of being turned on, I feel tired.

When did this whole scene start to feel so fucking trashy?

I foist the drunk girl onto one of my frat brothers and head out the back door. It’s not any cooler out here than it was in there, but other than a few couples making out, it’s relatively quiet.

I sit on a crumbling brick wall, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here. Normally my night would be just beginning, but now all I can think about is getting back to my air-conditioned apartment, where I don’t have to talk to anyone.

Then again, being alone means more time thinking, and I’m not sure I want to do that either.

I run a hand over the back of my neck, rolling my head on my shoulders, when I see her. She’s only a couple of feet away, but with the black shirt, pants, and boots, she blends into the night.

“Kendrick,” I say, tilting my head up toward the sky so I don’t stare at her boobs.

“Price,” she says in the same bored voice.

Neither of us says anything for several minutes, and it’s kind of nice to be around someone who doesn’t expect me to perform.

“For the record, I like this version best,” she says after several moments of silence.

“Huh?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lift a shoulder. “Your personas. There’s that nauseatingly charming one I met the first day. There’s the sulky one in the hallway just now. And then there’s this one. Quiet and a little sad. I like him best.”

I turn my head to stare at her. “You like me sad? You really are a ghoul.”

She looks totally unperturbed by this as she fiddles with one of her earrings. “Well, I don’t want you suicidal or anything. I just like that you’re not trying so hard.”

I don’t even know what the fuck she’s talking about. Trying so hard? Does she think I’m like a clown who picks and chooses his moods based on his environment?

Being charming is easy—nobody looks too hard at charming. Nobody expects you to be anything other than flirty and a little funny. Figures that this sour little critter would be repulsed by that.

“How’s your face?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Fine.”

I narrow my eyes and study her. Her tone is flippant, and although she really does seem to be fine—there’s no red mark to signal an impending bruise—I get the feeling that she’d say she was fine even if she wasn’t. As though she doesn’t think anyone would care one way or the other.

“Sorry about … in there,” I say, breaking yet another awkward silence.

“You mean where you got all handsy?” she asks in that unperturbed voice of hers.

“I didn’t get handsy,” I snap. “I was just making sure I didn’t knock your teeth out.”

Stephanie gives me this big, shit-eating grin as though to say, See? All teeth accounted for, and I roll my eyes.

But I’m smiling a little bit all the same. She’s so damned different from anyone I’ve ever met before, and oddly, I find my mood improving.

“How’d you get dragged into this shit?” I say, gesturing toward the thumping house, where the back window reveals someone doing a keg stand.

“What, you mean you don’t think I belong?” she asks, her eyes wide in mock surprise.

I pat the wall next to me and give her an inviting smile. “Come closer. I can barely hear you.”

“Don’t start that BS again,” she says with a withering glance. “I meant it when I said I didn’t like the charming pretty-boy version.”

But she comes and sits by me anyway, and once again I feel that annoying hit of awareness.

I meet her eyes. “What if that’s who I am? The charming pretty-boy version, I mean?”

“Well, then God help your future Stepford wife, because you two will bore the crap out of each other long before your first anniversary. But it’s not my problem. It’s not like I’m auditioning for the role of BFF. Just keep your schmoozing to a minimum when we have to meet for the film project, and hopefully I won’t have to scare you away with my dead bird collection.”

We’re back to where we started now on that first day, exchanging clichéd insults, and I kind of like it. Not as much as I liked her pressed against me, but her company’s the most enjoyable I’ve had in weeks.

“You never answered how you ended up here,” I say, staring down at her pale profile.

She stares straight ahead, fiddling again with her earrings. “I’m tagging along with a friend. Jordan Crawford. She’s one of you people.”

“One of us?”

“You know. Pretty. Popular. Perfect.”

“You’re pretty,” I hear myself say.

She turns her head then, blue eyes so bored they could freeze my balls off. “What did I just say about the charming thing? Turn it off.”

“Why do you do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“What, you’re wondering why I don’t swoon?” she asks, lifting a leg to tuck a heel under her on the wall and turning to face me slightly. “You’re not my type.”

“Is it the lack of tattoos?” I deadpan. “Do you want me to show you my penis piercing?”

“It’s the lack of substance,” she snaps.

I recoil a little bit at the accusation. I don’t know why her opinion even matters. She’s a friendless outcast, and I could have this entire party eating out of my hand if I wanted. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Or at least I shouldn’t.

But her blatant dismissal of me hits a raw spot. Does she think I’m not aware that I’m a little too glib sometimes? This girl doesn’t know me. She can’t possibly understand that the charm comes on without me intending it to, even when inside I feel anything but charming.

Does she really think I don’t look at my life—at the cushy apartment I don’t pay for, the classes that come a little easier than they should, the CEO position that’s just waiting for me—and feel exactly what she’s accusing me of?

Substance free.

It burns a little, because she’s right.

Sometimes I think I’m nothing but a decent-looking package for other people to fill up with their garbage. From my parents, who spoon-feed me my future in exchange for a nice allowance, to my friends, who demand a ringleader.

And then there was Olivia, who never put any overt pressure on me—never asked me to be anything other than what I put forward. But we both knew that what I put forward sure as hell better meld with the image of our families. That meant learning how to schmooze your father’s clients before you could ride a bike. It meant Saturdays spent on the golf course with family friends when all you wanted to do was play video games. It meant escorting your perfect girlfriend to her debutante ball. And it meant figuring out a way to get good grades, regardless of whether you actually learned anything.

Hell, even when I rebelled I did it the right way. Even when I put my foot down and refused to do my usual summer internship at the company, I didn’t do so by putting on coveralls and working at an auto repair shop in Queens.

No, my form of rebellion was a fucking film class with an Academy Award–winning screenwriter who went to college with my daddy.

Stephanie Kendrick is right.

I have no substance.

And even worse, I don’t know the first place to start in actually acquiring any.

Something soft touches my arm, and I realize that it’s Goth. Her slim fingers are on my bare forearm, her black nail polish against my tan skin is hot, and despite the fact that she’s pissed me off, I want to know what her fingers would feel like against the rest of my skin.

I shake her hand off, and she lets me, but her blue eyes never leave my face.

“Sorry,” she says simply.

“For what?”

“For saying you were substance free.”

“Yeah, I can tell from your tone you’re really torn up about it. Zombies have more inflection.”

She tilts her head a little as though I’m a puzzle. “Would it be better if I fluttered my eyelashes? Maybe added a couple of adverbs? I’m soooooo sorry, Ethan, you absolutely must forgive me.”

I laugh a little in spite of myself, because she sounds exactly like every other girl I know, but coming from her scowling face and black-rimmed eyes, it’s all wrong.

“I don’t know that I like you,” I say, surprised to see that my hand has gone out to tug a piece of her hair.

She looks a little startled at the gesture, but her eyes seem to soften slightly and she gives me a tentative smile. “I’m shocked. I thought for sure you were going to ask me to be your tennis doubles partner.”

“Price, you out there?”

We both turn toward the sound of my name being called, and I recognize Joe and Gary walking toward us. Joe’s got that stupid grin on his face that tells me he’s way past sober, but Gary merely looks puzzled, and that’s worse.

“Where the hell have you been?” Gary demands. “Isn’t this supposed to be your party?”

It’s only “my party” because I pay for the beer—always—but I don’t argue. And I don’t blame Gary for being confused. Sitting out in the backyard during a party isn’t typical behavior for me. Sitting out in the backyard with someone who looks like she belongs in The Addams Family is even less typical.

He gives Stephanie a curious glance, but at least he doesn’t ogle and then ignore her; instead he reaches out a hand. “I’m Gary.”

“Neat,” she says snottily, as though daring him to question her presence. I don’t know if she smokes, but if she pulled out a cigarette and blew smoke in his face, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. The scene had that kind of feel.

“Sorry to steal away your Golden Boy,” she says, pulling her hair back in a ponytail, a gesture that attracts undue attention to her cleavage. Joe’s practically drooling, but Gary and I are made of classier stuff and barely sneak a glance.

Okay, a long glance.

“So, you guys are … friends?” Gary asks.

I feel a little clutch of panic. How the hell do I explain this? I can’t say that she’s just a tagalong with a great rack, marking her as one-night-stand material—they’d eat her alive. But if I brush her off altogether, I’ll look like a dick.

Stephanie solves the problem for me.

“Not friends,” she says succinctly. “I just stopped by in hopes of scoring a free drink, and he told me to scram.” She’s already moving back toward the side of the house, ready to make her escape. “Don’t worry, your boy Ethan here would never slum it with someone like me.”

Now hold on just a goddamn minute. Who said anything about slumming it? Sure, her presence is a little uncomfortable. And yeah, I don’t exactly want everyone to know that I’m hanging out with the film nerds for the summer. But my social group isn’t that snobbish.

Well, okay, maybe they are.

But I’m not.

I reach out to grab her arm, and it’s so skinny, my fingers can wrap all the way around her bicep. “This is Stephanie Kendrick,” I say, ignoring the way she tries to tug her arm free. “We’re friends.”

She lets out a strangled sound at that. “Oh, God, no.”

“Good friends,” I say emphatically, just to annoy her.

“Um, okay,” Gary says with a shrug. “Well, how about you and your friend get inside so we can finish off this school year right. The beer’s waiting.”

“Gosh, I’d love to,” Stephanie says sweetly, giving me the eyelash flutter she threatened me with earlier. “But I’ve gotta go. Lots of cats to kill tonight.”

She looks pointedly at my hand on her arm, and I realize I’m being ridiculous by holding her here. Boorish, really. But still I take my sweet time letting her go, letting my fingers brush the soft skin of her inner arm.

I think I hear her give a sharp intake of breath, but that’s probably wishful thinking, because her eyes never lose the look that says Go ahead and die before she wrenches free and backs up several steps.

“See you around, friend,” she says, discreetly lifting her hand and flipping me the bird.

I can’t help it. I smile.

And suddenly the next few months don’t look so shitty after all, because I know exactly how to keep myself occupied all summer.

I’m going to figure out what makes Stephanie Kendrick tick.

Chapter Five

Stephanie

“Hey, babe.”

Don’t call me babe. Don’t call me Steph. Actually, don’t call me anything at all, you cheating turd.

“Hi, David.” I push past him into the familiar apartment. I’ve lived on campus for all three years of college, but David moved off campus after freshman year to a tiny one-bedroom in the East Village. His semi-famous musician dad pays for it, and although it’s small, it has a classic coolness about it that I’ve always loved.

“That’s all the stuff you have?” He looks in surprise at my backpack and one suitcase.

“Yeah. Camille was planning to leave most of her stuff behind when she went to Phoenix, so I put mine into a storage unit.”

A storage unit whose fee was nonrefundable, leaving me with the option of having to find a cheap furnished place at the last minute (impossible) or eat the cost of the storage and try to pay rent in a new place (also not possible).

David grabs a beer from the fridge and gives me a kind are-you-okay look. “I was surprised to hear from you. I thought pigs would fly before you’d ask to move in.”

Me too. I throw my backpack on the couch and wheel my suitcase into the corner, shaking my head at the beer he offers. “I’m only here until I can work something else out. And I’m not moving in, just sleeping on the couch for a couple of days.”

Please, God, let it be just a couple of days. Still, it’s nice of David to let me crash here. Especially since I’m pretty sure that the last time we talked, I told him I’d deep-fry his balls if he came near me again.

And how pathetic is it that my cheating ex-boyfriend is my only option for a last-minute housing crisis? For the millionth time, I wish Jordan wasn’t picking this summer to go home to Rhode Island. She did her best, exhausting every possible option in her vast network in an effort to find me a place. But few college students are crazy enough to stick around New York in the summer, even if they can afford it. And the ones who are going to be here already have like a dozen too many roommates. So that leaves David. The guy who cheated on me. Something I’m still not sure I care that much about.

“What do you wanna do for dinner?” he asks.

I gape at his casual tone, as though we’re going to go back to the way we were when we were a couple. “Look, David, I really appreciate that you’re letting me crash here, but we’re not even close to getting back together.”

He runs a hand through his too long sandy-brown hair and gives me his signature hooded look, which I’m pretty sure he knows is sexy as hell. David is gorgeous in the sulky, slacker kind of way. He’s lanky, with smoky hazel eyes and this impossibly good skin. He’s an engineering major, although he could easily be an art major or a deep philosophy guy, or pretty much anything you want him to be.

Including a first-rate man-skank, apparently. Although I didn’t see it coming, and that sucked.

Oddly, though, I don’t find him nearly as attractive as I once did. Not that I was ever hot for him. I haven’t been truly turned on by a guy since … before. But after being away from him for a few weeks, I don’t even find him good-looking in an objective kind of way. He’s too skinny, too greasy. His shoulders are too narrow, his eyes too dark, and …

Oh, shit.

I realize that I’m inadvertently comparing David to Ethan Price.

David’s definitely in second place. A distant second.

“I know we’re not together, Steph, but there’s no reason we can’t at least be friends,” David is whining.

I raise an eyebrow. “I walked in on you and Leah going at it like rabid dogs. Not so sure I want to be friends with that.”

To his credit, he doesn’t point out that he doesn’t have to let me stay here, but his lips are pressed together in the way that usually means he is disappointed at my lack of understanding.

My phone buzzes from my back pocket, and I hesitate before pulling it out. Honestly, the thing’s brought me nothing but bad news for the past week. A lot longer than that, actually.

The name on the screen isn’t welcome, but neither is it a surprise. It’s also the tenth time it’s come through in about two days.

“Hey, can you give me a few minutes?” I ask, feeling awkward about making claims on his home, but wanting my privacy all the same.

David shrugs and pulls out another beer. “Sure, you can talk in the bedroom.”

I nod and head to the all-too-familiar bedroom as I pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“I was expecting your voicemail. Again.”

I try to tell myself that it’s just a typical parent guilt trip, but his voice sounds a little hurt, and it makes my stomach twist.

“Sorry,” I say quietly. “It’s been crazy busy moving out of the dorms and starting summer classes.”

I’ve intentionally let my dad think I’m taking classes, plural, not just a two-credit elective class that will barely even be in session. It’s the only way I could talk him into letting me stay in New York for the summer.

Not that he’s providing much financial assistance. I’ve already gotten the whole I’m not going to pay for you to live in New York for the summer when you can live in North Carolina for free speech. Don’t get me wrong—he’s paying my regular-year tuition, for which I’m completely grateful. But he’s not exactly excited at the prospect of paying additional for me to be in New York over the summer. I don’t want to push my luck and risk him withdrawing my tiny for-emergencies-only allowance.

“School’s good?” he asks.

“It’s great,” I lie. “The screenwriting guy’s a big deal from Hollywood, and it’s so cool to meet someone who’s actually been there, done that.”

“But you hate Hollywood.”

I sit on the side of David’s bed, trying not to remember that the last time I saw the bed there was a trampy redhead writhing all over it with my boyfriend.

“I don’t hate Hollywood. I’m just more into the indie artistic scene than the blockbuster stuff.”

“And thank God for that,” he grumbles. “It was hard enough to see you go off to NYU, much less UCLA.”

“So how are things down there?” I interrupt before he can go on about how I nearly moved across the country and left him behind. Never mind that he didn’t hesitate to leave me behind in every way that counted.

“Home is good, really good,” he was saying.

Even after all this time, I hate that he calls North Carolina home. But I let it go, since it’s not a fight I’m ever going to win.

“Things have been slowing down a bit at the firm,” he continues, “so I’ve had more time to spend with Amy and Chris.”

I flop back on the bed and lock my eyes on the ceiling. I know he’s waiting for me to ask about my stepmom and stepbrother, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

The silence grows and grows until he finally breaks it. “You’re too old for this, you know,” my dad says softly. “It’s been three and a half years since we’ve become a family, and the only one holding out is you.”

“Oh, has it been three and a half years already? I guess that makes sense since we just passed the four-year anniversary of Mom’s death.”

My dad is silent on the other end, although I don’t know if it’s because he’s mad, hurting, or just plain fed up with his “struggling” daughter. Eventually he says, “Your anger was fine when you were eighteen, Steffie, but seeing an adult woman continue to act out is ridiculous.”

“Getting snippy with my father on the phone isn’t acting out, it’s just a part of being alive.”

“I’m not talking about this conversation. I’m talking about your little rebellion—”

Oh, here we go.

“—you know, the hair, the piercings, the … black.”

“Not a dirty word, Dad.”

“I miss my little girl.”

“Well, she’s gone,” I snap. “She up and left when you got married six months after we buried my mother and you moved me to the land of fried chicken and Bible groups two months before high school graduation. Your little girl bailed when her whole life fell apart.”

I don’t even bother mentioning Caleb’s name. My dad doesn’t know that part of the puzzle, and never will. Not a conversation you have with your father.

“Steffie …”

“I’ve gotta go.”

I hit the end button and let my hand fall to my side. And he wonders why I so often let his calls go to voicemail.

I get up to go get my laptop to start that stupid film project with Pretty Boy, even though all I really want to do is curl up on the bed and cry.

I exit the bedroom, and I’m about to thank David for giving me privacy when I see her.

The same redhead who totally turned my personal life upside down is currently trying to swallow David’s tongue, and his hands are all over her huge ass.

I gape at them for a second, though neither is aware of me.

“Seriously?” I finally manage.

“Hey, Steph,” Leah says with a friendly smile, and I kind of want to spit in her eye because she screwed my boyfriend.

“Seriously?” I say again.

Ethan runs a thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping away the smear of plum lipstick that Leah McWhore has marked him with.

“Steph, you remember Leah.”

“I remember Leah’s bare ass,” I say, folding my arms over my stomach and hoping I don’t puke.

“Well, she’s kind of got a housing crisis of her own, and I said she could crash here. But don’t worry, she’ll be sleeping with me, so the living room’s all yours.”

Oh. Hell. No.

I twirl my finger in the air, gesturing at our awkward little powwow. “You want to live together? All three of us?”

David shrugs a little, and I try to remember that I was the one who begged him to let me stay here, but what I really want to do is punch Leah in the ovaries.

“It’ll be fun! Modern roommates.”

Yeah. Fun. Like Pap smear fun. Like paper cut fun. Like PMS fun. Like …

I can’t believe the thought is actually crossing my mind, but suddenly hanging out with Ethan Price all summer isn’t sounding so bad in comparison with watching David paw at his new toy.

Then I remember that, gorgeous or not, Ethan Price is the type of guy who probably waxes his chest and irons his Gucci underwear.

I think I’m better off with my ex.

Chapter Six

Ethan

“Ethan, are you even listening?”

I pretend to jolt awake from a deep sleep as I look up at my pissy-looking film partner. “Hell, no,” I say, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “You’ve been babbling about old movies for the better part of an hour. Honestly, I don’t think a vegetable would still be listening.”

Stephanie gives me one of those long drawn-out breaths that only girls know how to do and slowly puts the cap back on her dry-erase marker before putting her fist on her hip like an irritated teacher.

Although I can’t really remember any teachers who wore tank tops the way she does.

“What the hell have you been doing if not listening?” she asks.

I shrug. “Counting your earrings. It looks like you have eight in your right ear, but I feel like that can’t be right because your ears are creepily small.”

She stares at me. “You think I have small ears.”

I give her a sympathetic smile. “You do. But on the plus side, those babies,” I say, gesturing at her boobs in as non-pervy a way as possible, “are blue-ribbon worthy.”

“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “I’m trying to give you a crash course in cinematic history, and you’re checking out my ears and my tits?”

“Mostly just the ears,” I lie.

I’m fully prepared for her to lose her shit at this point. It’s the third day in a row we’ve reserved one of the private study rooms in the library, and most of the time has been spent with her listing movie after director after screenplay while pointing at some scribbles on a whiteboard. My interest level was maxed out five minutes into the first day.

To be fair, it isn’t just because Stephanie is a horrible lecturer, although she’s pretty bad. Mostly it’s because, despite making every effort to spend the summer away from my parents and my normal social life, I’m finding that my mind doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Instead of concentrating on Stephanie’s movies, I’ve been focusing on my own private movie.

Even leaving Olivia out of it, learning of my mother’s affair was enough to turn this summer completely to shit.

My pulse gives an angry jump at the memory. It’s bad enough that I’ve seen my own mother in a situation in which a mother should never be seen by a son. Ever. So much worse is the fact that I saw her with a man not my father. (Not that her with my father would have been any better—both images require industrial-strength brain bleach.) Throw in a couple of flashes of my dad’s ignorant and happy face, and you have your basic horror film, playing over and over in my mind. Stephanie’s lectures are simply not cutting it as a distraction.

Desperate for something—anything—to get my mind off home, I opt to turn my attention toward someone else’s troubles.

“So, how’s living with the ex?” I ask.

“Oh, you know,” she says slowly, lowering herself into the chair across from me. “It’s actually been awesome.”

“Really?” I ask, a little thrown off balance.

“Totally. The only trouble is, I can’t decide what the best part about the whole situation is. Is it sleeping on a couch that smells like pot and beer while I listen to his new girlfriend scream that she’s going to ride her private hipster cowboy? Or is it having said girlfriend ask if I have any ‘spare birth control pills’ she can borrow?”

“Sounds dreamy,” I say, oddly charmed by her thick sarcasm.

“Well, if you wanna change places, just let me know.”

“And let you borrow my silver spoon? I think not.”

Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head a little and looks at me. For a second it’s as though she gets me. Like she knows I’m full of shit and my life is one big mess beneath all the luxury brands and trust funds.

Neither one of us has mentioned that weird night at the party. It’s like it never took place, which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think too often about what she felt like against me. About the way she looked at me and saw me.

Jesus, Ethan, I think, rubbing a hand over my neck. You’re a uterus away from turning into a complete chick.

I break eye contact first, before I do something stupid. Like spill my guts to a complete stranger.

Instead I jerk my chin toward her notebook. “So all that movie stuff you’ve been rambling about. You’ve got it all written down there, right? The whiteboard presentation is just an ego boost?”

She fiddles with one of her billion earrings. “You caught me. There’s nothing I like better than having to explain basic story structure to a spoiled brat who’s staring at my boobs.”

“And your ears,” I add, gesturing. “And if you don’t want the ta-tas ogled, maybe you should cover them up.”

Stephanie shrugs, doing fantastic things to the twins in question. “It’s the middle of summer. And I’ve got better things to worry about than horny frat boys.”

I shoot a finger pistol at her. “That you do. Like worrying about horny hipster cowboys whose privates went a-wanderin’ with a girl who now wants to share birth control.”

Without a single change in expression, she closes her notebook and moves to put it in her backpack. “Well, this has been a great session. A good use of my time, and fun.”

“Hey, hold on,” I say, reaching out to grab her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention—I just can’t concentrate in here, ya know? Libraries and summers do not go together.”

“They do when you sign up for a summer elective course. What else would we be doing right now?”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She totally is.

I shake my head. “You know, for a creative arts student, you have zero imagination. You hungry? Let me feed you in exchange for the riveting discourse on films of the eighties.”

“I could eat,” she says. “But don’t even think about taking me to one of those uppity multi-course, tiny-plate monstrosities.”

I roll my eyes. “No prob. I’ll just cancel all the dozens of reservations I made in hopes that my film partner would want to go to an elaborate ten-course meal at four in the afternoon.”

“You’re very sarcastic.”

“Me?” I ask. “Honey, your sense of humor is drier than astronaut food.”

Her eyes drop to the table, and too late I realize that I’ve been holding her wrist for waaaay too long. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that her skin is really soft, and that she smells kind of good. It still takes me a full ten seconds to finally remove my hand.

I’m annoyed to realize that my fingers feel hot, and the way she snatches her arm back makes me think I’m not the only one getting ridiculously worked up over a little chaste physical contact.

Ten minutes later, the two of us are walking across campus toward the Slaughtered Lamb, which is one of my favorite restaurants near the university. Plus it has a sort of kitschy, zombie-type vibe, so my mini-Morticia buddy will fit right in.

“Ugh, I hate New York in the summer,” Stephanie mutters, plucking at that tiny tank top. I start to suggest that she pluck just a tiny bit harder, to see if those straps can do their designated job, but then I remember that I got a near-boner from touching her arm. The last thing I need right now is to see her boobs.

Even if I am becoming embarrassingly obsessed with them.

I push the thought away.

“So why’d you stick around, then?” I ask, opening the door and ushering her into the pub.

“What?”

“Why not go home for the summer? Or is the class that cool?”

“I’m excited about the class.”

She says it with all of the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, and I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Excited enough to put up with this shitty-ass weather? Excited enough to be living on your cheating ex’s couch?”

Stephanie rolls her shoulders and pinches her lips together in the universal girl language for I don’t wanna talk about it.

The place is mostly empty this early, and we find a table in the corner where we can spread out all of her boring notes, should it come to that.

Except, oddly, I’m finding I don’t really care about the project at the moment. Maybe it’s just that misery loves company or something, because I find myself continuing our conversation.

“So where’s home?” I ask.

She buries her face in the menu, and for a second I think she’s not going to answer. Finally she says, “I’m from Rhode Island.”

Progress. Although I don’t know why I care. “What’s that like in the summer? Better than here?”

Another beat of silence. “It’s been a few years.”

I bat the menu out of her hands so I can see her face. A little cavemanlike of me, perhaps, but it’s not like she’s facing hard menu choices. It’s nachos or chicken wings. “You haven’t been home in a few years?”

“I guess it’s not technically home. Not anymore.”

I’ve had more rewarding conversations with a doorknob, but I press on anyway. “So home would be …?”

She lets out a huff. “My dad lives in North Carolina now.”

“So … North Carolina’s your home.”

“No.”

“Ah,” I say. I let the word carry a good deal of meaning. As though I know what she means by it. And, strangely enough, I think I might. Maybe the whole home-is-not-actually-home thing is part of what’s made her so grumpy.

“What are you, a psych major now?” she snaps.

“Nope. Just seen all the classic teen movies. Parent-related angst is a given,” I say, standing to go fetch us a couple of beers and something to eat.

“Well, those are apparently the only movies you’ve seen!” she calls after me.

Since my back is to her, I don’t have to bother hiding my smile. Everything about Stephanie Kendrick should be a total boner killer, but I kind of like it.

Or when you need a reminder that perhaps somebody else’s life sucks worse than yours and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.

“What’s up, Price?” the bartender says as we do one of those elaborate handshakes that I hope to God we’ll grow out of sooner rather than later. “Who’s your new girl?”

“Not my girl,” I say, pulling out my wallet and removing a few bills. “School partner.”

Steven’s eyes roam back to Stephanie and linger. “Not your type, but I’d hit it.”

My fingers tense briefly and I give him a stiff smile. I hate guys like this. “How about two Brooklyn lagers and some nachos?”

“You want chicken on the nachos?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say. I still haven’t figured out if Stephanie’s a vegetarian, and I don’t want to risk a lecture about animal cruelty along with another lecture about Clark Gable and those two Hepburn chicks.

“I’ll bring the food over,” Steven says, pushing two beers across the bar at me. His eyes are still locked on Stephanie.

“Yeah, I bet you will,” I mutter, heading back to Stephanie, who’s gone and brought out her godforsaken notebook again.

I try to listen as she explains something about the three-act structure of a screenplay, I really do. But while I had my back turned, she apparently put something shiny on her lips that makes them look suspiciously … appealing.

Knock it off, Price. She probably has Kill them all tattooed on her ass or something.

I’m actually half relieved when Steven comes over with the nachos, but the relief is short-lived, because the rock-star-wannabe bartender totally has his ass in my face as he gets all up in Stephanie’s business.

“Hey, darlin’, I haven’t seen you around here much,” he says.

“Really?” she asks, eyes wide. “That’s weird. You haven’t seen me in here with my sorority sisters? I normally love the frat-boy scene.”

“You’re in a sorority?” Steven asks, Stephanie’s brand of humor sailing right over his greasy head. “You know, there’s another place around the corner … a little less crowded. I’m off on Thursday night, if you and your girls wanna …”

She makes a little sound of dismay. “Ugh, this is totally awkward, but I’m actually kind of with someone.”

“You are?”

Steven and I ask it at the exact same time, except I didn’t mean to, so instead I stuff a huge wad of nachos in my face and hope Stephanie didn’t notice I chimed in.

“Yeah,” she’s saying, “it’s kind of a new thing, but I feel really good about it, so …”

Steven flexes his inked-up arms ever so not-subtly. “He doesn’t have to know.”

She takes a sip of beer, licking some of the foam off her lips, and now they’re shiny and beer-flavored and I’m inexplicably hot as hell.

“Actually, he would know,” Stephanie says, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Seeing as he’s sitting right here.”

I probably could have played it off if I wasn’t eating the nachos five chips at a time in an effort to keep from looking interested in this girl’s love life.

But as it is, I am stuffing my face, and her casual declaration catches me by surprise. A little chip breaks off awkwardly and lodges itself somewhere in the back of my throat. I down half the beer before the tickling sensation subsides.

They’re both staring at me, Steven in surprised irritation and Stephanie in serene innocence.

I narrow my eyes slightly at her. You. Will. Pay.

She shrugs.

It’s either play along or deal with Steven hitting on her. Since the second option sucks, I find myself giving him a tepid smile. “Sorry, man,” I say. “The lady’s taken.”

He hitches his thumb toward the bar. “But you said she wasn’t your girl.”

Stephanie’s palms slam down on the table as she half rises out of her chair, giving me a look of death.

“I knew it,” she hisses. “You’re ashamed of me, Ethan Price. Because I don’t wear pearls and can’t afford Chanel, and can’t ride dressage.…”

I involuntarily lean back in my chair trying to escape the scorned non-girlfriend on steroids.

And what the fuck is dressage?

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” She’s still going. “I knew those lavender bath bubbles weren’t for your ‘special relaxation time.’ You’ve been screwing someone else!”

“Dude,” Steven says quietly. “Lavender bath bubbles?”

I look up at him in desperation, and we’re suddenly on the same side. “You want her?”

“Hell, no, dude. But you better talk her down before she scares off the other customers.”

Steven gets back behind the bar in double time, and Stephanie slowly lowers herself back into the chair.

I stare at her in wonder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m starting to get why your ex is an ex. You’re a nightmare.”

She gives me a cheeky smile. “I know, right? Acting’s never been my passion, but it’s always been fun.”

I shake my head and shove the nachos in her direction. “Whatever. Just leave me out of your little charade next time. I thought you were going to cut my balls off.”

She’s gone perfectly still, her eyes fixed on me without really seeing me.

“Are you having another episode?” I whisper, leaning forward.

“A charade,” she says, getting a crazed look in her eyes. “That’s brilliant.”

I take another sip of beer. “Yeah, yeah, your little performance saved you from a date with a slimy bartender, I get it.”

“No, for the project,” she says, shoving away her glass and plate and reaching for her backpack.

I watch as her hand scrambles for several seconds before coming up with a pen. She’s writing at warp speed, not even glancing up at me, so I take the opportunity to eat more nachos. Smaller bites this time, in case she decides to tell the entire bar that she’s pregnant with my demon baby.

Finally she looks up with a beaming smile, and for a second she actually looks pretty instead of totally scary.

She holds up her notebook for me to read, and then her smile slips a little when I don’t respond.

“Help me out here,” I say, squinting at her messy scribbles.

She taps a black fingernail at the top of the page where she’s written PYGMALION in big block letters. “You see?”

I finish my beer and reach for hers. “Do I look like I see?”

Ah, there’s that familiar scowl. “Did your parents care nothing for the performing arts?” she asks.

“Goth, just tell me what you’re so manic about.”

She sets the notebook down and pulls the nachos toward her, scooping up more than her fair share of the guacamole. “So Pygmalion goes way back to ancient Greece—”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I mutter. “Give me the short version, I’m begging you.”

“There’s this guy, that’s Pygmalion. And he’s a sculptor who, for some reason I forget, isn’t real big on women at the moment—”

“Maybe because a woman loudly announced that he uses lavender bath bubbles.”

She snatches her beer back. “Anyway, so even though he’s off flesh-and-blood chicks for a while, he’s apparently open to creating a statue of a woman. And apparently he’s really good at what he does, because the statue is a total babe, and he falls in love with her. Then, blah blah, some goddess or other grants him a wish, and the statue comes to life.”

Stephanie takes two big sips of beer and gives me a wide smile as though to ?

I don’t.

“So tell me what an ancient dude falling in love with a rock has to do with our project,” I say.

She purses her lips in consideration. “Actually, I think it was ivory, not rock—”

“Stephanie. Some mercy?”

She takes a deep breath. “Right. So … the story of Pygmalion doesn’t stop there. It’s been used in poems and paintings for centuries, but the most notable version is a play written by George Bernard Shaw—”

“Is this really the short version?”

“—which becomes a movie. And then it becomes the inspiration for a bunch of other movies about men falling in love with women that they’ve created.”

I’m not gonna lie. Good student or not, I’m struggling to keep up with the girl. “Okay, so you’re telling me that there are multiple movies about men who build a female statue out of rock—ivory—and fall in love with it?”

She scribbles something else in her notebook. “No, that’s the beauty of film. There have been a bunch of reimaginings. The most classic is My Fair Lady, of course, but there’s also Pretty Woman, She’s All That … all movies in which the guy dresses the woman as someone she’s not in order to fulfill a bet or some sort of social obligation. You know. A charade.”

Finally the pieces kind of fit into place. “Okay, I’m with you so far. All we have to do is transcribe your little monologue there about how the Pygmalion story has permeated Hollywood, and then put our own fresh take on it?”

“Exactly.”

I catch Steven’s eye and gesture for two more beers. “All right, I’m in. What’s our spin on the story going to be?”

Stephanie stuffs a stack of nachos into her face and chews thoughtfully. “Well, it’s like this, partner. Seeing as I’ve done all of the thinking up until now, it’s about time you put that pretty, overgelled head to work. Our screenplay idea? That’s gonna be your contribution.”

Chapter Seven

Stephanie

“Steph, you sure you don’t want to watch the movie?”

I look up from the tiny kitchen table where I’ve been working on Ethan’s and my film project for the last hour. Not that I want to work on the project, or even need to, since it’s not due for a couple of months.

But the alternative is cuddling up on the couch with David and Leah while they watch some sort of indie-drama nonsense. I’m all for independent films, but I hate the ones that wear “indie” like a big middle finger to Hollywood. Small budgets are no excuse for producing garbage, and judging from the number of angsty montages in this one, it’s pure, lazy filmmaking crap.

That, and the couch isn’t that big. Joining them would mean sitting hip to hip with David as he occasionally gropes Leah while making sexy eyes at me.

It’s been like that lately. I don’t think the guy wants me back, but he seems to be grossly turned on by having his current girlfriend and ex-girlfriend in the same space. It’s totally skeeving me out, but I’m trying to be adult about it.

Although if this is adult, it sucks balls.

Back in high school—back before everything happened—I used to imagine what college would be like. I pictured late-night study groups and gossiping with my girlfriends, beer pong and parties, and maybe a few cute boyfriends here and there so that when I finally met the one, I’d know what I was doing.

My vision wasn’t even close to reality.

Instead, my social circle consists of a handful of fellow film nerds, a cheating ex-boyfriend turned roommate, and now a beefcake of a rich boy who probably plays rugby and drinks wine coolers in his spare time.

I frown and push my notebook away. I’ve been thinking about Ethan Price a good deal more than I’d like lately. As a film partner, he’s absolutely wretched. But he hasn’t been half bad company. For a second there in that pub, it almost felt like we were friends. Or at least as close to friends as a punk arts student and a whitewashed business student can be.

Because, charming or not, the guy doesn’t know the first thing about me.

You could go home, he said.

No, Price, that’s the one thing I can’t do.

David and Leah could start having sex on the couch I was supposed to sleep on, and I still wouldn’t go home.

And judging from the way David’s hand is now fully palming Leah’s boob, that scenario isn’t nearly as far-fetched as I might wish.

There’s a knock at the door, and all three of us look at each other in expectation. But apparently nobody is expecting a visitor, because Leah and David merely turn their eyes back to the television.

“I’ve got it,” I mutter. For as little as I’m paying David to stay here, the least I can do is play butler.

I stand on my toes to look through the peephole, as is an automatic reaction for any sane female living in a non-doorman building in New York City.

My heart jolts a little, and I drop back to the flat of my feet. Then I rise again to get a second look, just to be sure.

Yup, still him.

“Who is it?” David asks.

I ignore David and slowly open the door, giving my mind time to recover from the tricks it’s playing on my eyes.

But there are no tricks.

Ethan Price is standing on the other side of my door, looking 100 percent out of place in his unwrinkled khaki shorts and blue-and-white button-down.

“Hey, partner,” he says with an easy grin. “Can I come in?”

I don’t move.

“Steph?” David asks.

I mutely move aside, letting Ethan step into the tiny apartment, and fiercely resist the urge to run around and pick up the random piles of clothes, the empty beer bottles, and the all-around filth that results when three people share seven hundred square feet.

“Whoa, it’s like a J. Crew catalog just came to life,” I hear Leah whisper.

“Ethan, welcome to my—”

“Home,” David says with an easy smile as he stands and comes to face Ethan. “I’m Steph’s roommate. And you are …?”

“Ethan Price.”

The two shake hands, and I want to karate-chop their hands and request that they not exchange words. My two worlds are colliding, and it’s … weird.

I notice that Ethan doesn’t identify his role in my life, and from the slight narrowing of his eyes, I see that David notices as well.

David was a semi-jealous boyfriend—ironic, since he’s the one who strayed. I just hope to God he isn’t going to prove to be a jealous ex as well.

“David, you’re missing the movie,” Leah says, oblivious as ever to the slight tension in the room.

Ethan catches my eye and wiggles his eyebrows. “The foreign vagina?” he mouths, careful not to let David see.

I ignore him. “How did you find me?”

“When you were on the phone with your bank the other day, you gave them your updated mailing address.”

“And what, you memorized it?”

He taps his temple. “Steel trap, Kendrick. Nothing escapes.”

“And yet you’re apparently selective about what goes in,” I mutter, thinking of the futile hours I spent rambling at him only to realize that he hadn’t absorbed a single fact.

David is still watching us carefully. “Dude, you’re stalking her?”

“At least I’m not cheating on her,” Ethan says, never losing the white smile.

I pinch Ethan’s arm hard before moving between them. “David, you don’t get to be protective anymore. And Ethan, why don’t we sit down and discuss the project.”

Translation: Let’s sit down and you can explain why you’re invading my personal space.

David reluctantly goes back to Leah on the couch, and Ethan joins me at the kitchen table. There are four chairs, and he needlessly picks the one closest to me, rather than the one across from me, which makes way more sense.

“What is going on?” I hiss.

His eyes skim my face briefly. “You still wear all that black stuff on your eyes, even when you’re sitting at home in sweats?”

I flutter my eyelashes. “Well, one never knows when one can expect gentleman company.”

Actually, the truth is, I feel naked without my eye makeup. It’s stupid, but I always imagine that the gunmetal-gray shadow and the black eyeliner are my shields against prying eyes.

A sympathetic expression flits across Ethan’s face, and I have the oddest sensation that he’s on to me.

“So I had an idea for our screenplay,” he says, reaching out to fiddle with one of my earrings.

I jerk back at the unexpected touch. “What are you doing?” What game are you playing? “Continuing the charade from the other day,” he whispers. His fingers move down to my collarbone, and I get goose bumps. I shoot him a murderous look, but he’s glancing at David, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the two of them are having a male staring contest like a couple of simpleminded bucks.

“What charade?” I ask stupidly, my brain struggling to process anything as the pad of his finger finds the sensitive skin along my neck.

“The one where I pretend to be your sexy stallion of a boyfriend to protect you from creeps,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t need protecting from David. Five minutes ago he was playing with Leah’s basketball boobs,” I whisper, grateful that Leah plays her movies obnoxiously loud.

“Well, he doesn’t like having me here.”

“Neither do I,” I hiss. But I sneak a look over my shoulder all the same. Sure enough, David has lost all interest in the movie and in Leah and is watching us like a jealous boyfriend.

“Don’t piss him off.” I turn back to Ethan. “The last thing I need is him kicking me out because he thinks I have a new boyfriend.”

But Ethan doesn’t respond. Instead he’s staring at me with this lovey-dovey expression that I know is all for David’s sake but which kind of makes me feel fluttery anyway, and I finally bat his hand away from where it’s playing with the tips of my hair.

“You have two minutes to explain your new screenplay idea to me, then I’ll take two minutes to tell you why it sucks. Which means you should be back on your way to Park Avenue within five minutes.”

“I don’t live on Park.”

“Madison?”

“No.”

“Lex?”

Ethan remains silent, and I give a smug smile. I did my online research. The Price family is old money. Really old money. There’s only a handful of streets that they’re likely to live on.

“I don’t live with my parents anymore,” he says, out of nowhere.

I reach for my water bottle. “Do they live on Park?”

His eyes fall on the table. “Yeah.”

This time I don’t feel quite as smug, even though I’m so right it kills me. Because instead of looking smug or gloating about his family’s ridiculously rich zip code, he looks … embarrassed.

“So the screenplay?” I prod.

We’re both ignoring David now, although I can tell by the crescendo of music in the background that the movie is gearing up for its angsty finale. Leah is starting to sniffle, and I know she’s finally figuring out what I’ve known since the opening credits: that this movie isn’t going to have a happy ending. That’s the thing about indie romantic “comedies”: the only one laughing at the end of the movie is the screenwriter.

Ethan’s hand goes back to my hair and he tugs slightly to get my attention. “Okay,” he says. “So I went through the list of Pygmalion-themed movies you gave me and watched them all—”

“You did?” I interrupt. I expected him to go searching on the Internet for the CliffsNotes version.

“Yep.”

“How many did you stay awake through?”

He runs his tongue over his front teeth, considering. “Some of them were pretty bad.”

I don’t deny it. Some of them are pretty bad.

“And that one with the singing? God help me—”

I raise a finger in objection. “Do not touch My Fair Lady.”

“Okay, well anyway … the movies have been set in all sorts of genres and age groups, but so far there’s nothing set on a college campus.”

I shrug. “So? There actually aren’t many movies set on college campuses. Not all moviegoers go to college, so it’s not entirely relatable.”

“Neither is shit set in space, but the nerds are still getting their sci-fi fixes.”

I rub my temples. The guy is choosing now to take up an interest in cinema?

The apartment goes suddenly silent, and I realize that the movie is over. David and Leah peel themselves off the couch—my bed, yay—and turn to stare at us curiously.

“Night, Steph,” Leah says with her usual vapid smile.

“Night,” I mutter. Even though I’m totally over David, it sort of chafes that I’m expected to be civil to the woman who’s sleeping with him, especially since I didn’t even have sex with him (though I was moving in that direction, truly).

Guess he wasn’t able to wait.

“You going to bed soon, Steph?” David asks.

“Yup, just need to give my ‘bed’ time to lose the scent of your ass,” I say sweetly.

But David’s not listening to me and is back to giving Ethan man-glares.

“Hey, Dave, let me ask you something,” Ethan says, draping his hand on the back of my chair as he rocks his own chair back on two legs. “Before you hooked up with the ginger, did Stephanie ever make this weird bobcat noise when you guys, were, you know …”

“Ethan,” I warn.

He ignores me. “She swears she doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but it’s kind of hot and distracting at the same time. I never know if she’s in heat or—”

I kick at the legs of his chair, hoping to send him sprawling on his ass, but he sees me move and clamps a hand on my knee before I can make contact.

David, thank God, opts not to engage and retreats to the bedroom, closing the door with a communicative slam.

“You happy now?” I say, glaring at Ethan.

He shrugs. “Revenge for your comment about the bath bubbles. Plus I can’t stand dudes like that—the ones who treat a girl like shit but still try to mark their territory when a new lion’s on the scene.”

“Okay, what is with all of the Animal Planet references tonight? First the bobcat, now the lion … and you’re hardly a new lion on the scene, by the way. You’re more like—”

His fingers tighten briefly on my knee, and I completely lose my train of thought.

“Like what?”

“Never mind,” I say, ordering myself to break eye contact. Except I don’t.

His hand slowly slides off my leg, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that it lingers. Not that I think the guy’s into me or anything, but this isn’t the first time he’s accidentally-on-purpose touched me and not moved away immediately. And at that stupid party, I would have guessed he was a second away from kissing me.

I feel like I’m in the middle of some game and nobody’s told me the rules.

He clears his throat and gestures at my fridge. David’s fridge. “You mind if I grab a beer?”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. Anything to get him to stop looking at me just for a second so I can catch my breath.

“So, this Pygmalion thing,” he says, removing the bottle cap and putting it in the garbage. “I’m thinking that we should deal with college-age kids. It’s what we know, and it hasn’t been done in this Pygmalion context.”

I gesture for him to continue, even though I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear an exact duplicate of She’s All That, which was set on a high school campus. When it comes to movies, high school and college campuses are almost interchangeable. Same drama. Same schoolwork. Same insecurities. Same hormones.

I realize that I’ve been studying the pattern of golden hair on his forearms, and jerk my gaze away. His arms, Stephanie? Really?

He’s still going on about this screenplay idea, and my ears catch on one particular phrase. A crucial phrase.

“Hold up. Did you just say that the Pygmalion character of this pretend movie is a preppy rich kid and the girl is a short, edgy type with big boobs?”

He grins, although it’s not his usual shit-eating don’t-give-a-fuck grin, it’s a now-you’re-getting-it gloat.

“Exactly,” Ethan says, leaning back against the tiny kitchen counter.

I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to go ahead and ignore the incredibly shortsighted idea to base our characters on personal experience, and tell you to hurry up and get to the Pygmalion part.”

“Well, I’d be there already if you hadn’t interrupted, but it’s like this. Our incredibly handsome, smart, and all-around good guy of a hero needs a girlfriend.”

“What’s the motivation?”

Ethan’s eyes flit away from mine, and for a second he looks nervous. Even more alarming, he looks guilty. What am I missing here?

He clears his throat again. “Well, I was thinking … what if this guy had been telling his parents that he’s been seeing someone?”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because his ex-girlfriend is the daughter of a close family friend, and his parents are relentless about having them get back together. Good for business and all that …”

I watch him carefully. Warily. “And he’s resistant to get back together with this girl because …?”

His light brown eyes find mine. “Doesn’t matter. We’re done.”

I expect him to be indignant. Sullen. Annoyed. Instead he looks … sad. And all of a sudden I feel in over my head.

Ethan’s not talking about the movie character. He’s talking about himself.

Even worse, I want to ask if he wants to talk about it. I want to be the person he wants to talk to.

But I don’t ask. Instead, I take us back to safer territory. “So he needs a fake girlfriend to get them off his back,” I say. “Surely such a hunk of beefcake would have dozens of female friends anxious for the role of girlfriend.”

“Too anxious for the role of girlfriend,” Ethan mutters.

“You poor, in-demand baby.”

“So you’ll help me? Play the girlfriend?”

And just like that, we drop the facade of the movie altogether. We’re talking about him. And me. We’re talking about us even though there is no us.

I gape at him. “Are you freaking kidding me? You were for real with that garbage?”

He moves quickly, pushing back from the counter and sitting back down beside me. He’s not touching me, but he may as well be for all the heat he’s giving off. I’m annoyed that I’ve noticed.

The last thing I need is to be aware of Ethan Price. Particularly when he’s gone off the deep end about a real-life Pygmalion scenario, one I don’t think I’m going to like. At all.

“You have to admit it’s a good idea,” he says. “Think about how much better our screenplay will be if we can base it on our own experience.”

“To say nothing of what you’ll get out of it,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “If you want to be a modern-day Pygmalion, have at it, but find some other girl to be your stone statue.”

“Ivory,” he corrects.

I kick him in the shin, and he grins.

“Seriously, find someone else,” I say again, not wanting him to smile at me. Not wanting to smile back.

His grin fades slowly, and he puts his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands through his hair. “I’m going to sound like the biggest prick for saying this, but I don’t know any other girls who won’t get the wrong idea.”

I give him a sympathetic look. “It must be hard. A city with a population over eight million, and not a single female who won’t swoon over you?”

“Sure, there’s one,” he says with a shrug. “You.”

I’m not entirely sure that’s true about me not swooning. Especially when he touches me. But he’s got a point. He’s not my type. And I’m not his. Still …

“What about someone not interested in any men?”

He rolls his shoulders. “A lesbian would work. But I don’t know any. And if I’m going to do this, I need someone I know, at least a little.”

“And you think I’m your best bet? You barely know me.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I press on. “Come on, you can’t tell me that you don’t have buckets of rich, brainy female friends.”

“Sure, but the ones I’m closest to are friends with my ex. The others …”

“Would be too eager to take on the role for real?” I fill in.

He gives a guilty smile.

Gross. There really are girls ready to crawl all over him.

“Why not just tell your parents that you and the fake girlfriend broke up?” I ask. He sighs. “Because then they’d be back on their Olivia-Ethan reunion kick. Plus there’s all this family obligation crap coming up, and Olivia will be there …”

Bingo.

“And you’re not over her.”

He winces, and I know I’ve broken some sort of guy rule by even going there, but for God’s sake, it’s written all over his face.

“You’re so pathetic,” I whisper, not even bothering to hide my smile.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Shut up, Kendrick.”

“I can already tell you’ll write super-sweet cards on romantic holidays.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Hell, no,” I say. “First of all, nobody would believe I’m your girlfriend.”

“Why not?”

I gesture down at my combat boots, baggy sweats, and skull tank top before putting a hand behind my ear to highlight my multiple piercings.

His smile grows wider, and he gets a calculating look in his eye. “Has the film student not seen any of her precious Pygmalion-themed movies?”

“I have …,” I say warily.

He leans a little closer. “Then you’ll know that one of the hallmarks of such a story is the creation of the new woman. Whether it be from stone to flesh, or Cockney flower girl to lady, or angry goth to debutante …”

I feel a little flash of panic as I begin to understand. “You want to turn me into a socialite?”

He gives me a once-over, his eyes lingering on the important parts, and the temperature spikes about six hundred degrees. “It’s doable.”

Our eyes lock, and for a second I’m wondering if he means it’s doable or I’m doable. His eyes darken, and I suspect he’s at least considering the latter. I really wish I’d thrown a hoodie on over the shirt I’m wearing.

He reaches for his beer, and my eyes ogle his damn arm again. His arm. Suddenly a hoodie’s not going to be good enough. I need a freaking parka.

“Nobody will believe we’re interested in each other,” I say, pouring derision into my voice and hoping he’ll read it correctly as back off.

He doesn’t.

“Kendrick, that’s the easy part.”

“Really?” I say drawling.

“Sure. Watch.”

Before I can register that he’s moved, his hand is around my neck, his fingers playing with the hair that’s escaped my messy ponytail.

“Price, don’t you dare—”

His mouth is on mine in a heartbeat.

My hands immediately go to his chest to push him away—I mean, really—but then his lips move, firm and insistent against mine, and I hesitate.

Which is a big mistake.

He takes advantage of my stillness, and the other hand moves to my cheek so he’s cupping my face. And hell, even a bitter, man-hating rebel can be a sucker for a guy who understands the sexiness in a head-holding kiss.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I let my head tilt just slightly, and my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Ethan takes it as the invitation it is, his lips parting mine as his tongue slips inside my mouth to deepen the kiss.

Eager for more, I kiss him back, and this time our tongues touch and linger. I feel his fingers tighten at the back of my head, pulling me closer. The kiss is long, hot, and hard, and even though I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be happening, I can’t make myself pull away from him.

All thoughts of our school project and my shitty life fade away. There’s only Ethan. Firm hands, warm mouth …

And a really, really loud squeal.

We break apart at the dying-banshee noise coming from the bedroom as Leah and David apparently culminate this evening’s naked activities.

“Is it always like that?” Ethan asks, staring in horror toward the bedroom door.

“They’re usually worse,” I say, trying to keep my voice as nonchalant as his. He sits back in his chair, looking completely unfazed by the kiss, and I feel, well … fazed.

“So, um, what was that?” I ask, gesturing between the two of us.

He gives a sleepy smile. “Proof that chemistry can be faked. A few repeats of that when there’s an audience, and nobody will doubt we’re together.”

I feel a sting of disappointment. Faked. That’s all it was to him—an experiment. Not that I want it to be more, but the guy could at least be out of breath or something.

He’s watching me carefully. “So, you in?”

I grab his beer and take a long swig. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about a gold mine of inspiration for our screenplay? A script based on real life? I’d think you’d be all over that shit.”

Except not all of it would be based on real life. To make this screenplay interesting, these two characters would have to fall for each other. For real.

That bit’s not going to be based on fact.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but there are few things I’d enjoy less than dressing up as your pastel Barbie doll for who knows how long.”

“Just until the end of the class.”

My eyes bug out. “That’s over a month from now.”

His fingers fiddle with the spiral of my notebook. “Right. So just long enough for us to get some good material.”

I narrow my eyes and his guilty expression. “And?”

He smiles sheepishly. “And long enough to get me through a family dinner, my cousin’s wedding, and the annual Hamptons house party my parents throw every year. With you. As my girlfriend.”

“Oh, is that all?” I ask sarcastically.

There’s no way. I don’t care how well he can kiss—there’s nothing on earth that could make me endure the cardigan-wearing set for that long. If I wanted to wear diamonds and heels and play tennis, I would have gone “home” to North Carolina and made nice with my stepmother.

“Come on, you’d be doing me a solid,” Ethan says, giving me a smile that probably has had many a panty dropping over the years. I stay strong.

“I’d rather be dead.”

He gives an exasperated sigh. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Uh-huh.” So what was with the kiss?

“Yup,” he says, shifting slightly to pull something out of his back pocket.

I raise my eyebrows in disinterest at the object. “A fancy-looking key fob? What am I supposed to do with that? It’s plastic and electronic—it wouldn’t even be a makeshift self-defense weapon.”

He glances down at the small gray key in his hand. “Seriously? You see a key and your first thought is self-defense? What kind of fucked-up world do you live in?”

I glare at him. “You try having boobs while walking around alone in New York. Then we’ll talk.”

“Right,” he says, gaze dropping to the anatomy in question. It should bother me that he’s so obvious about being a boob man, but after that kiss I find I’m wanting him to do more than just look at them.

Shit. The realization that I’m this close to lusting after a guy who couldn’t be more wrong for me has me bolting to my feet. He catches the beer before it can topple over, and stands slowly to tower over me.

“You never asked what the key is for,” he says quietly.

“Okay, fine. What’s the stupid key for?”

“My place.”

My stomach feels like it drops a good six inches. “Wait, you want me to pose as your live-in girlfriend? What is this, a Pygmalion version of school-project partners with benefits?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Although it did work for what’s-his-name in Pretty Woman.”

I glower. “Too bad I’m not a prostitute, then.”

Ethan shrugs. “Offer still stands.”

I close my eyes and shake my head slightly. “I’m not even sure I know what the offer is.”

He takes a half step closer to me. “One month. You lose the earrings, the boots, and the attitude, and do your best to convince my parents that we’re crazy in love or something.”

“But—”

He puts a finger over my lips and our eyes lock. “And in return, you can spend the rest of the summer staying in my second bedroom.”

I try to calm my racing brain. An entire month of not sleeping on the couch? Of not impatiently waiting for David and Leah to finish having shower sex so I can go pee?

“Free rent?” I hear myself ask.

Oh my God, I’m not seriously considering this.

Am I?

He gives a little smile and removes his finger. “Let’s just say you can pay me with your charming manners as you woo my parents into getting off my back.”

I dig my front teeth into my bottom lip to keep myself from accepting. Completely changing myself for a guy, even temporarily, just to avoid sleeping on a couch? I’m not that desperate.

No sooner has that thought crossed my mind than the unmistakable sound of rocking furniture comes from the bedroom, followed by a guttural cry that sounds a lot like “Yes! Ride that big, bad donkey dick!”

Donkey dick? Is this seriously happening to me?

Ethan’s eyes are on the ceiling, and he’s trying not to laugh.

“Take me to pound town, baby!” This from the bedroom.

Ethan grins down at me. “Did he ever take you to pound town?”

“Shut it,” I snap, now fully gnawing on my lip. “Would I get my own bathroom?”

“Yup. Even has a separate shower and tub.”

I almost groan. Bubble baths are kind of my weakness. Or at least they were before I moved to Manhattan, where there are entire apartments smaller than a bathtub.

“No funny business,” I say, jabbing a finger at him.

He puts a hand over his chest, looking very Boy Scout. “No funny business in private. Only when there’s an audience. Then we perform.”

I fan myself. “Whew! Can’t handle all the romance in here.”

“You in or out, Kendrick?”

God help me—I think I’m in.

Chapter Eight

Ethan

Sometimes I pride myself on not being a chauvinistic jerk.

I don’t clip my toenails in bed. I don’t grunt when I eat steak. I don’t wear my pants down around my ass because it’s “cool.”

But at the end of the day I’m a guy, and spending Saturday in a beauty parlor is up there on my no-way-in-hell list. I’d rather be on the boat. Or at the gym. Or just about anywhere else.

However, there’s no way I can leave Stephanie to get through this makeover unescorted. I had a hard enough time convincing her that the makeover was necessary in the first place. In the end, I had to whip out my phone and show her pictures of my mom, in pearls. My dad, in a suit. My family home: marble, granite, a winding staircase, and a professional chef.

She got it. One doesn’t mingle with the Price family in combat boots.

And damn, in the light of day, I don’t know why she’s mingling with the Price family at all. As far as ideas go, this is pretty much the worst one since someone decided to skimp on the Titanic’s lifeboats.

The real kicker is that it’s my own fault. Her snotty implications about me not pulling my weight on the project got under my skin, and I watched all those stupid movies, half out of boredom, half to prove her wrong.

And those damn movies caught me at a desperate time. A couple of weeks ago my mom caught me off guard by inviting Olivia to brunch. Surprise! A few days after that Olivia happened to be playing tennis when my dad invited me to play doubles. It didn’t take a genius to see that my parents were playing matchmaker.

I’d been all set to tell them that Olivia and I were done. But then they went and arranged for me to take Olivia out on the boat—alone, like it was some special treat. There was no fucking way.

But neither could I bring myself to tell my parents the truth. It was too humiliating. So I did what any pathetic chicken would do: I told them I had other plans. With a new girlfriend.

Like I said, not my best idea. And I wasn’t joking when I told Stephanie that there were surprisingly few females in my social circle who would work. This is the kind of messed-up shit that happens when you grow up in New York. I don’t care how many people live in this city.

When it comes to the rich—when it comes to the Prices and the St. Claires and the Middletons—the social circles are tight, and the sexual circles tighter.

Which brings me to … I look up from the luxe leather chair where I’ve been staring unseeingly at some trashy magazine.

Stephanie Kendrick.

The hairdresser has already put the black cape around Stephanie’s shoulders, emphasizing the black shit around her eyes and the dark attitude.

“So what am I doing here?” the hairdresser asks, scooping up the length of Stephanie’s hair before letting it drop around her shoulders.

My throat goes slightly dry at the memory of what that hair felt like against my fingers the other night. So damned soft for a girl with rough edges.

And then there was that kiss …

“Yeah, babe, Maddie here wants to know what we’re doing,” Stephanie says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“Ethan, does your mom know you’re here?” Maddie asks, turning to give me a look.

“Nope, and I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t tell her.”

Maddie shrugs. “I didn’t tell her that it was you who messed with my dye trays back when you were six and turned her hair copper, did I? Not gonna tell her that you’re bringin’ a girl around now.”

I give her my best smile, ignoring Stephanie’s look of disgust. I haven’t seen Maddie in years, probably since that time she mentioned when I accidentally-on-purpose messed with the color tray. I seem to remember being irritated that my mom was having a “root crisis” on the same day as my basketball game and dragged me to the damned hair salon while the rest of my friends were headed to get pizza and soda.

More than a decade later, my mom is still coming to Maddie for root crises. Too bad she hasn’t shown my dad the same loyalty she shows her stylist.

I push the thought away. I’ve gotta stop dwelling on this shit, or I’m going to turn out all bitter and mean like Stephanie.

“So, Maddie,” I say, “Stephanie here’s a low-maintenance kind of girl, but she said she wanted to spruce herself up. I think she’s trying to impress me,” I say with a little wink for Maddie.

“Spruce myself up?”

“So what are we thinking?” Maddie asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Well, to start, I was thinking we could get rid of the dark. Take her back to her natural color,” I say, hoping I’m using the right terminology. I’m pretty sure I am. Olivia had talked about her hair. A lot.

But both Stephanie and Maddie are staring at me, so clearly I’ve said something wrong.

“You know … lighter?” I say, feeling a little less confident

“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” Maddie says, setting her mug aside, “we’re dealing with the real thing right here.”

It takes a second to register, and I look at Stephanie’s hair in surprise.

“That’s your real hair color?”

Stephanie gives me a flat look. “I can tell you think it’s pretty.”

“No. Yes. I mean, sure, but it’s so dark.”

Stephanie glances at Maddie. “Do you have my purse handy? I’m going to see if I have a gold star in there I can give Mr. Observant here.”

“Oh, calm down. I guess I just thought, given your penchant for all things dark and dreary, that you’d dyed it.”

“A man without stereotypes. Refreshing.” Stephanie’s tone is light, but she looks pissed.

Shit. Somehow I expected this to be easier. That Maddie would work her magic, turning this dark gremlin into a soft, blond sweetheart.

“So, what are our options, Mad?” I ask, trying to ignore Stephanie.

The hairdresser studies her client for a moment, picking up stray pieces of hair and letting them fall to the shoulders. “We should keep it long. It suits her. But some layers would do a world of good. Maybe add some long bangs to emphasize her eyes?”

As if Stephanie’s eyes need emphasizing. They’re big and bright and blue.

And not at all fucking relevant right now.

“Okay, whatever you think,” I say, suddenly desperate for some space. “Sweetie, you good if I go grab us some coffees while Maddie does her thing?”

“I’m good, love bug dumpling.”

Her words are all sugar, but I know even after turning away that she’s shooting daggers at my back.

I smile at the receptionist on the way out, and she gives me a smile that clearly invites conversation. I almost bite at the offer. She’s tall and slim, with wavy sex-kitten hair. Exactly the type of girl my parents would expect me to bring home. I need Stephanie to look like that, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a few face-framing layers. More like a personality transplant.

This was your idea, dude.

I still don’t know what planted the seed, or what compelled me to show up at her ex-boyfriend’s door like the perviest kind of stalker. I was changing my mind even as I knocked on the door. But she was looking all miserable and fifth-wheel, and I found myself wanting to stick around.

Then I went and fucking kissed her, which mostly was meant to be a way of shutting her up for, like, five seconds, but instead it was kind of … hot. Not exactly what either of us needs.

I take my sweet time getting the coffees, even pretending to window-shop on Fifth Avenue because it’s a lot less terrifying than the estrogen-filled monstrosity that is the hair salon. I have no idea how long these appointments take, so I duck into a bookstore for some air-conditioning, finishing off my coffee before I start drinking Stephanie’s just because it’s there.

Forty-five minutes later I make my way back to the salon. Stephanie is sitting in the waiting area, clearly pissed that I’m late.

“Check your texts much?” she asks.

I pull out my phone, and sure enough, I have about fifty texts from her, all with increasingly violent threats if I don’t get my “preppy ass” back to the salon. But I’m having a hard time concentrating on the fact that Stephanie wants to kill me, because she looks … pretty.

I didn’t understand crap about whatever Maddie had been mumbling, but the woman knows her stuff. Stephanie’s hair is still the shiny dark brown I’ve gotten used to, but instead of hanging like a shield around her face, it falls in tousled waves around her shoulders and is pretty much begging to be spread out on someone’s pillow.

Not mine. But someone’s.

And it’s pretty hard to tell with the glare and the raccoon eyes, but I think there might be a babe under all that angst.

“No coffee?” she asks.

I give a wan smile, and to my surprise she doesn’t throw a fit.

“Whatever,” she says. “You always get my order wrong anyway.”

True.

I pull out a credit card and approach the curious receptionist. I didn’t have to do much coaxing to get Stephanie to let me pay. Not only does she not have the money, but if we are really going to turn our little adventure into a shitty screenplay, I have to be the one driving the makeover, Pygmalion style.

Which isn’t a problem. I’m evolved. I can tolerate a makeup counter and a women’s dressing room.

But I didn’t anticipate the extra hurdle of keeping my motivations focused. I’m here to create a version of Stephanie that will fool my parents. Not a version of Stephanie that appeals to me.

I glance over at her as she’s punching something on my phone and give her a thumbs-up at the haircut. She narrows her eyes and gives this little head wiggle as if to say, What? before shooting me the bird.

So … never mind. Guess I don’t need to worry about falling for this delicate little flower.

“So what now, a couple’s mani/pedi?” she purrs after we head back into the late morning sunshine.

“That’s nails, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well … getting rid of the tar you’ve smudged on your fingers is a given. But not yet.”

“Can we get a snack?” she whines as I drag her toward Bergdorf Goodman. A few Internet searches indicated that it’s the best bet for one-stop cosmetics shopping. And I’m all for one-stop shopping, not only for my own masculinity but also because Stephanie’s makeover stamina is proving to be dismal.

“Aren’t you hot?” I ask, glaring at her baggy black pants as I hold the door open for her.

She ignores me as she steps into Bergdorf’s. “I’m surprised they don’t charge an admission fee,” she says, staring around at the admittedly opulent decor.

Something in my chest tightens briefly, and even though I wasn’t totally paying attention to those stupid movies, the similarities aren’t lost on me. Her overwhelmed expression isn’t unlike Eliza Doolittle’s or that of the Pretty Woman hooker. She’s out of her league and she knows it. And doesn’t like it.

“Think of it as screenplay fodder,” I say, putting a hand on her back and guiding her toward the escalators. “Angry goth girl discovers Fifth Avenue.”

“I’ve been on Fifth Avenue before, fool,” she snaps.

She’s so lovely.

We arrive in the beauty department, or whatever, and for a second I’m paralyzed. There are so many fucking options.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Stephanie whispers, looking enormously pleased that she’s not the only one out of her comfort zone.

I drag her toward one of the counters where a logo looks vaguely familiar, and I smile at the icy blond salesperson.

“My sister needs a new look,” I say, showing her all of my teeth.

“So it’s sister now, is it?” Stephanie mutters.

“Just until you look presentable,” I say under my breath.

Her head jerks just a little, like maybe I’ve hurt her, but she rolls her shoulders and smiles tentatively at the salesperson.

Good girl. Do your part.

Not that she’s doing it for noble reasons. She knows full well that she doesn’t get keys or even directions to my place until this day is over and she looks, well … Price worthy.

The thought is so fundamentally dickhead that I hate myself for a second before reminding myself that it’s all part of the game. A game she’s agreed to.

“Are we thinking just a new pop of color on the lips, or maybe a little bronzer, or …?” The salesperson is looking between the two of us.

I’ve gone Christmas shopping with my parents enough to know what comes next, and I pull my wallet out of my pocket and slide out a credit card.

“Everything,” I say firmly. “Whole new look. Something girlish and sweet. Less … dark.”

“Is that what you want, hon?” the woman asks Stephanie.

“Oh, yes. Girlish and sweet is just what I’ve always wanted.”

But the salesperson is too enamored with the sight of my credit card and the promise of a full makeover to catch Stephanie’s sarcasm, and she’s already rummaging around in all of these tiny little drawers pulling out dozens of minuscule containers.

“So, um, Kendrick …,” I say tentatively.

“Go,” she says on a sigh. “But not so long this time.”

I’m already sliding away, wondering if it’s too early in the day to grab a beer somewhere to get me through the rest of the day.

“By the way, you’re a horrible Pygmalion!” she calls after me.

What does she expect, that I’m going to weigh in on eye shadow colors? And besides, the guy in Pretty Woman just handed over a fat roll of cash for the transformation and told the girl to go shopping. My way is simply the updated version.

I do one better than finding a beer. I find a sports bar that is actually open before noon, and get lost in some European soccer match that I don’t care much about, but which beats watching a makeup application.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket without taking my eyes off the television. I glance down at the text and wince.

Stephanie has been done for five minutes and wants to know, quote, “where the fuck your fucking ass is.” Obviously I’m not the only one who needs a beer. I text her the location of the bar and ask the bartender for a food menu. Women always shop better when they’re fed, and we haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet: clothes.

Stephanie agreed to the hair and makeup adventure but drew the line at allowing me to buy her clothes—a line I’m about to erase.

A few minutes later I recognize a familiar smell of oranges, and am dismayed to realize that apparently I’ve come to recognize Stephanie’s scent. I know it’s her even before I turn my head.

And then I do turn my head, and feel like someone has socked me in the stomach.

The edgy, goth crone is long gone. But Stephanie isn’t pretty.

She’s beautiful.

Which is a good thing for my plan—this girl will absolutely get my mom’s stamp of approval. At least after we get rid of the earrings and the clothes.

But the transformation isn’t so good for me. Because there’s absolutely no room in this plan for lust.

And my dick definitely is into the new Stephanie.

“So?” she asks, sliding onto the barstool next to me and reaching for my beer. “Do I pass?”

I turn back to the TV, ignoring the fact that my pulse is a little jumpier than it was a minute ago. “You’ll do.”

She snickers. “Please. I totally look the part. Did you know this boring beige eye shadow is actually called Gentle?”

“Any chance of that seeping into your personality?” I ask, gesturing for another beer since she’s commandeered mine. We seem to have quickly adopted a habit of helping ourselves to each other’s drinks. It’s oddly comfortable, yet weird because it’s comfortable. I’ve only known the girl for, what, a couple of weeks?

I slide a food menu her way, feeling her eyes on my face.

“What?” I say.

“Are you sure it’s okay? I feel a little …”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, so I turn to glance at her, and … ah, hell, she looks vulnerable. Those wide blue eyes are silently begging me to reassure her that yes, she can pull this off, and yes, she’ll be okay without her black-eyeliner defense against the world.

“You look beautiful,” I say softly.

Despite the fact that she has a shopping bag stuffed full of girly crap, there’s nothing in-your-face about her makeup. I remember once I complained about how long Olivia took to get ready, and she told me that looking natural takes a good deal more skill than looking made up.

If that’s the case, I apparently picked the right salesperson. Stephanie looks glowing, pretty, and fresh, but not obvious. Her eyes are all sparkly but not glittery, and whatever stuff is on her lips is pink and kissable.

“You’re staring, Price,” she says with a little half smile.

“Just trying to make you feel better. You know, you being so scowly and all.”

“At least I’ve still got the boobs,” she says, giving them a little jiggle.

I choke on my beer. “Can you not do that?”

At least not in public. Back at my place, on the other hand …

I push the thought aside, and we order our lunch as she chatters on and on about next year’s Tribeca Film Festival, and I make a mental note to ask Martin how difficult it is to get tickets. There are definite perks to having a godfather who’s won an Oscar.

“So I’ve packed up my stuff at David’s,” she says, pulling a tomato off her club sandwich and discarding it before taking a huge bite of the sandwich.

I shake some ketchup on my plate and dunk a fry. “How’d he take you moving out?”

“He seemed a little appalled that you were his replacement. Kept calling you a bleached gym rat.”

“As opposed to an unshowered art rat?”

“Something like that. Anyway, he gave me all sorts of warnings about ‘dating out of genre,’ but mostly he was cool with it.”

“So you didn’t tell him it’s fake?”

“Nah. The guy made me live with the girl he cheated on me with. He hasn’t earned my honesty.”

I nod. “What about your family. Did you tell them?”

I feel her stiffen. “No, I haven’t told them.”

Her tone makes it clear it’s the end of the discussion, but I’m curious. The girl never talks about her family.

“But you at least told them that you’re moving, right?”

She snorts. “My dad still thinks I’m subletting my cousin’s place. Since the cousin is on my mom’s side, he’s not likely to find out otherwise.”

“Your parents are separated?” I ask, putting the pieces together.

“Can we not do … this?” she asks, wiggling her finger around, as though to encompass our entire conversation.

“ ’Kay,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “But if you’re posing as my girlfriend, I’ll at least need to know the basics about it.”

She’s silent for a few moments. “I really don’t like to talk about it, Ethan.”

Her voice is dead serious, and I immediately feel like crap for pushing, even though I’m curious why she acts like a cougar in water every time her family comes up in conversation.

“Sure.”

We sit in companionable silence for a little longer as we finish our lunch, me watching the last few minutes of the game while she scrolls through her phone.

“So when can we go get my stuff from David’s?” she asks as I pay the bill. She insists on stuffing a twenty into my wallet to pay for hers, and I let her. I’ll just drop it back in her purse later.

“Only a few more stops,” I say, signing the bill. She wrinkles her nose suspiciously. “What kind of stops?”

“We need to get you new clothes,” I blurt out.

Stephanie scowls. “I already said no to that. I tolerated the bubble-gum lipstick, the snobby perfume, and the overpriced haircut, but I want to stay in my own clothes.”

As much as I love those tiny tank tops and her endless supply of tight T-shirts, her current wardrobe isn’t going to cut it.

“Picture our situation as a movie,” I say. “You really think a half-assed makeover is going to cut it? We need the full deal.”

She chews her lip, and I know she knows I’m right. “Okay. A few things, but I’ll only wear them when we’re around your people. At home I get to wear whatever I want.”

Home. Which we’d be sharing. I tear my eyes away from her mouth.

“That sounds fair,” I say.

“And no pink.”

I hesitate, picturing Olivia and the rest of my upper-crust female friends. “There might have to be a little pink.”

“Ethan …”

“It’ll look pretty on you.”

Wrong thing to say. She looks pissy.

“Do I look like the type that cares about being pretty?”

Actually, yeah. She does. I think she cares a hell of a lot more than she lets on.

“How about we leave it up to the salespeople?” I say, hoping for a truce. “If they suggest pink, you’ll consider it. If they don’t, I won’t push it.”

“No pink,” she mutters again, scooting off her barstool and grabbing her shopping bag and purse. But she waits patiently for me to finish signing the bill, and lets me lead her in the direction of Bloomingdale’s.

“I bet you’re regretting not finding a more biddable ivory statue to participate in your charade,” she says as we weave through the usual midtown crush.

I glance down at her shiny brown hair and newly fresh face.

Oddly, I don’t have any regrets at all.

Chapter Nine

Stephanie

“Stephanie, you in there?”

I sink deeper into the tub, loving the way the bubbles threaten to overflow but don’t.

“No,” I call through the bathroom door. “I went out to run some errands.”

“Can I come in?”

Can he come in? “Seriously, Price?”

“Are you taking a dump or something?”

“No! But normal people don’t ask to come into an occupied bathroom.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “I want to talk about this weekend.”

I sigh. I’ve been doing a good job so far not thinking about this weekend. I’ve been living in Ethan’s second bedroom for eight days now—eight glorious days in which I haven’t had to worry about hot water, rat traps, or keeping an eye out for roaches—and I’ve conveniently let myself ignore the fact that while I’m not paying with money to stay in paradise, I’ll be paying with something else entirely: my dignity.

“We can talk when I get out of the bath,” I call.

“Yeah, right. You’ll just pretend to go to bed early like you have the past three nights.”

Damn. He’s definitely on to me.

“I’m coming in.”

The doorknob rattles, and I squeal, “No!”

Why did I not lock the door? Oh, right. Because I didn’t think being barged in on was even an option.

But he’s already poked his head through the door, his hand covering his eyes. “Are you decent?”

“Ethan, I said I was in the bath.”

“But with bubbles, right? If you’re like most girls, you used half the bottle and the suds will cover up the interesting bits.”

It’s true. I did use half the bottle. And the only visible part of my body is my head.

“Fine,” I mutter. Not like there’s any stopping him anyway. He seems to think that our little partnership has made us BFFs. Platonic BFFs—he’s made that part very clear.

“This is all very Pretty Woman,” he says, sitting on the edge of the tub like it’s totally normal to have a conversation with a naked girl who isn’t his girlfriend. Or at least not his real girlfriend.

“Beginning to regret showing you that movie,” I grumble.

“You’re not wearing any makeup,” he says, his eyes scanning my face.

“Weird, right? Because I usually get all dolled up before climbing into the tub.”

He sighs. “Think you could tone down the sarcasm before you meet my parents?”

I give him a look. “Do you tone down your sarcasm around your parents?”

“Good point. But we do need to talk a little bit about our game plan for dinner this weekend.”

I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to act like I couldn’t be more relaxed if I tried. But, honestly, I’m dreading this. Sure, I have my new Pollyanna outfit, and my bouncy new haircut, and I’m pretty sure he stole my favorite steel-colored eye shadow, because I can’t find it. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to play nice. And I quit that gig for a reason.

“Why aren’t you with your girlfriend anymore?” I ask, wanting to get under his skin the way he gets under mine. “If we’re going to do this, really do this, I need all the facts.”

His eyes darken for a second, but then he just shrugs and makes himself more comfortable on the side of the tub. “All the facts, huh? Just like you’re giving me all the facts about your home situation?”

My stomach knots at the reference, but I get his point, because I’m the one who made the rules: no details, nothing personal.

“Fine,” I say more quietly. “But at least help me understand why your mom is so involved in your love life.”

He sighs, tilting his head back against the wall. His Adam’s apple bounces when he swallows, and I have a little hankering to nibble on it, just to see what he’d do. But considering the fact that Ethan barely seems to register that I’m naked here, I’m guessing he wouldn’t be all that keen on my licking his neck. For the hundredth time, I wonder why he didn’t pick a girl he was actually attracted to for his little charade.

But that’s the point, I guess. The fact that we’re 200 percent wrong for each other makes this whole thing fairly risk free.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“So you know my family’s wealthy,” he says quietly.

I glance around in surprise at the ridiculously lavish bathroom. “Whaaaaat?”

He gives me a half smile. “Well, let’s just say rich people like other rich people, and their rich kids are expected to hang out with fellow rich kids. Really rich,” he specifies.

I want to say something sarcastic, but I let him finish.

“But when you’re a kid,” he continues, “you’re not really thinking about that. All you care about is that your friend’s parents are friends with your parents so that you can all hang out. Not unlike the average American family, except with a lot more caviar and a lot less barbecue sauce.”

“Sounds awful.” I extend a foot out of the tub, tracing the faucet with my newly painted coral toe. “So these fellow snobs, one of them’s your ex?”

He nods once. “My mom and Olivia’s mom were sorority sisters, and our dads are business associates. We grew up together, along with our friend Michael. His dad was a fraternity brother of my dad’s, and his mom was our moms’ tennis partner.”

“My God, that’s practically incestuous.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters.

I frown a little, trying to understand. “Okay, so your parents are bummed that you guys broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens. They can’t seriously expect that it would work out just because you guys swapped silver spoons.”

“You don’t get it,” he said. “The Prices and St. Claires and Middletons—we’re like the contemporary Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Rockefellers. It’s not personal. It’s business.”

Honestly, the whole thing sounds completely ridiculous to me, but Ethan looks all torn up about it, and since I’m lounging here naked in his tub, sleeping in his guest bed, and sharing his kitchen, I don’t particularly feel like I can tell him to get over it and grow a pair. But I want to.

“Okay, well, this is all very sad and dramatic,” I say, carefully smoothing a thinning section of bubbles so I don’t give Ethan a crotch shot. “And if you insist that creating a fake girlfriend is the best way to avoid your ex-girlfriend, that’s your deal. But are you sure your parents are going to buy this? Didn’t you say you and Olivia were together since the womb?”

“Since we were fifteen.”

I frown. There’s sadness in his voice, and for the first time I suspect that maybe this plan has less to do with his mom than with Ethan.

“You’re not over her.” I said the same thing when he first pitched the idea, and he ignored me then. Just like he’s ignoring me tonight.

“And you’re not a therapist,” he says, pinching my toe.

I note that he doesn’t deny it, but something’s not adding up. When he first hatched this plan, he claimed that his mom kept parading Olivia around in hopes that they’d get back together. If he wasn’t over her, wouldn’t he want that?

But his expression is closed off, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s understanding that sometimes you just don’t wanna talk about it.

“Okay, so what do I need to know?” I say, increasingly aware that the bubbles are disappearing and the bath water is growing tepid. “Is there a particular political stance I should take? Religious views I should be passionate about? Interests that are too gauche for the Prices and should be stifled?”

“Liberal, Protestant, and sports,” he says. “As in the Prices don’t discuss sports.”

“I’ll try to refrain from reciting all those football stats I know backward and forward.”

“Good girl. You’ll be fine. And um … the earrings …?”

“Will be removed by Sunday dinner, per our agreement,” I say. “And does this mean I shouldn’t show your mom my python tramp stamp?”

His eyes flick briefly to the water. “You have a tattoo?”

I smile enigmatically. Wouldn’t he like to know.

“Don’t worry, Price. We’ve got this,” I say to reassure him.

And the thing is, even though I hate this whole business, we really do have this. Because while my fake smile might be rusty and I may not be able to name different types of oysters, once upon a time I could play the game with the best of them.

Ethan Price chose better than he knew when he picked Stephanie Kendrick to play Barbie to his Ken. Because Stephanie Kendrick was once Steffie Wright: cheerleader, student council president, and prom queen.

Impressing parents? Please. I used to do that shit in my sleep.

Chapter Ten

Ethan

On one hand, the stupid dinner with my parents is going so much better than I imagined. Stephanie is like a freaking gold medalist of fake girlfriends. Seriously. The girl’s on fire.

But it’s also going a hell of a lot worse than I imagined, because my mother is in full matchmaking mode. Mom doesn’t seem to care how fantastic my new girl is; she’s still dropped Olivia’s name something like seven times, and we’ve only been here half an hour.

It’s so interesting that Ethan would choose a brunette. He’s always been partial to blondes.

How wonderful to have a dinner guest again. Olivia used to join us every Sunday.

Ethan honey, did I tell you that I saw Olivia at the club the other day? She’s looking a little thin, but I think it suits her.

Before we arrived Stephanie told me she’d be taking mental notes all night for a meet-the-parents scene in our screenplay, and Mom is rising to the occasion beautifully. She could be reading straight off a script for a manipulative mother character.

I glance at Stephanie to make sure she’s not going to go all stabby on my mother, but she’s gracefully dislodged herself from Mom’s side and is chatting it up with my dad, who’s loving every moment of it.

I can’t blame him. Stephanie is … she looks … shit, she looks good. When she emerged from her bedroom after an hour of primping, I was speechless for a full five minutes. I’d seen the new hair and the new makeup before. I’d even seen parts of the new wardrobe from when I sat in the dressing room waiting area.

But seeing the whole look together? Damn. She’s the perfect Stepford girlfriend.

I was worried she wouldn’t be able to resist going all raccoon eyes on me, but she must have been paying close attention to the cosmetics woman in Bergdorf’s. Gone is the shadowy, angry eye makeup, and she has some pink stuff on her cheeks, so she no longer looks like she’s dedicated her life to banning color from her complexion. The white sundress and light blue cardigan are icing on the cranky cupcake. Ideal for meeting the parents.

The whole thing is also completely un-Stephanie.

And for some reason that’s bugging the crap out of me, even though creating a nonStephanie is exactly the point of this whole stupid plan.

My dad doesn’t seem to mind, though. Unlike my mom, Dad seems completely willing to accept an Olivia replacement.

“I’m sure Natasha’s already asked this,” my father says, “but how did you and Ethan meet again?”

“Oh, we have a film class together this summer,” Stephanie replies, shooting me a quick glance for reassurance. We agreed on the way over to stick to the truth as much as possible to avoid getting trapped in any lies.

“Oh, right, Martin’s class,” my dad says, nodding approvingly at the mention of his old friend and Hollywood hotshot.

“Right. Martin,” Stephanie says, and I know she’s dying to know how my dad is on a first-name basis with an Oscar-winning screenwriter. Just like she knows she can’t ask, because I would have told her that already if we were really dating.

I take a breath and hope there won’t be too many more of those should-know-this-but-don’t moments between us before we can have a further getting-to-know-you session.

“So are you taking that class on a rebellious whim too, then?” my mother asks, walking to the minibar to refill her wineglass.

Not for the first time, I curse my family’s old-fashioned insistence on “cocktail hour.” It’s nothing but small talk. Translation: total hell.

I brace myself for Stephanie to start glowering and babbling about how film is the soul of this country, thus triggering my mom’s unending disdain for “pop culture,” but again Stephanie surprises me. She gives a tiny shrug and takes an even tinier sip of the white wine my parents have poured for her as she rolls with my mother’s snobbishness. “Oh, sort of. Just one of those summer things kids do, I guess.”

My mom gives a whisper of a smile, just enough to be polite, before turning back to me. “Olivia’s interning with her father’s company. Did you know that, Ethan?”

“Nope.”

Actually, I do know that. Or at least I figured that Olivia interned at her father’s bank every summer. Just like I interned at my father’s company every summer—except this one.

Mercifully, my dad announces that he’s hungry and we’re able to move this fun-for-all to the dining room to commence what’s sure to be an endless number of courses accompanied by endless questions.

My mom squeezes my dad’s shoulder before sitting down at her spot across the table, and I look away quickly. I know she’s my mom and all, but for a second I hate her. Not even so much for sleeping with Mike senior, but for fucking lying about it. For creating a mockery of her marriage to my dad and of everything I thought family was supposed to be about.

I catch Stephanie watching me, and I give her a reassuring smile. She tilts her head and gives me the same smile right back. Like she’s the one doing the reassuring.

I probably should have given her some background information before we did this shit. It would have been easy enough. She’d obviously been fishing for details the other night when I’d barged in on her bubble bath like a common perv.

I really can’t blame her for prying. Of course she’d want to know why I’d create a fake girlfriend instead of just manning up and telling my parents that Olivia and I are over and that I’m moving on like any normal twenty-one-year-old dude. And for a second I’m actually tempted to tell her every detail. But I stop myself. I haven’t told anyone, and I’m seriously contemplating telling her? I don’t even know her.

“So, Stephanie, tell me about your people,” my mom says as our chef—yes, we have one—places some sort of weird cold soup in front of us.

I watch as Stephanie picks up the correct spoon and takes a sip of the strange-looking green goo without even a slight widening of eyes at the temperature. Even though she seems okay with it, I’m wishing that I had a regular family where the mom cooks lasagna and throws bagged salad into a big dented wooden bowl. A family where my mother wouldn’t use phrases like “your people,” as though everyone belongs to a clan as fucked up as this one.

“My people?” Stephanie asks, as though reading my mind.

Stephanie’s features are arranged in a perfect semblance of pleasantness, but her eyes are a different story. I watch her closely, waiting for disgust at my mother’s blatant snobbery, but it’s not disgust at all. She just looks … guarded. And I hate that.

“Your family,” my mom says, taking a dainty sip of soup. “Are they from New York?”

“I grew up in Rhode Island.”

My mother gives a little shrug of patronizing fake interest. “Oh, how tiny!”

When my mom says “tiny” in that condescending voice, she doesn’t mean “adorably quaint”; she means “trivial.” And I can tell from Stephanie’s stiffening shoulders that she knows this.

“It is the smallest state, yes,” Stephanie replies, admirably dodging my mother’s condescension.

“Do you get back there often?”

I remember Stephanie’s crankiness about discussing home, and alarm bells go off in my head.

“What’s with this weird soup?” I interrupt rudely, hoping to distract my mother. “It tastes like cold mud.”

But Stephanie’s already speaking. “Actually, my father lives in North Carolina now. He moved down there when I was eighteen.”

“Ah, lovely. And your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

Stephanie says the word so quietly, so easily, that it takes the rest of us at the table a second to register it.

Holy shit.

I’d sort of figured she wasn’t from one big happy family, but I didn’t realize we were dealing with death. Suddenly I feel like the worst kind of ass for going on about my parents. At least I have both of them.

I sort of forget about my dad’s naïveté and my mom’s affair as my eyes lock on Stephanie’s face. Her eyes are sad but also resigned, and I’ve got this crushing urge to wipe that haunted look from her face.

I also have a billion questions. Like was it her mother’s death that started the whole hate-the-world thing she has going on? I also kind of want to ask why she didn’t tell me.

Shit. And now I’m asking myself why I even care that she didn’t tell me.

But the questions will have to wait until after this hellish dinner. Because this is definitely the sort of thing I should already know about my “girlfriend.”

“You poor thing,” my mom says, giving Stephanie a sad smile.

Stephanie lifts one shoulder, and for a second it’s like she’s the old Stephanie again: angry, defensive, and sullen. No, not the old Stephanie. The real Stephanie. She’s so damn good at this nice-girl routine that I keep forgetting that beneath the soft clothing and makeup she’s hard as nails.

My parents exchange a glance, and by silent agreement my dad swiftly changes the subject back to his favorite topic: work. His work.

Stephanie’s polite, asks all the right questions, and laughs at the right spots in his tired stories. And somehow we get through dinner and dessert without my parents catching on to the fact that we’re not exactly in love.

I think we’ve made it successfully through the first round of our Pygmalion experiment, but it’s like my mom secretly knows we need more villainess material for our screenplay, because she follows me into the foyer when I go to fetch Stephanie’s bag.

“I just wanted to let you know I won’t tell the Middletons about this,” she says in a quiet undertone.

“Tell the Middletons about what?” I play dumb.

She presses her lips together. “About your new fling.”

I shrug. “Go ahead and tell them. Also, I’m bringing her to Paige’s wedding, so maybe by then you can stop bringing up Olivia in front of her.”

Mom studies me. “Paige’s wedding isn’t for a couple of weeks.”

“And?”

She gives a brittle smile. “Well, how do you know that you and Stephanie will still be seeing each other?”

“I just know.”

“Ethan …” My mom places a hand on my arm and I look away, because she really does look distressed, and deep down I know she wants me to be happy. “This Stephanie seems like a nice enough girl, but you and Olivia—”

“Are over, Mom.”

“But why? You were always so happy together.”

Were we?

I mean, we were content, sure. Up until the end, we were also drama free, and I know enough other females to be aware how unusual that was. So yeah, I guess we were happy. Enough.

But then things imploded. And does my heart feel like it belongs in a boy-band ballad about being brokenhearted?

No.

I start to head back toward the living room, where Stephanie’s talking with my dad, but I stop and turn back to my mom.

“Why is it so important to you that I reconnect with Olivia? What’s it even have to do with you?”

My mom blinks, as though surprised by the question. “I just … I thought … I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy, Mom. With Stephanie.”

Apparently I’m better at this whole charade thing than even I knew, because the words are out before I even have a chance to think them.

My mom holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re young; I guess I should expect that you’d want to play the field.”

I meet her eyes. “Is playing the field limited to the young?”

Her back stiffens slightly as she squares her shoulders. “What is that supposed to mean, Ethan?”

“You know what it means,” I mutter.

And then I walk away.

I know I should have the balls to just talk to her about it. To confront her about what I saw.

But I don’t know how to have the conversation. Don’t know how to tell her I saw her with Mike senior that day. Don’t know how to tell her that I know she’s having an affair with my best friend’s dad.

Someday maybe I’ll be able to laugh at the farcical fortuity of learning about my mother and Olivia in the same day. Hell, in the same hour.

That someday is not today.

Today I do not feel like laughing.

“You ready?” I ask Stephanie, itching to get out of this house.

My dad winks at Stephanie. “My boy wants to get you home.”

I search my dad’s expression, trying to determine if his choice of words is intentional. I haven’t exactly told them that Stephanie and I are living together, and although they’re not prudes, they’re old-school enough that I don’t exactly want to advertise the fact that we’re shacking up. Although this is the first time in my life that I actually hope my parents mistakenly believe that I am sleeping with a girl, rather than her being a 110 percent platonic roommate—a living arrangement that I suspect is going to be the death of me.

As if on cue, Stephanie lifts her foot to adjust the strap of her little sandal, exposing slim, toned calves, and I find my mouth watering.

Shit.

We say good-bye to my parents, my dad all enthusiastic and booming, and my mom … not.

Outside, I lift a hand to hail us a cab, and Stephanie shakes her head at me. “You’re only a few blocks over. Why don’t we walk?”

I shove her into the cab. “Nobody willingly walks outside in summer, Goth.”

She scoots across the cab seat, quickly tugging down on the hem of her skirt, but not before giving me an eyeful. I don’t bother to look away, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or care. It’s like it doesn’t even register that we’re of the opposite sex, and damned if that doesn’t bug the crap out of me.

“Your parents are nice,” she says quietly.

“If by nice you mean my mom’s part shark, sure.”

“She’s not so bad,” Stephanie says with a shrug.

I hear the slight censure in her voice, and I’m pretty certain I know what she’s thinking: At least you have a mother.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your mom?” I ask, already pulling out cash to pay for the ridiculously short ride.

She shrugs. “Never really came up.”

I should probably let her off the hook, but hell, we’re roommates and in a weird sort of relationship. She can’t go on being vague about big details like this.

“Well, actually, it did come up.” I extend a hand to help her out of the cab. Her eyes meet mine when our hands touch and I have to force myself to let go of her fingers once she’s out of the car. Since when did I become so addicted to touching this girl?

She tugs her hand free and heads toward the front door of my building. No, our building.

“I’ve asked you before where home is,” I press. “You don’t think that might have been the time to be forthcoming?”

She storms past the doorman and punches at the elevator button. “You’re not my boyfriend, Ethan. I don’t have to spill my guts.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I close it just as quickly. She’s right. I’m not her boyfriend, nor do I want to be. The irritability and anger pent up in that pint-sized body aren’t exactly appealing.

“Got it,” I say curtly as we step into the elevator. “Perhaps we can just exchange fact sheets with each other’s vitals for the rest of the summer and call it good.”

She glares at me out of the corner of blue eyes. “What’s got your designer boxers in a bunch? I thought the night went pretty well, but now you’re jumping down my throat.”

“It went fine. I wouldn’t say well,” I say as we step into the hallway.

“Well, it’s not my fault your mother is hung up on your ex-girlfriend. Does the girl have golden ovaries or something?”

“My mom seems to think so,” I mutter as I unlock the door. I immediately head to the fridge and pull out two beers. I pop the top off both and hand one to her.

Stephanie takes a long sip before turning on her heel, flouncing to the couch, and sprawling out on it. The horrible posture is so incongruous with the tidy, country-club appearance that I nearly smile.

“Why don’t you just tell her to piss off?” she asks. “Tell her that your old girl is boring and dumpy, and your new girl has it going on.” She gives an uncoordinated little wriggle at this, and I make a face as I sit in my favorite chair across from her. Apparently we’re done fighting.

“Got it going on?” I ask incredulously. “When was the last time you heard anyone use that in a sentence?”

Stephanie shrugs. “For someone who’s so keen on being up with the times and all, how about you start by telling your mother that we don’t live in some sort of ancient empire in which you and Olivia should feel obligated to stay together just to produce an heir that pleases your parents?”

“It’s not like that,” I say. But it sort of is. “She … my mom just has a sort of vision of my future, and her own. And it involves Price/Middleton offspring and lobster Christmas dinners with everyone all together.”

Stephanie nods and takes a sip of beer. “So she doesn’t want any Kendrick riffraff blood in there.”

I salute her with my bottle. “Precisely.”

“I thought I was looking pretty good, but clearly I need to up my game,” she says, looking thoughtful.

My eyes catch on her legs, which are a little overexposed in her current position. “You did great. You look great.”

She blinks at me for a second, but immediately looks away when I meet her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously,” I say, pushing on, although I don’t know why. “You played it like the ideal girl next door. Like you’d been that girl before.”

Her shoulders go back, and she tugs at the hem of her dress. “Yeah, well. My focus is cinematography, but I still had to take a few acting classes freshman year.”

I nod, but I don’t buy it for a second. She knew exactly what she was doing around my parents, and it had nothing to do with a couple of acting classes. She knew when to smile, when to laugh, how to keep the conversation going …

I don’t know what her story is, but I don’t think she comes from a fleet of angsty musicians.

Which means that someone or something made her change into the stompy, cranky version I met on that first day of summer classes.

And I want to know what.

“Olivia cheated on me,” I blurt out.

Aaaannnnd … there it is. I’ve just spilled my guts to someone who I’m not entirely sure won’t take said guts out on the back deck and barbecue them.

She was about to crawl off the couch and retreat to her bedroom, but she pauses and sets her bottle on the table. “Well … shit. Speaking from experience, I know how much that sucks. Although admittedly David and I weren’t betrothed from the womb, like you and Olivia.”

I smile grimly. “It’s worse. She cheated on me with my best friend. The Price/St. Claire/Middleton clan I was telling you about? You mentioned we sounded incestuous … let’s just say that the youngest Price and the youngest St. Claire have officially ‘shared’ the youngest Middleton.”

She puts a hand over her mouth. “Gawd, Ethan. Sorry. When I said that, I didn’t mean …”

“Sure. But you were right.”

“Wait—if she cheated, then why is she still coming around your parents’ house? I mean, you shouldn’t need a decoy girlfriend if your old one has, um … moved on.”

I fiddle with the bottle. “Well, see, I’m not sure Olivia has moved on. She texts me about five times a day apologizing. Says it was a mistake.”

“And you won’t forgive her.”

I suck in a deep breath, considering. “I could. Maybe I should. I mean, we’re young, and we’ve been together forever, and I know these things happen. But I can’t get the mental picture out of my head, ya know?”

Her eyes bug out. “You actually saw them?”

For a second I’m tempted to clam up. To blow off her questions the way she blew off mine when I asked about her mom. But if we’re going to make this believable, even on a charades level, she’ll need all of the information. Especially when she meets Olivia, which will be unavoidable at my parents’ party in a few weeks.

“Michael, my best friend—” I break off. “Former best friend. The two of us were inseparable. I know that’s not the cool-guy thing to say, but we grew up together. Our parents were the same, our education was the same, same sports, same activities …”

“I get it. Classic bromance.”

“Right. So anyway, I’d gotten box seats for the Yankees from my dad, and I swung by Michael’s place to see if he wanted to go. And …”

She covers her eyes like a little kid watching a scary movie. “They were together.”

“Oh, yeah. I walk into his bedroom, and there’s my best friend and my girlfriend—”

Stephanie holds up a hand. “God. Stop. I get it.”

I tilt my head. “Really? Because I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.”

Although honestly, I don’t mind that she’s cut me off. The mental image of Michael and Olivia is ingrained enough in my brain without having to plant the picture in someone else’s head.

Still, Stephanie looks revolted by my revelation, and I wonder if it’s because she’s remembering the moment when that douche boyfriend of hers cheated on her. For some reason I never made the comparison before, but it occurs to me now that in certain ways we’re not that different.

Of course, our similarities are limited to the fucked-up kind: being cheated on, taking classes during the summer in order to avoid something else in our life, and then being so unwilling to actually face the shit that’s staring us down that we’ll invent a fake relationship.

“Your turn, Kendrick,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Give me at least a hint of the home situation. At least help me understand why you talk about North Carolina like it’s a leper colony.”

Though she hesitates, my own confession must have had the desired effect, because she reluctantly slumps back down onto the couch and starts fiddling with the label on her bottle.

“Short version?” she asks.

I shrug. “I’ll take what I can get.”

“After my mom died, my dad remarried this total … well, I don’t get along with my stepmom. At all.”

I nod, and wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t even try to meet my eyes.

“And …?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?”

“Come on, you’re not the first person to resent a stepparent. There’s got to be more to the story.”

“Why?” she asks, her expression going petulant.

“Well, because you’re twenty-one, not eleven. Adults don’t begrudge their parents their happiness. Especially not widowed parents.”

I don’t mean to be harsh, but she looks like I’ve slapped her, and I instantly feel like I’m missing something major.

“It’s not like that,” she whispers.

I lean forward. “Then what is it like?”

But she clamps her lips together before setting the beer on the coffee table and standing. “Don’t worry about it, Pygmalion. As long as your ivory statue keeps performing to spec, that’s all you need to worry about.”

She’s right, of course. She’s fulfilling her end of the bargain.

But as I hear her bedroom door shut with a decisive click, I find myself wanting to punch something.

Why is she so damned closed off?

And, more important, why does it bother me so much?

Chapter Eleven

Stephanie

“Your turn,” Ethan says, using the driver-side controls to roll down the passenger-side window that I just rolled up because it was wreaking havoc on my hair.

Giving up, I find a hair tie in my bag and pull my hair into a messy ponytail. The rush of clean, crisp air on my face is worth getting a few tangles. Even if I do have to meet his friends in a couple of hours.

We’re on our way to the Finger Lakes for an overnight trip with some of his friends. I fully expected the car ride to be hell, but instead it’s been kind of nice. Getting out of the city feels amazing.

And being with Ethan …

Well, that’s okay too.

It’s been almost a week since the semi-awkward dinner with his parents, and we’ve settled into a pretty decent routine. Despite the fact that he’s not officially interning at his dad’s company, he still heads over there most mornings to do who knows what.

I managed to get a part-time gig at the coffee shop I worked at freshman year. I only get a few hours a week, but having some sort of income makes me feel less on edge about taking money from my father.

Not to mention the free rent from Ethan.

Except it’s not free. Because I’ve been giving up weekends and evenings and whenever else he needs a play girlfriend. And I’m not hating it.

He leans over and pinches my arm softly.

“Ouch! What?” I ask.

“Your turn,” he says again.

“For …?”

“Two truths and a lie,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road.

I groan. “I’m out of ideas.”

“Lame. We’ve only had two rounds.”

“Which is two more than anyone outside of a high school orientation group should have to endure,” I say pointedly.

Although, if I’m being truthful, the dorky icebreaker isn’t a horrible way to get some basic facts about the other person. Getting to utter one false statement for every two factual ones makes the real confessions feel less … soul-baring.

Not that we’ve ventured much beyond favorite colors and ice cream flavors. All the more reason to quit while we’re ahead.

“I’ll go again while you think on it,” he says.

He pauses for a moment before making his three statements.

“One: I shared my mother’s womb with a twin up until the second trimester. But there wasn’t room for both of us on account of my big wang, and he didn’t make it to full term. Two: My favorite book is Great Expectations. Three: Despite the fact that I didn’t feel like interning this summer, I’m actually sort of excited about the prospect of taking over the family company one day.”

I don’t even pause to consider which one is the lie. “You did not have a twin in the womb.”

He makes a wincing face like a game-show host whose contestant has just screwed up. “Oh, and I’m sorry, but that is not correct.”

My jaw drops. What? It has to be.

“Take note, girlfriend, I can’t stand Dickens. And Great Expectations is the worst of the bunch. So mopey and dramatic …”

I raise my hand to cut him off. “I refuse to buy the twin-killed-by-big-wang story. It’s medically ridiculous.”

He’s silent for a half beat. “Well, maybe they can’t prove it was death by penis. But I know.”

I snort.

He gives me a look. “You don’t have to sound so sure of yourself.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say, turning to look back out the window. “Because I am sure.”

“Can’t be sure if you haven’t seen it.”

“I’m sure,” I say. God, all this about a penis.

He’s quiet again. “So you’ve thought about it.”

“No!”

He shakes his head in a sympathetic way. “You have. Because if you hadn’t, then when the question came up, you would have had to stop and think, ‘Hmm, is Ethan’s penis big enough to push another baby out of the womb?’ But you answered right away, which means you’d already formed an opinion. An unflattering opinion, I might add. And quite incorrect.”

I’m blushing now, because he kind of has me there. Not that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about, uh, him. My quick response to his stupid game was simply due to the ridiculousness of his suggestions. But even though I haven’t thought (much) about his more manly bits before, because of this conversation I’m definitely thinking about them now.

I shift in the leather seat of the car he borrowed from his parents. I didn’t think anyone in New York actually owned a car, but of course the Price family would have a fleet of sexy-looking vehicles just waiting for the golden boy to take one on a whim.

“Your mom had a miscarriage?” I ask, half wanting to steer the conversation away from his crotch and half genuinely wanting to know.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter. “They’d just barely found out they were having twins, so it’s not like she even had a chance to really register the loss, but she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“And they never wanted to try again?”

He shoots me a look and grins. “Guess they decided I was enough.”

“Or too much,” I mutter.

“There you go, thinking about my big wang again.”

“Ethan!” I know I’m blushing now, but he merely grins and takes mercy on me by changing the subject. “What about you? Only child, right? Or do you have a whole fleet of siblings hidden in your vault of Stephanie secrets?”

“It’s just me,” I say. “Well, and my stepbrother. But I didn’t even meet the guy until I was eighteen, so I don’t really think of him as family.”

Which really isn’t fair to say. I liked Chris well enough on the few occasions we’ve been forced into each other’s company. It’s not his fault his mother’s a man-eater. A widower-eater.

“Okay, pull your weight, Kendrick. We’ve got a couple more hours before we get there.”

“Tell me again why we’re driving five hours to the middle of nowhere.”

“Because it’s my only chance to see Andrea before she heads back to California. Usually she comes to the city over break, but this year her family rented a summer cabin, so she’s staying there.”

“And she’s a high school friend, right?”

“No. Grade school through middle school. She went to a public school instead of the academy with the rest of us.”

I dig a couple of waters out of the cooler he brought, and hand one to him. “You were friends with public school hooligans?”

“Just the one,” he says with a smile. “We had, like, every class together in eighth grade and got pretty tight, so I guess I stayed in better contact with her than everyone else.”

“Did you date?”

“Nah. I seem to remember a couple of awkward spin-the-bottle kisses, but nothing serious. I guess even back then, I sort of knew Olivia was the one.”

I glance at him in surprise, and I can tell he’s just as surprised as I am at the admission. He hardly ever mentions his ex unless it’s with a scowl. I feel something sour in my stomach and try to tell myself that it’s not jealousy, but I know better. It’s not that I have feelings for Ethan or anything. But I’ve been spending so much time with him that I’d be lying if I said it’s not a little easy to forget that it’s fake.

Apparently I’m destined to be a jealous fake girlfriend. Odd, considering I’ve never before been a jealous real girlfriend.

“Okay, definitely your turn,” Ethan says, looking slightly embarrassed. “Here I am getting all deep, and you’re not doing your part.”

I laugh a little and take a sip of water. “You, deep? Come on, Price. Somehow I don’t think there’s a whole lot of depth hidden under all that polish.”

He doesn’t say anything back, and I glance over at his profile, expecting his easy grin, but he’s not smiling at all. In fact, he looks a little … wounded. It’s the same look he had on his face that night at the frat party when I told him he had no substance. It was an unfair thing to say back then, when I didn’t even know him.

Now that I do know him, I know it was unfair and bitchy.

And completely untrue.

“Hey,” I say quickly, reaching out a hand to touch his arm in apology. “I didn’t mean …”

Ethan lifts his water bottle to his lips before my fingers can make contact, and I pull my hand back. “Sure ya did, Goth. And you’re right. Nothing but money and jokes coming from this side of the car.”

His tone is self-deprecating, and I want to tell him that it’s not true. That I only said he had no depth because I don’t want to get deep. I don’t want to see beyond his money and jokes because over the past few weeks I’ve been catching glimpses of what’s beneath all that pretty-boy stuff, and I don’t think I can handle much more of the kinder version. I’m too worried I could fall for that version of Ethan Price.

But neither do I want him to hide from me.

You can’t have it both ways, Stephanie.

“So, two truths and a lie,” I hear myself say, desperate somehow to make amends. To make us even. To share with him the way he just did with me about Olivia, his mom’s miscarriage, and even his friendship with this Andrea girl.

“One: When I was seven, my parents took me to the emergency room with what they thought was a ruptured appendix. Turns out I was just majorly constipated. Two: There was a girl on my old soccer team that got struck by lightning, and I still get scared to death in thunderstorms, even though I know it’s stupid. Three … My high school boyfriend put a roofie in my drink the same night my mom died.”

I say that last one so quickly that all the words run together, as though I’m rushing the punch line of a joke.

I only wish it were a joke.

I hold my breath for several seconds, not looking at him. I can’t.

The tension in the car is so thick I can’t breathe, and then Ethan breaks it.

“Goddamn it, Stephanie,” he says, slamming his palm against the steering wheel before gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Tell me that last one is the lie. Tell me.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

“Goddamn it,” he says again, quieter this time.

I shrug and take a long swallow of water as though the bomb I just dropped is no big deal. Which of course it is.

But I’ve had a few years to adjust to what happened, so what’s really weirding me out is the fact that I said it at all. To him. Confiding a few childhood secrets does not warrant me throwing something so huge into a car ride that still has a good two hours left.

I’d give anything to take it back. Anything.

Especially since Ethan looks pissed.

My throat feels a little tight as I realize the magnitude of my misstep. He doesn’t want to know those types of things about me. Nobody wants to know those things about somebody else. Jordan knows, of course. That’s what best friends are for. But that kind of baggage should be saved for friends, therapists, and diaries, not happy-go-lucky fake boyfriends.

“Kidding,” I lie, trying to break the silence. “Made that one up. The third one was the lie—”

“Don’t, Stephanie. Just don’t,” he says quietly.

I let out a small breath. He’s right. Trying to take it back will only make things worse. Instead of backpedaling, I go for plan B: pretending it didn’t happen.

“So you mentioned that Andrea met a boyfriend at college in California. Have you met—”

“What happened?”

My ears begin to ring. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes, you do.”

If he said it like a know-it-all jerk, I would have ignored him. But his voice is kind, and I don’t want him to be kind. I don’t want him to be anything other than a shallow mama’s boy who can’t tell his parents that precious Olivia has a trampy streak.

But the way he’s looking at me now, he doesn’t look like some superficial frat guy. He looks like a friend who cares.

And what can I say? Other than Jordan, it’s been a while since I’ve had one of those.

Correction: it’s been a while since I let myself have one of those.

And apparently I’m going to start with Ethan Price.

“His name was Caleb,” I say, exhaling a deep breath and staring out the window. “Or I guess I should say his name is Caleb. He’s still alive, as far as I know.”

“That’s a shame,” Ethan muttered.

I allow myself a tiny smile. “Yeah, I sometimes feel that way too. Anyway, we started dating the end of sophomore year. And although it kind of pains me to say it now, I really, really liked him, you know? I mean, I don’t know if it was like you and Olivia, where we were destined and all that, but we had fun together. He treated me well. Right up until …”

“Right up until he didn’t.”

“Yeah,” I say with a little laugh. “Looking back, I guess the change didn’t happen overnight. It’s not like he went from being some perfect guy to the jerk that gives his own girlfriend the date-rape drug.”

Ethan swears under his breath, and I wonder if I should stop, but I find I can’t. It feels good to talk about it.

“He’d been weird for a while. Hanging out with his brother’s friends from college. He went from being a valedictorian candidate to not really giving a shit, you know? It’s like all he wanted to do was drink and smoke and have sex …”

Ethan runs a palm over the back of his neck but doesn’t interrupt me.

“But I barely noticed,” I say, my voice going quieter. “I mean, on some level I knew, of course. Knew that he was changing, and not for the better. But my mom was sick. So sick. And I just couldn’t deal. I heard rumors that he was messing around with other girls, and I didn’t even care. Didn’t ask him. I figured it was my own fault for not sleeping with him when he asked me to.”

“Stephanie …”

“Don’t,” I say. “I’m not saying I was right or smart back then, but that’s just how it was. Everything was about my mom and my family, and I was just grateful to have someone whose house I could go to when the last of my mom’s hair fell out, or who would hold me when I cried when the doctor came back with that final ‘one month or less’ diagnosis.”

I glance down at the empty water bottle in my hands, surprised to see that it’s a crinkled, flattened mess.

“Then what happened?” he asks softly.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t come out. To my utter horror, tears fill my eyes, and I realize that although it feels good—so good—to talk to someone, I’m not ready to go there. Not yet.

“I can’t talk about that night,” I say finally, unable to meet his eyes.

He shifts his hands on the steering wheel and glances at me, and for a second I think he’s going to push me. But then his face changes again, and he lets himself become the other Ethan.

First, though, he puts a hand on my cheek, and I lean into his palm for the briefest of moments. Then he pulls back, and just like that, he’s back to being the funny, cocky, mellow guy I met on the first day of class.

“Okay, so it’s my turn, right?” he says, as though we haven’t just taken a trip down my land-mine-filled memory lane. “Two truths and a lie.

“One: When I was in seventh grade, I went camping with a friend and his parents and tried to light my fart on fire and singed off all the hair on my ass. Two: I was a total porker as a kid. Like seriously fat. In fourth grade I ate most of the cupcakes that some girl’s mom had brought in for her birthday, and tried to blame it on the class hamster.…”

I turn my head to watch him as he launches into some ridiculous story, and I’m not thinking about whether this is one of the truths or the lie. I’m thinking that Ethan Price is putting on a damned good show in an effort to cheer me up. In an effort to make me forget.

But mostly I try not to think about what I’m feeling.

Because what I’m feeling has nothing to do with our charade.

What I’m feeling seems real.

Chapter Twelve

Ethan

“So how long have you and Stephanie been together?”

I glance at Andrea, trying to figure out if it’s just a casual question or if she’s on to us.

I don’t see Andrea much—maybe once a year when she comes home from UC Santa Cruz. But she’s one of those people-reading types who just seems to skip over whatever you say to figure out what’s really going on.

The fact that Andrea has always been able to sniff out my lies from a mile away is one of the reasons I dragged Stephanie here for a spontaneous weekend trip. Actually, it’s the primary reason, because I don’t even really need to pretend around Andrea. She doesn’t give a shit if I’m with Olivia or not. She never said so out loud, but I don’t think she ever even liked Olivia. I could have come up to the cabin alone and simply told her I was single, and she wouldn’t have batted an eye.

But this weekend is the ultimate test. If we can fool Andrea into thinking we’re together, then we can absolutely take on the rest of my family and social circle, who are a good deal less observant.

“Been together about a month,” I reply finally, resisting the urge to elaborate. I figure the less detail, the better. It keeps the charade easier to maintain.

“Huh,” Andrea says.

Shit.

“Huh what?” I ask, fishing a beer out of the cooler.

She shrugs and lets her hand drape over the side of her parents’ boat, her fingers skimming the cool lake water. “A month? Really?”

“Just spit out whatever it is you want to say,” I say, tipping the beer back and preparing for the onslaught. Might as well figure out Stephanie’s and my acting weaknesses while we’re here, before the real show starts.

“Well, you’re just strange around each other,” Andrea says. “I mean, on one hand, you’re totally comfortable with each other. Like, you’ll answer a question before she asks it, or you help yourself to her potato chips and she barely notices.”

“And on the other hand …?”

“On the other hand,” she says, grabbing a beer for herself, “you guys completely stink of sexual tension. She leaped a mile when you brushed a bug off her arm. And every time you look at her, I think you’re going to set her on fire. The whole thing seems very unconsummated for a one-month relationship.”

Andrea’s boyfriend rolls over onto his stomach from where he’s been lounging on the back of the boat, half listening to our conversation. “Lay off him, Andi. Maybe Stephanie doesn’t put out on the first date like some girls we know.”

Andrea reaches back and tries to roll him into the lake. “I did not put out on the first date, Brian Barlow.”

Brian tips his sunglasses down so he can meet my eyes before mouthing, “She totally did.”

This earns him another slap on the head. Brian and Andrea met in college, and she brought him out last summer to hang with her family, and again this summer, so I’m guessing they must be pretty serious. I’m glad. He’s a good guy.

“So what’s the story, Eth?” Andrea asks, turning back to me.

“No story,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I mean, we’ve been taking it kind of slow, but we’re not totally ignorant of each other, if you know what I mean.”

“Translation: they’ve been doing everything but the thing that can actually make babies,” Brian supplies.

Andrea studies me. “Is it true?”

I stand up and stretch. “Christ, what’s with the interest in my sex life?”

She shrugs. “Just happy you have one is all. Thought maybe you couldn’t get it up after ending things with Princess Olivia.”

I grunt. “I can get it up.”

“Good,” Andrea says, digging around in her bag for more sunscreen. “I like Stephanie. She’s normal. And pretty.”

My eyes go to the bow of the boat, where Stephanie’s been sunning herself for the past thirty minutes, blissfully unaware of the inquisition I’m getting back here.

“Yeah. She’s pretty,” I say, my eyes taking in the absolute fucking miracle that is Stephanie Kendrick in a bikini. I was a little nervous when she insisted on going swimsuit shopping alone. In my experience, a guy’s opinion is always a good thing when it comes to clothing consisting of string. But she did well. The swimsuit is a tiny white net concoction—what did she call it? Crochet?—and it does really amazing things for her even more amazing rack.

She turns around then to see where I am, giving me a shy little smile when she realizes I’m watching her. I can’t see her eyes through her big sunglasses, but I know she’s holding my gaze on purpose. Giving Andrea and Brian a show.

“I’ll be up front,” I say, grabbing a beer for Stephanie and heading her way.

“Uh-huh,” Andrea says. I feel her eyes on my back, and I can’t tell if I’ve fooled her or not. I’m thinking not, but that could just be my own paranoia. Because Andrea’s right about one thing: Stephanie and I are not acting like a couple who’ve gotten used to each other’s physical presence yet.

Time to fix that.

Stephanie’s lying down again by the time I get to her, and I let my eyes linger on her tiny waist, perfect hips, and, well … those breasts.

I tell myself that I’m staring because Andrea’s probably watching, but the truth is, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. How the hell I’m supposed to sit by her and not peel that bikini off is beyond me, but here goes nothing.

“I think Andrea’s on to us,” I say, settling beside her on the oversized towel.

She flings an arm over her face to shield her eyes and turns her head toward me. “What do you mean, she’s on to us?”

I set our beers on top of the book she was reading earlier and stretch my legs out beside her, noting that mine extend several inches beyond hers. I always forget how short she is.

“Says we’re too comfortable around each other and also too on edge.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

I shrug, although I kind of know exactly what Andrea means, and I suspect Stephanie does too. Being roommates has taught us how to be relaxed with each other. But then there’s something else simmering there. Something that is absolutely not relaxed. And it’s been growing.

“She says it’s clear we haven’t consummated.”

She jolts a little, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Consummated?”

“Well, I don’t think she necessarily means … you know,” I say, making a juvenile rutting gesture with the index finger of one hand and the O formed by my thumb and index finger on the other hand.

She bats my hands away. “Did you tell her we’d only been together a month? I mean, is it weird if that hasn’t happened by now?”

I tilt my head a little, thrown off by the genuine curiosity in her voice.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” I say. “I’ve only had one serious relationship in my life, so not a lot to go on.” Not exactly the manliest of confessions, but there it is.

She looks away. “Did you wait longer than a month? With Olivia?”

“Well, I was fifteen when we started dating. If it was up to me, I don’t know that I could have waited a week. But she was kind of a good girl. So yeah, we waited longer than a month.”

Stephanie turns to look at me, clearly expecting me to elaborate on the details.

“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “Males are born with a protective instinct to never tell current mates about past mates.”

“You learn that from Animal Planet?”

“Reality TV,” I reply.

She lies back down, and I stretch out beside her. We’re silent for a few minutes.

“So what do we do?” she asks. “About Andrea, I mean.”

I roll to my side, putting my weight on one elbow and resting my head on my hand as I look down at her. “Well, one thing’s for sure. We’re going to have to get familiar with each other’s touch.”

“Define familiar.”

“You’re jumpy whenever I touch you.” To prove my point, I reach out an index finger and trace it from her wrist to her elbow.

She hisses as her arm jerks in response.

“See?” I ask softly. “We may not be expected to have sealed the deal in a month, but we sure as hell have to have touched.”

This time I place my entire palm on her arm, sliding up until I’m cupping her bicep. As far as touches go, it shouldn’t be personal. We’re not dealing with any sexy parts here. But it feels fucking sexy, especially since it puts the backs of my fingers just inches away from the side of her breast.

I take a deep breath. Don’t get lost in the game, Price.

“Well, this is nice,” she says sarcastically. “I’m sure your being comfortable with the flab on my upper arm will convince everyone that we’re practically consummating.”

I laugh despite the fact that I seem to have a raging boner from her arm “flab.”

“You’re a smart-ass,” I say.

She grins up at me, and the gesture is too easy, too sassy. And suddenly I know exactly what Andrea means.

Stephanie Kendrick doesn’t see me as a guy.

She just sees me as her film partner. Hell, she probably sees me as her landlord.

That won’t work.

I roll toward her, plucking the sunglasses off her face so I can see her eyes. She lets out an irritated huff and pulls my glasses off as well, tossing them aside so that we’re staring into each other’s eyes.

“You’re right,” I say huskily. “Me cupping your bicep won’t convince anyone. But I know what will.”

Her blue eyes turn dark, and I hope it’s with arousal because being this close to her almost naked body is killing me.

“If I know Andrea, she’s watching us right now,” I say gently, moving my hand slowly until I’m brushing a piece of hair off her forehead. “Think we can convince her that we’re at least close to consummating?”

“Ethan—”

My hand moves to her mouth, and I let the pad of my thumb catch on her bottom lip as those blue eyes go completely smoky.

“It’ll be just like we practiced that night at David’s place,” I say before lowering my mouth to hers.

Except, damn it, it’s nothing like that first kiss in her ex-boyfriend’s apartment. That had been an experiment. A test to see if two complete opposites could stomach a harmless little kiss. This time we know each other, and it’s not harmless.

And even though it’s still an experiment, still part of the game, it’s better somehow. And it was pretty damn great before.

Stephanie lets out a breathy little sigh before her little tongue comes out to lick my bottom lip, and suddenly it’s impossible to remember that this isn’t real or that Andrea is watching.

I part her lips with my own, my free hand cupping around the back of her neck and holding her head still while I explore her lips, her teeth, her tongue.

She opens her mouth wide, and I take what she offers, tilting my head and deepening the kiss until we’re breathing in the same air. Breathing in each other.

She starts to roll toward me at the same time I lean toward her, and now I’m covering her, feeling her hard nipples against my bare chest through the thin fabric of her bikini top. Her skin’s so warm, and I don’t know if it’s from the sun or because of me, and I hope to God it’s the latter, because I don’t give a shit who’s watching—I’m dying for this girl.

I want to touch her everywhere, but I don’t trust myself, so I satisfy my fingers’ need to feel her by putting my hands on either side of her waist, letting them idly stroke along her rib cage, moving from bikini top to bikini bottom, but always reversing direction when my fingers touch fabric, never letting myself go over the fabric. And certainly not under. That would be the end of me.

Stephanie’s arms are around my neck, keeping my mouth glued to hers, and I have absolutely no objections. I feel her shift before my brain registers her movement, and I almost groan as I realize she’s spread her legs slightly, allowing me to rest in the cradle of her thighs. There’s no possible chance of hiding my erection now, and from the way she tilts her hips up to mine, I don’t think she minds.

“Yo! Ethan!”

I hear the voice vaguely, but since it’s not Stephanie’s, I don’t care, and my arm finds its way around the small of her back as I jerk her closer because I can’t get close enough.

“Ethan!”

This time I register Stephanie’s palms pushing against my shoulders, and I pull back slightly, ready to kill whoever’s interrupting the hottest fucking kiss of my life.

My eyes find Stephanie’s, and she looks as completely lost as I feel.

“What are you kids trying to do, outburn the sun?”

I tear my gaze away from Stephanie, looking up to see Andrea standing on the driver’s seat, grinning down at us.

“Really, Andi?” I ask in irritation.

And then I remember that this whole thing is for her benefit in the first place, and I shake my head to clear it.

“Brian and I are starving,” she says. “Let’s head back to the house for something to eat.”

I want to tell her to piss off, but Stephanie’s squirming under me, and not in the aroused way of before, but in a panicked little get-off-me squirm, and I drop my head briefly in resignation before rolling off her. I move quickly into a sitting position, resting my forearms over my knees as I face away from Andrea. I pretend I’m taking in the setting sun, but really I need a second for the lower half of my body to be fit for company.

Stephanie is fixing the swimsuit that’s become twisted in our kiss, and she ignores me completely as she climbs to her feet and makes her way back toward Andrea. She’s chattering animatedly about what we should have for dinner, and her voice doesn’t have even a trace of the sexual frustration that has me feeling like punching something.

I hear the start of the motor, and I reluctantly get up, being careful to keep Stephanie’s towel in front of my crotch as I rejoin the rest of the group.

Brian and Andrea don’t say a word about the fact that Stephanie and I were about two minutes away from screwing on their boat, and I can only hope that it’s because they’re convinced we’re just like any other new-ish couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.

Except Stephanie and I aren’t a couple. Not really.

And yet I have absolutely no interest in keeping my hands off her.

I drop into one of the free seats in the back of the boat as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks: I’m totally hot for Stephanie Kendrick.

As though sensing my thoughts, she pivots in the chair in front of me to face me. Her sunglasses are back on, and I’m annoyed that I can’t see her eyes. To see if that stormy heat is still there.

She gives me a little smile before reaching out to give my knee a pat. The gesture is as chaste as it gets.

“I think we did it,” she says quietly. Triumphantly.

My mind goes blank for a second. Did what?

“They totally bought it,” she continues as she pulls her long hair into a messy knot. “Plus this is a great potential scene for the screenplay.”

She might as well have tossed cold water on my balls. Apparently I’m the only one who wants to finish what we started.

But I can’t be mad at her for keeping her head on straight. I was the one who messed up. I broke the cardinal rule in this little game we’re playing: I went and forgot that it is a game.

A mistake I have no intention of repeating.

Chapter Thirteen

Stephanie

Ethan is grumpy.

And I tell him so as he unlocks the door to our apartment after a long weekend of boating, fake flirting, and drinking a little too much local wine from some of the fabulous Finger Lakes wineries.

Ethan drops the cooler and his duffel bag in the entryway and turns to give me a look.

“Of course I’m grumpy, Kendrick. I spent two nights sleeping on the floor.”

“I gave you a pillow and a blanket!” I call after his retreating back. “And it’s not like you warned me that your friends would expect us to share a bedroom.”

“They think we’re a twentysomething couple that’s shacking up, Stephanie. Of course they expected that we’d want to share a bedroom.”

And not just a bedroom. A bed. A really big bed that I had all to myself both nights.

Honestly, I intended to suggest that we share the bed. Platonically, of course. It was king-sized, and a few strategically placed pillows between us could have kept the whole thing very PG.

But then that kiss happened that first afternoon on the boat. And there was no way in freaking hell that I trusted myself to share a bed with Ethan Price and keep my hands to myself.

Which is weird. I’ve never really gotten that hot-and-heavy urge with guys. I mean, sure, when I was fifteen and first with Caleb there was the usual awkward groping and necking. I wasn’t easy or anything, but it wasn’t all that long before I let Caleb get to second base.

Then I came home on that gorgeous April afternoon, and my parents were waiting for me with the news.

Cancer.

From then on, I had no interest in getting to any base. I certainly wasn’t thinking about losing my virginity.

Then that night with Caleb happened, and it was all I could think about because the choice had been taken from me. And the one person I might have told—the one person I wanted to tell—was dead. My virginity and my mother gone on the same night.

If my dad knew the whole story, maybe he wouldn’t wonder why I went from a peppy little cheerleader to a despondent college student in the span of a few months.

Still, my crappy history can’t explain why after four years of not having even the slightest interest in sex, it’s becoming all I can think about with Ethan. I tried to fake interest with David and a handful of guys before that, but I always chickened out at the last minute.

Because of that, I almost can’t blame David for hooking up with Leah. I mean, he’s still an ass, but the guy didn’t make it a secret that he wanted sex. And he wasn’t getting it from me.

So what gives? I didn’t want to go all the way with my real boyfriend, but I’m lusting after my fake one?

But then, David never kissed like Ethan kisses. Nobody kisses like Ethan kisses. Perhaps if they did, things would be different. Perhaps if past boyfriends kissed like Ethan Price, my sexual experience wouldn’t be limited to a single night I can’t even remember.

Don’t go there, Stephanie.

I drop my bag onto my bed and contemplate taking one of the bubble baths that I seem to be getting addicted to, but I can’t get my mind off Ethan’s crankiness on the car ride home. I thought I’d come to know all of the different Ethans, but this quiet version is unfamiliar. And kind of unnerving.

I wander into the kitchen and find him making a turkey sandwich. He cuts it in half and holds out one of the triangles to me, but I shake my head.

“You don’t have to share your food,” I say with a little smile. “You have a couple days off from being a boyfriend before your cousin’s wedding.”

He meets my eyes and takes a big bite of the section he just held out to me. “Great. Guess that means you can stop with the accidental touches for a few days too.”

I blink a little at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

He chews and swallows, never taking his eyes off me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. For the past two days you couldn’t even pass by me to go take a piss without touching my arm. Couldn’t scoot by me in the kitchen without your boobs brushing against my back.”

Immediately I feel my face flame. “I was just playing the part. You said Andrea thought we were jumpy when we touched. I was just trying to make it real. Like we touched each other all the time.”

“Except we don’t.”

I throw my hands up. “Of course we don’t, Ethan! When there’s nobody around, we can barely stand each other.”

His head tilts back a little. “Really?”

No, not really.

“Well, I mean … I guess we’ve become friends of a sort,” I hedge.

God, when did this all of a sudden become so complicated?

Oh, right. Probably when we made out on the bow of Andrea’s boat.

But that was all for show. So what’s with his bad mood?

“Hey, Ethan,” I say, watching as he finishes his sandwich as though I’m not there.

“What’s up?”

I smile sweetly. “When are you going to tell me what crawled up your butt?”

The question catches him off guard, as though he’s never had to explain a foul mood to anybody before. Hell, he probably hasn’t. He’s had no siblings to answer to, and his parents, while perhaps overly interested in his love life, don’t seem the least bit interested in what makes Ethan tick.

Maybe Olivia was, but the girl cheated on him, so somehow I’m thinking she probably wasn’t exactly all that invested in what Ethan was thinking or feeling.

I soften a little at the thought. Looking at it that way, it’s sad, actually. Maybe someone who’s had everything material handed to him doesn’t have the first clue about how to ask for something that money can’t buy. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he wants.

Although if that’s the case, I’m hardly the one to teach him. I quit wanting things a long time ago, much less asking for them.

“I already told you,” he says sulkily. “I’m just tired.”

I shrug. “Got it. So take a nap already. This bad-tempered Ethan is ruining the feng shui of our apartment.”

“My apartment.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I just spent an entire weekend faking being in love with you, and I have to do it all over again next weekend. Until we’re done, it’s our apartment.”

Something flashes across his face then, and all of a sudden the apartment, which was huge by Manhattan standards, feels stiflingly small.

I don’t know why I threw out the L word, I really don’t. We’ve never talked about it before, and honestly it’s not even necessary considering that we’re telling people that our relationship is only a month old. There’s no reason we have to pretend to be in love; we just have to pretend to be moving in that direction.

So why did I say it?

“Do you want to go to a movie?” I blurt out.

“A movie?”

“Yeah. You know, overpriced tickets, sticky floors, fake-butter popcorn … a movie.”

He tilts his head. “Are you going to make me go to one of those snooty theaters where they only play highbrow shit?”

“And listen to you whine the entire time? No way. I’ll save those outings for my fellow film students. You can pick.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

I give him a toothy grin. “Reward for sleeping on the floor.”

He crosses his arms across his chest and studies me. “Fine. How about …”

I carefully hide my wince at the blow-’em-up blockbuster he names. That sort of bigbudget CGI monstrosity is my personal nightmare. But having a couple of hours to sit by Ethan without having to pretend? It sounds nice. Really nice.

I want to get back to the easy companionship we had before the trip. Before that kiss. Because now I don’t just have to play pretend when other people are around. I also have to put on a show when we’re alone. And in some ways, the act when it’s just the two of us is that much harder.

Who knew that pretending you’re not falling for someone would be so much more difficult than pretending you are?

Chapter Fourteen

Ethan

Stephanie and I are back to normal.

And by normal, I mean we’re treating each other as asexual roommates who bicker over who gets to choose the channel and whether we get chicken or tofu on our pad thai takeout, and we have yet to agree on the minimum distance to a destination that justifies when we can get a cab.

The kiss on the boat? Forgotten.

Those sleepless nights up at the Finger Lakes where we listened to each other toss and turn and want? Forgotten.

That day in the kitchen when I almost stupidly proposed a friends-with-benefits scenario and she saved me by suggesting a movie? Also forgotten—mostly.

Except now we’re at my cousin’s wedding, and we have to be back on. Although the change between faking being a couple and being ourselves doesn’t feel as drastic as it did before. Before, when we were in front of other people, it felt like someone had flipped a switch: we’d go from two opposites who are doing each other a favor to a goopy, over-the-top couple.

But tonight? Tonight as we dance, flirt, and drink champagne?

Tonight doesn’t feel fake.

I keep telling myself that it’s simply because we’re getting more used to the whole process. I tell myself that it’s not because the lines are being blurred.

Besides, there is one big thing tonight that’s different from the past few days: tonight the touching is back.

God help me.

“We should dance,” she says under her breath as she gulps some water.

“We’ve been dancing,” I say, discreetly wiping sweat from the back of my neck. My aunt and uncle are paying through the nose for this wedding, which is at one of the city’s fanciest hotels, so of course there’s air-conditioning. But there are also three hundred people crammed into too small a space, and it seems like half of them have been jumping around on the dance floor with us.

“No, I mean we should dance dance,” she says, gesturing toward the swaying couples.

I glance down at her head. “It’s a slow song.”

“Exactly,” she says pointedly.

She’s right, of course. I’ve been feeling my mother’s eyes on us all evening. She’s probably hoping for some sign that the newness is wearing off and that we’re on our way to breaking up. I also saw the way that every single member of my extended family jolted when I introduced Stephanie—when they saw that she isn’t Olivia.

So yeah, I guess we should dance. Except I don’t want to. Not like that, not with her looking the way she does.

Her cocktail dress is bright green, and it’s one of those tie-around-the neck deals that keeps her fantastic rack covered up while leaving her back bare. A back that I’ll have to touch if we dance.

But she’s already grabbing my hand, expertly weaving through the fancily dressed guests until we’re in the middle of the dance floor. We’re right next to the bride and groom, and I watch in surprise as my cousin grabs Stephanie’s arm and whispers something before the two of them giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.

Just when did Stephanie have time to befriend Paige?

And where the hell is that black-clothed artsy-fartsy gnome who once lectured me on the underappreciated appeal of film noir?

Paige’s new husband reclaims her for their dance, and I take a deep breath as Stephanie steps toward me, fitting her body easily against mine as she slides a hand around my shoulder and cuddles up. My hand finds her back, and I think I hear her let out a little sigh as we begin to sway to some sappy nonsense.

I was right in thinking that touching the bare skin on Stephanie’s back wasn’t a good idea. The warm smoothness of it reminds me of that moment on the boat when I slipped a hand beneath her, tilting her up—

“Your relatives seem nice,” she says against my shoulder.

“That’s because it’s my dad’s side of the family,” I say, grateful for a topic of conversation that doesn’t have to do with kissing. Or skin. Or touching. “You’re lucky there are no Clark family gatherings while we’re doing our little charade. They’re a bunch of vipers.”

“Your mom seems to have warmed up to me, though.”

I hesitate. “That’s only because the Middletons are in Europe, so she can’t spend the entire evening foisting Olivia on me.”

“Olivia was invited to the wedding?”

My fingers tighten reflexively. “Yeah. But her cousin’s getting married to some Swiss billionaire this same weekend. She’ll be at the party, though,” I say, wanting to warn her.

“This big fancy Hamptons party, yeah?” she says.

I nod and take a deep breath. “Michael will be there too.”

Her eyes search my face. “That’s why you really initiated this plan, isn’t it? Not just to get your mom off your back. But because you don’t want to go to that party alone. Not when they’ll both be there.”

I pull her closer again so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “Maybe. Honestly, I’m not sure at all anymore why I’m doing this.”

It’s a loaded statement, and I’m talking about more than just Olivia and my mother. I suspect she knows it, because her fingers tighten slightly around mine.

I’m beginning to think this is the longest song in the world, and I’m torn between wanting to pull away and not wanting it to end. I turn my head slightly, my chin brushing against her hair. It smells as good as it looks. For the life of me, I don’t know why I ever thought I preferred blondes.

Stop sniffing the girl, for God’s sake.

Stephanie shifts slightly, and the movement causes my hand, which is already low on her back, to dip lower until the tips of my fingers slide just under the fabric of her dress. We both freeze, and I order myself to move my hand. And I do, but not in the direction I should. Instead my fingers stroke just slightly, moving against the small of her back in a heated little caress.

There’s nothing indecent about the touch. It’s not like I’m palming her ass or anything, and nobody around us even notices.

But the fact that nobody notices is exactly what makes it indecent. Because I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.

I leave my hand where it is for a few heated moments in which the two of us barely move. I start to shift to safer territory, but my hand doesn’t seem to move as far as it should, and I let my pinky finger hover just beneath the fabric.

The distinction between harmless and not-so-harmless touch is infinitesimal here, but I’ve definitely crossed the line. Anyone who might dance with Stephanie would touch the exposed part of her back. But only a boyfriend’s fingers should stray beneath the fabric and linger. And mine are definitely lingering.

The song finally ends, and when we pull back, I don’t think it’s my imagination that she looks a little shaky. I should be relieved that she’s not immune to me. That I’m not alone here. But instead all I can think is, Danger!

The music starts up again, and it’s one of those poppy, girl-power type of songs that has every female on the dance floor letting out a squeal. Even Stephanie.

I find myself grinning at the sight, unable to reconcile the happily bopping party girl with the gloomy film student I met just a few weeks ago.

A couple of my other cousins swoop toward Stephanie, pulling her into the fray of dancing women as they all begin belting out the chorus, which I’m pretty sure will be in my head until the day I die.

I hold up my hands in surrender, giving her a little wink before backing off of the estrogen-dominated dance floor. She gives me a happy wave before turning her back and yelling something in my cousin Tiffany’s ear.

I shake my head, unable to figure out when she managed to make friends with the entire Price clan. There must have been some girly powwow in the bathroom that I’m thrilled to have missed.

I help myself to a piece of cake—my third of the evening, but who’s counting?—when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I smile at my dad, who looks as relaxed and happy as I’ve ever seen him. I scan the room for my mother, but there’s no sign of her. I remember a time when my parents were glued to each other’s side. Not because they were supposed to be, but because they wanted to be. Or at least I always assumed they wanted to be. Maybe kids just see what they want to see, and I wanted to think my parents were perfectly happy together.

But even a kid wouldn’t have been able to excuse seeing my mother and Mike together. And an adult child definitely can’t.

“Having fun?” I ask as the two of us watch the female dance party.

“Always did love a good wedding. And Paige and Aaron seem happy together. A good-looking couple.”

Despite the fact that my dad’s almost as cluelessly snobbish as my mom about most things—he once said he couldn’t understand why everyone in Manhattan didn’t just get a driver so the city could get rid of the damn taxis—he’s been developing this sort of jolly-old-man persona over the past few years, at least in social settings. In the office, he’s still the business-minded tyrant I remember from my childhood.

As though reading my mind, he takes a sip of his drink—whisky soda, unless he’s been changing it up lately—and turns to face me. “You haven’t been in the office much.”

I resist the urge to sigh. “I told you, Dad. I just want one summer off. I’ll be spending my entire adulthood at Price Holdings. I don’t want to burn out before I even get started. And I drop by whenever I can.”

I hate that I sound like a whiny little boy, but I mean what I say. I really do want the family company. Someday.

But today I just want … hell, I don’t even know. I don’t remember ever having questioned my path before, but I guess my breakup with Olivia was the catalyst for everything turning upside down.

When we were together, everything felt so mapped out for me. In a good way. Then the relationship fell apart, and I just needed … a break? A change? It’s why I pushed to do the summer class with Martin Holbrook even though I didn’t know the first thing about film.

And it’s why I lied to my parents and told them I had a new girlfriend when I didn’t.

I wasn’t ready to go back to being the old Ethan. The Ethan who was the perfect son, the perfect boyfriend, and the perfect heir to the company.

I guess one could say I’m on vacation.

Stephanie is my vacation. Or something.

My dad finally lets out one of those parent-like sighs. “Fair enough. I forget that you’re only twenty-one sometimes. I suppose everyone deserves a chance to sow their wild oats.”

I mentally congratulate myself for not rolling my eyes at the sheer dad factor of that phrase. “Is that what you think I’m doing this summer? Sowing wild oats?”

Dad shrugs, the ice clinking against his glass. “Your mother seems to think so. Says that this Stephanie girl’s just a bit of fluff you need to get out of your system.”

“Before settling down with Olivia,” I say, not bothering to keep the derision out of my voice.

My dad shrugs again. “Personally, I like Stephanie. Sweet without being sugary, you know?”

I smile a little as I picture the real Stephanie with her goth glower. “She’s definitely not sugary.”

“It’s good to see you happy again,” my dad says.

I pause in the process of scraping the last bit of frosting off my plate with the side of the fork. It’s not a statement I’d expect my father to make. The man’s good-natured enough outside the office but not exactly effusive.

“Yeah, well, breakups tend to be a blow to one’s mood.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’m not talking just since the breakup. I’m saying you seem the happiest you’ve been in years.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know what he’s seeing, but that can’t possibly be true. Olivia and I were happy. Enough. I mean, maybe we’d gotten a little comfortable with each other. And perhaps a little more settled than we should have been for being barely twenty-one.

But I was happy.

Wasn’t I?

The stupid girly song ends, and the DJ must be starting to wind down the party for the night, because it’s another slow song.

My dad grunts and sets his empty glass on a nearby tray. “I suppose that’s my cue to go find your mother. She always complains that I never ask her to dance.”

Huh.

My dad finds my mom, who accepts his hand with a reserved little smile as he leads her to the dance floor. I watch them for a moment, wanting—wishing—that I could look at my mom without thinking about that day. That I could go back. Which is stupid, obviously.

I’m so busy watching my parents that I don’t see Stephanie until she’s at my side, her presence surprisingly comforting.

She doesn’t suggest that we dance again, and I don’t either. It’s like there’s an invisible line, and we both know that dancing again would push us across it.

“Wanna get out of here?” I ask.

“Hell, yes. My feet are killing me.”

I want to tell her that it’s her own fault for wearing skyscraper heels. It’s like part of some female code that they have to wear the most uncomfortable shoes imaginable and then complain about them.

But I know she’s wearing them for me. That if it were up to her, she’d be wearing her scary black boots and glowering in the corner. Another reminder that none of this is real.

The thought is more depressing than it should be.

“So how’d I do?” she asks after we’ve slipped out a side door into the warm summer night.

“You mean did anybody catch on to the fact that you have major Wiccan tendencies? Nah, I think we’re good.”

“Excellent,” she says with a pleased little smile as she grabs my arm and lets me half support, half drag her along the sidewalk as I keep my eye out for an available cab. “Two down, one more to go.”

I’m not following. “Two of what down?”

“Our Pygmalion adventure. When we started, you said you needed me for three events: dinner with the parents, the wedding, and the party in a couple of weeks.”

“You happy about that?”

“Happy about what?”

“That we only have one more of these shenanigans left before our deal is over?”

She’s quiet for several seconds, and I think she’s not going to answer. Then …

“I’m not sure.”

She sounds as confused and conflicted as I feel. As far as admissions go, it’s not much. It’s probably nothing. But I feel a little surge of happiness at the confession.

“If we don’t find a cab soon, I’m gonna freaking kill someone with the heel of my shoe,” Stephanie says as her gait becomes even wobblier.

I’ve moved before I realize I’m going to, and suddenly Stephanie is in my arms and I’m carrying my fake girlfriend through the Upper West Side as she mutters threats in my ear, and even though my delicate little flower is cursing up a storm, I find myself grinning.

My dad was right.

I am happy.

Chapter Fifteen

Stephanie

“How do we know Martin even knows what he’s talking about?” Ethan asks.

I take a long sip of Diet Coke and try not to roll my eyes. “Well, here’s my way of thinking—and it’s just a hunch—but Martin has a couple of Golden Globes and an Oscar under his belt. For screenwriting. There’s gotta be at least a fifty-fifty chance that he knows his shit.”

Ethan rocks back in his chair and studies me. “Wow, just a couple of hours in your old get-up and you’re back to your old bitchy self.”

His comment stings, and I fiddle with the tab on my soda can so he can’t tell. I wasn’t trying to be bitchy. Maybe that’s my problem. The real me—the one that doesn’t wear sundresses and shimmery eye shadow—is bitchy without trying.

It’s no wonder he likes the fake me a hell of a lot better than the real me.

Although I have to admit that as far as summer clothes go, the fake me’s attire is a hell of a lot more practical. It’s also comfortable. Too comfortable. So I figured it was time to remind myself that it’s not the real me. I pulled on my old cargo pants and tank top today, although I stuck with flip-flops instead of the boots. I didn’t miss Ethan’s double take when I came into the kitchen, but what did he expect? We don’t have any Price family obligations, and we had to go to campus to have Martin Holbrook look over our notes for our screenplay. This is my turf. Surely Ethan didn’t expect me to be wearing freaking pastels.

And besides, I need my old stuff—my battle armor. Things have been getting a little too close between the two of us lately. I want some distance. And judging from the way he’s been snapping at me since the night of his cousin’s wedding and spending all of his time at his dad’s office, I suspect he does too.

But we can only avoid each other so much, and the clock is ticking on our film project. It’s time to focus on the reason we went down this path in the first place: turning this train wreck into a movie idea.

“I think Professor Holbrook has a point,” I say as I glance down at the scribbles all over our story notes.

“Quit calling him that,” Ethan says as he continues to rock back and forth in his chair like an insolent schoolboy.

“Well, I’m not going to call him Martin,” I snap. “Just because he was your father’s frat brother and is your freaking godfather doesn’t mean he’s anything other than a professor to me. And if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to do well in this class.”

His chair comes back to the floor with a loud click. “All right, all right. Take it easy before you whip out your knife collection.”

“I wish I had a knife collection,” I say under my breath.

“So what was Martin yammering about when he read our notes?” he asks, pulling my notebook toward him. “Something something conflict?”

“Yup. It’s the single most important aspect to a storyline like this one. We don’t have it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. “We have two complete opposites thrown together pretending to be a couple when they don’t like each other. Bam. Fireworks.”

I snatch the notebook back. “Where exactly is the bam? Holbrook’s right. As of now, we have the two protagonists one hundred percent cooperating in this little venture. They’re both getting something out of it. They’re on the same page. They’ll happily part ways when they’re done. It’s boring.”

Do I feel a little silly talking about the two of us in the third person? Sure. But I have to stay objective. Our little adventure is the basis for the screenplay, but at the end of the day this isn’t about me or Ethan. It’s about the characters. It’s about what would make an interesting film.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

He’s clasping and unclasping his watch, which probably cost more than the house I grew up in, and I resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands and throw it at the wall. I don’t know what is with us these past few days, but we are not in sync. It’s as though that playful evening when he carried me through Central Park was some sort of warning sign that we were on the verge of screwing everything up. And so we’ve both regressed into antagonistic children.

The plan was supposed to be simple, and instead it feels more complicated than any real relationship I’ve ever been in.

It’s as though …

A lightbulb goes on. That’s it.

“These characters have to fall in love.”

Ethan freezes in his fidgeting. “Excuse me?”

“Tyler and Kayla,” I say, referring to the names of our screenplay characters. “They have it too easy right now. They have to start to fall in love. Or at least one of them does.”

He stares at me. “And that will give us conflict?”

“Come on,” I say, giving him a look. “Let’s pretend it’s real life. Would the two of us falling in love create conflict?”

The silence in the small study room is almost painful, although I’m not sure why. I mean, we’ve both seen the movies. We both know the Pygmalion story. We both knew at the start of all this what would need to happen in the screenplay.

But I know we’ve both been avoiding putting real emotion into our screenplay for this very reason. Because it’s getting harder and harder to separate Ethan from Tyler, and Kayla from me.

Our screenplay is supposed to be based on real life, but maybe we’re terrified that things will get reversed. That putting love in the screenplay will affect real life. And that’s so not in the cards.

“Okay, I’m with you,” he says slowly. “So Tyler and Kayla—do we really have to go with those names? They sound too similar … Too many Ys?”

“Change their names to whatever you want,” I mutter as I begin scribbling ideas in the notebook. I try to ignore him as he begins to rattle off alternative character names, although I cut him off when he gets to Woody and Ursula.

“Okay, how about this,” I say, tapping my pen excitedly on my notebook. I forgot what a rush screenplay writing can be, especially when an idea clicks. “So far we have the two of them doing all of the things that we’ve been doing in real life—faking a kiss on the boat, faking a dance at a wedding—but they’ve always been on the same page. We need for them to get off. For one of them to throw the other off balance.”

Ethan yawns. “I can tell you right now that no dude will go to this movie unless he’s fourteen and his mom drops him off so he can try to hold hands with his crush.”

I give him a patient look. “This insight into your horny childhood is delightful, but I think it’s safe to say that dudes aren’t our primary audience here. We’re going for the tween girl crowd.”

He brightens and starts to stand. “Sounds like your territory. How about you have at it, and I’ll go get us a couple of sandwiches.”

I jab my pen at his chest. “Sit. Stay. I am not doing this alone.”

He reluctantly drops into the chair. “Fine. I’ll bite. How do we throw our characters off balance?”

Other than having one of them carry the other through Central Park under starlight? Other than having a harmless slow dance turn sexy? Other than that, you mean?

But although I know both of those incidents happened, it’s becoming increasingly clear that they don’t matter. At least not to Ethan. Because just when I thought something was maybe happening, something other than the game, he went back to normal. He went back to a teasing, indifferent roommate.

Which is perfect for real life.

And exactly what isn’t working in our movie.

“They need to have a romantic moment that’s not about their charade. That’s not about convincing everyone else that that they’re in love. It needs to be real, and just between them.”

He gives me a blank stare. “Romantic. You mean like … flowers?”

“Yes, Ethan. That’s exactly what I mean. Please bring me flowers.”

His eyebrows creep up. “Who said anything about you and me? I thought we were talking about Tyler and Kayla.”

Oops.

“Well, it’s equally ridiculous with them,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the color I feel creeping up my neck. “We need to make it clear that they’ve crossed some sort of line.”

“So when you say romantic, you mean sexual,” he says, his brown eyes glowing gold.

My mouth is dry. “Um, sure, I guess.”

He shakes his head. “It won’t work. Nobody will believe there’s real attraction between these two.”

The flush that was creeping up my neck rushes to my face, except it’s no longer embarrassment. It’s anger. And maybe a little bit of hurt. Somehow I know he’s not talking about Tyler and Kayla either. He’s talking about us. Telling me that there can be no attraction there.

Except he’s wrong. There is.

Only apparently it’s one-way.

Suddenly I can’t be in this room anymore. Not with this guy whom I both want and hate. Hate because he’s a superficial snob who can’t see beyond my eyeliner … who can’t accept the girl who hates pink. Want because … well, hell, I don’t know why I want him. But I do.

I need to get out of here.

“Got it, Price. You figure out what would work in this story and just let me know.” I shove my notebook into my bag and am moving toward the door before I’ve even zipped it all the way.

I feel his fingers wrap around my arm seconds before I’m spun around and pushed up against the whiteboard, my backpack falling to the floor as he pins my hands above my head.

His mouth comes down on mine, and it’s rougher than the two times we’ve kissed before. Of course, those were both blatant demonstrations for an audience. But for this kiss we’re 100 percent alone.

His mouth moves insistently against mine, his tongue sweeping along my bottom lip once, twice, until I open for him. The kiss deepens and I try to pull my hands free so I can touch him, but his grip tightens, and he moves closer, using his body to pin me to the wall.

I’m distantly aware that although the study room is windowless, it’s also a public space, and anyone could come in at any time.

And I don’t care.

I give myself over to the kiss, and he seems to know the second I relent, because the kiss becomes softer. As though he’s seducing me instead of claiming me. I want him to be seduced too.

The room is silent except for the soft, wet sounds of our mouths moving against each other, and I’m really, really wishing that we were home. Or at least some place with a door. Because I don’t want to stop at kissing.

My eyes go wide at the realization, and I struggle against him, frantically trying to tug my hands free. Ethan seems to sense my panic and pulls back immediately, even as he gently cups my elbows to steady me.

We’re both breathing heavily, and I wonder if my face is as stunned as his at what just happened. Probably.

But I’m not just stunned. I’m terrified. For the first time since before my mom died—since before Caleb freaking drugged me—I want to be intimate with a guy. I mean, I really, really want Ethan Price. I want to be naked beneath him, want to see him above me …

I give my head a little shake and push against his chest. “What was that?”

He doesn’t say anything, just runs a hand across the back of his neck. I’ve come to realize that he only does that when he feels out of his element, and it should make me feel better that he’s as off-balance as me, but instead it just pisses me off.

How dare he kiss me if he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing!

He reaches down to pick up my bag and hands it to me. I snatch at it without saying thank you. I want it to be very clear which Stephanie he just kissed. It wasn’t the sweet, biddable fake Stephanie. It was the cranky, angry real Stephanie.

The one he can’t possibly be attracted to.

I tell myself to walk away with my dignity intact. Because I’m pretty sure there’s nothing he can say that I want to hear. But I hear myself asking the question anyway.

“Was that real? Or was that some sort of warped experiment that we can use in our screenplay?”

His eyes dart away from mine, and it’s pretty much all the answer I need.

“Got it,” I snap.

“Steffie—”

“Don’t call me that.” I move around him, giving him a wide berth so that there’s no chance of physical contact.

“Wait, just give me a minute, all right? I don’t know—”

“Well, figure it out, Ethan.”

I’m out the door, closing it behind me before he can say anything else that will just make it worse.

I lean against the door for a second, trying to catch my breath. To sort out my thoughts. But the only thought that comes to mind is the realization that I want to cry, which doesn’t make sense. I haven’t cried—haven’t wanted to cry—since that day I found out my mom had cancer.

And I hate that some superficial, gorgeous rich kid who’d walk away from me without a second glance was the one to make me feel desire and pain—two emotions I thought were long dead inside me.

Chapter Sixteen

Ethan

If I was sort of dodging Stephanie after our too-friendly night at my cousin’s wedding, I’ve been all-out avoiding her after that kiss in the library.

A kiss that wasn’t about the game, or the movie, or anything other than the fact that I wanted her.

And she wanted me too.

At least I’m pretty sure she did. But then she totally flipped out and ran.

I don’t know what to think, or what to say to her. So I’ve been doing what any twentysomething dude with some common sense would do: I’ve been giving her a wide berth.

She seems to have had the same thought, because in the few words we have exchanged, she mentioned that she’s taken on a couple of extra shifts at the coffee shop. For my part, I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of time at Price Holdings, considering I’m not even an official intern. I’m getting no school credit and no pay (not that I need the pay), and to be honest, I don’t know that I’m contributing much. Mostly I’ve just been shadowing my father, listening in on conference calls, observing the way he handles everyone from the staff to hotshot investors.

I keep waiting for the moment when it all freaks me out and I decide that I want to trade in my bespoke suits for hemp necklaces and linen drawstring pants and go be a tour guide in Costa Rica. In other words, I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and rebel against the expectations—and advantages—that have been heaped upon me since I was a kid.

But it hasn’t happened yet. It’s like I told Stephanie during that stupid two-truths-and-a-lie game: I really am excited about my legacy, or whatever. I may have signed up as a business major because it’s what my parents encouraged, but I’ve stayed there because I like it. I like the way numbers fit together if you work them just right. I like the way business is all about the balance between people and money.

And call me superficial, but I even like the whole modern high-rise scene that’s waiting for me.

Price Holdings fits me. Just like Olivia fit me.

Just like Stephanie, with her cargos and scowls, doesn’t.

Case in point: this morning when we exchanged a few curt words over coffee, I saw that she has some little skeleton decals on her nails. Skeletons.

Is it any wonder I’ve been hiding out at my father’s office? Why the hell didn’t I do what I’ve done every other summer and intern there officially, instead of getting some wild hair up my ass to take a film class?

Then I exit the elevator into the Price Holdings lobby and see him.

And I remember exactly why I’ve been avoiding the office.

“Ethan! Hold on a second!”

I roll my shoulders and debate exiting the lobby like I haven’t heard him. But there are enough eyes on us to make that obvious, and I must have just enough of my mother in me to care what people think.

So instead I turn and face the man who’s boning my mother.

But I don’t smile at him the way I would have a couple of months ago. At one time he was like a second father. Now he’s only the man who’s trying to replace my father.

“Mike.”

He extends a hand, giving it the old man-to-man pump. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, son. Your dad tells me you’ve been busy with a summer school class?”

“Just sort of a fun elective course,” I hear myself mutter. I hate myself for not having the balls to tell him that I’ve been trying to avoid him. And his son.

But then, perhaps the fact that I’m doing just that is the proof that I don’t have balls.

“And a new girlfriend, I hear,” he says, keeping his voice low, as though we’re co-conspirators. I want to punch him.

“How’s Michael?” I ask instead.

Mike senior blinks, a little surprised that I’d be asking about his only son. Not so long ago, he’d probably have been asking me how Michael was. Back when Michael and I were inseparable.

Mike senior has to have noticed that I’m not over there every other day anymore, but he doesn’t say anything about it. I wonder if Michael’s fessed up about banging Olivia.

“He’s good, he’s good,” Mike says, shifting his briefcase to his other hand. “Been interning over at my accountant’s firm, actually. Thought it would be good for him to get some hands-on experience with managing books.”

Tell him you saw him with Mom, a voice inside me prods. Tell him you don’t care that he and Dad are business partners, that he should stay the hell away from your family. Instead I just give an awkward little nod, as though I give a flying fuck what my former best friend is up to these days. “Well, I’ve gotta get going.”

“Sure, sure. You’ll want to beat the worst of rush hour. See you around, son.”

Don’t call me son. “Sure. See you around.”

For about five seconds after walking away from Mike, I debate stopping by my parents’ house to confront my mother. Rip off the Band-Aid and all that, because the shock of realizing Mom’s having an affair is wearing off and now it’s just getting … sad.

But I keep thinking about how stressed she’s been with this whole Hamptons party next weekend. It’s pretty much the biggest thing she takes on all year, and it has professional and personal ramifications. And the Hamptons weekend is also important to my dad. At the very least, I owe it to him to wait until it’s all over before I risk blowing up our family.

Plus, selfishly, I’d rather do it when I can escape back to school full time. Where I can lose myself in the jam-packed fall semester ahead and, I hope, a bevy of girls who have been look-but-don’t-touch the past three years because of Olivia. Now I’ll be able to touch if I want to.

I head home. Stephanie will be there, but then that’s my own fault, isn’t it? My brilliant idea to bring a big-boobed roommate into my home.

Of course, I didn’t know then that she’d be a fantastic kisser. Or that under all that ill humor there’s a funny, sweet side. Didn’t know that I’d feel like she knows me better after three weeks than Olivia did after a decade.

I owe her an apology. For my moods, for the kiss … for letting her think that day in the library that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—be attracted to her.

Because while I still don’t think a girl like her and a guy like me are headed to the altar or anything, the attraction is definitely there. And maybe it’s time we do something about it.

I let myself into the apartment, in the best mood I’ve been in for days, only to stop short at the sight in my living room: Stephanie’s douche bag of a boyfriend is on my fucking couch, and his hand is on Stephanie’s leg. They both jerk when they see me, and I don’t have to be Einstein to know I’ve interrupted something.

I don’t say a word as I set my bag down, but my eyes never leave Stephanie’s. She looks guilty at first, but after studying my expression, the guilt is replaced by something that looks like stubbornness.

“What’s up, man?” I say casually, tearing my eyes away from Stephanie and glancing at David.

“Elliot,” he says, giving a little nod.

I don’t bother to hide my eye roll as I grab a beer from the fridge. The fake messing up of the opponent’s name is the oldest trick in the male handbook.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Just brought Steph’s DVDs back over. You know how she is about her movies.”

I see his hand move a little higher on her thigh as he says it. A thigh that’s covered in cargo fatigues.

Belatedly my eyes skim over the rest of her, and I see what I didn’t notice when I first came in: the boots, the tough-girl pants, one of those trademark tiny tanks, and the gray shit on her eyes. She’s been dabbling with pieces of her old self for the past few days—the boots, the nails, the pants—but apparently she decided to go all out tonight, because it’s the full-goth Stephanie.

It should make me want her less. It should remind me that it’s David who’s her type, not me.

But mostly I want to tell him to get his hands off her.

I take a sip of my beer and keep my face perfectly blank. “Stephanie, you have all your DVDs?”

Her eyes narrow at my casual tone. It’s like I said—she knows me. “Yeah.”

“Excellent,” I say with my best smile before turning to David. “Get the fuck out.”

David may be a skinny artist type, but he’s apparently not a pushover, because he stands to face me and his expression is pissed.

Can’t say I blame him. I’m being a dick, but it’s my house, and this asshole’s hand was on Stephanie when he has another girlfriend—

Shit. At least I hope he has another girl. What if he broke it off with that Leah chick and wants Stephanie back?

The thought makes my beer taste like piss.

“Dude, can you give us a minute?” David asks, doing a far better job with manners than I am.

“For what?”

He ignores my question and turns to Stephanie. His eyes go sappy and pleading, and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s coming. The guy’s realized that he threw Stephanie over for a skank, and now he wants the good one back.

I no longer just want to ask him to leave. I want to throw him out on his hipster ass.

“Stephanie?” I ask.

She sucks in her cheeks and looks angry, but I can’t tell if she’s mad at me for acting like a possessive dick or at David for daring to touch her after cheating on her.

“You should go, David.”

I smile. She’s mad at David.

Then her blue eyes find mine, and I’m not entirely sure they won’t actually shoot poison darts at me. She’s definitely pissed at me too.

I rein in my caveman mood enough so that I don’t follow them to the front door, but I’m not going to pretend that I don’t try to eavesdrop, just a little. But they’re whispering, and I can’t make out any words. Then the whispering stops altogether, and I strain to hear anything at all. Are they kissing? I force myself to go sit on the couch so that I don’t completely lose my shit. If they want to get back together, that’s their business.

Except damn. The very thought burns my throat.

I hear the front door click shut, and Stephanie stomps back into the living room, looking every bit as angry and mutinous as she did that day I first ran into her in the hallway. Only this time I’m pretty sure she’d stab me with her pens, rather than just drop them tamely into her little-kid backpack.

She doesn’t say a word as she rummages around in one of my cabinets and pulls out a bottle of bourbon. I raise an eyebrow. “Rough day?”

Stephanie manages to simultaneously pour a couple of fingers into a tumbler and give me the bird. She drops a few ice cubes into the glass. Whisky actually sounds perfect right now, but I know better than to ask her to pour me some when she’s in Ethan-must-die mode, so I set my barely touched beer aside and pour some for myself, sans ice.

She commandeers the couch after I get up, and I know I should give her space, but I live here too, so I sit next to her. Not close enough to touch, but closer than roommates would, considering there’s a half dozen other spots to sit in the room.

I expect her to give me a blistering lecture about respecting boundaries, and What the hell were you thinking? and You’re such a Neanderthal, but she’s just sitting there quietly, patiently, taking tiny sips of bourbon.

I can tell out of the corner of my eye that she’s watching me. Waiting for me to explain. Except I don’t have an explanation other than that I was jealous, and we both know that’s crazy, so I say the only other thing that comes to mind.

“Sorry.”

She lets out a little Stephanie snort before setting her glass aside and starting to untie her combat boots. I watch her fingers unwind the laces, and I want her to say something. Anything. I want her to say, No problem, Price, but more than that, I want her to tell me there’s nothing going on with that douche bag David.

I want her to tell me that she wants me to kiss her again.

Perhaps most of all, I want her to explain why she pushed me away from that kiss in the library in the first place. Because she was every bit as into it as I was. I could tell.

But maybe I have to give a little to get a little.

“My mom’s having an affair,” I say.

Well. That came out of nowhere. I’m suddenly remembering why I haven’t really touched whisky since the night of my twenty-first birthday several months back, when I got hammered and spent the rest of the day puking. But worse than the hangover, whisky makes me chatty. Disaster.

Her fingers falter for a second on her boot laces, but she doesn’t look up. “And?”

And? And?

“Well, it totally sucks,” I say, feeling like a little boy, even though I’m pretty sure I’m justified in being upset about this.

She nods, takes a drink, and then starts on her other shoelace. “How’d you find out?”

Here we go. “I um … I saw her with Michael’s dad. Right after I saw my friend with Olivia, actually.”

I thought it’d suck to say it out loud, but although it still sounds as farcical as it did in my head, I realize that some of the sting is gone.

She does look up then, her eyes meeting mine. “You walked in on your girlfriend with your best friend, and then saw your mom sleeping with your best friend’s dad? And you’re sure this wasn’t a dream? Or a hallucination?”

Despite the fact that her words are flippant, her eyes are concerned, and I belatedly become aware that her hand is on mine, her thumb rubbing against my knuckles. I glance down at her small hand on my larger one.

It looks right.

It feels right.

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” I say, trying to give a half smile. “It was definitely my mother kissing another dude. And it wasn’t just a peck, if you know what I mean.”

She kicks off both boots and scoots back on the couch, facing me. “Oh, I do know what you mean. In fact, I received a kiss like that just a few days ago. Weird thing, though—the guy quit talking to me after.”

I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Weird thing happened to me too! Similar experience, except the girl darted away from the kiss like a terrified little rabbit.”

Her eyes fall to her glass and she stabs at the ice cubes with one skeleton fingernail. “A rabbit, no. Terrified, yes.”

Ah, shit. She was scared of me?

“Why?” I ask, keeping my voice as soft and nonconfrontational as possible.

She doesn’t answer for a few seconds, and when she does, it’s not to address my question. “Your whole experience with Olivia and your mom … is that why you went all weird when you saw me and David together?”

I tilt my head back. “I don’t see the connection.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “I think you do.”

I hate when girls do this, and I struggle to follow her train of thought. It doesn’t take me long.

“You think I was pissed that David was here because I thought you were cheating on me?”

She shrugs. “You tell me.”

No. “No,” I say. “That’s not it. I mean yeah, I did think you guys were, um … on the verge of something. But I wasn’t mad because I was jealous. How could I be when we’re not really together?”

“Exactly,” she says, her eyes boring into mine.

“Exactly,” I repeat back.

What the fuck is going on here? I swear to God, talking to her when she’s all gothed out is a trip down a fucking rabbit hole.

“So we agree,” I say. “I’m not jealous.”

“Okay,” she says simply.

“But are you and David … um … together?”

She gives me a look. “You’re not the only one who’s been cheated on, hotshot. You really think I’d go back to him?”

“But his hand …”

“Was creeping, yes. And I was actually relieved for about a half second when you came home because I thought you’d help protect me.”

Terrified. Protect. Her choice of words to describe physical contact with guys is odd.

But of course it would be. Her senior year … the roofie … her piece-of-trash ex-boyfriend.

I haven’t pressed her about that night. Not because I don’t care. On the contrary, I probably care too much. And she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it with me. But now I feel like the world’s biggest dick for letting it sit there between us unaddressed. Because I know—somehow I know—that that night has everything to do with why she is the way she is. And why she seemed mostly unfazed by David’s infidelity. And maybe even why she seems scared to death about whatever’s between us.

Only I don’t have a fucking clue how to bring it up. I guess I could just ask her what happened, but I want her to want to tell me on her own. I want her to make the first move.

Forcing myself not to beg her for answers, I lean my head back on the couch and close my eyes. Trying to be content for now that she doesn’t seem to hate me. That we’re at peace for the first time in weeks, neither of us dodging the other’s company.

It hits me then that I’ve missed this. Missed Stephanie. And that I’m going to miss her even more when she moves back into the dorms in a week, after my parents’ Hamptons party.

Of all the things I’m expecting then, it isn’t the feel of Stephanie’s cool fingers on my forearm. I keep my eyes closed, thinking maybe I’m imagining it, but then the pressure becomes firmer as she scrapes her nails lightly down my forearm.

“I like this part of you,” she says, her voice husky. “This part of your arm. Weird, huh? But it’s one of the first things I noticed.”

I don’t open my eyes yet, still confused about whether we’re supposed to be keeping things light. Keeping things distant. “Is it all that sexy arm hair?” I ask.

“That,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “But mostly the contrast between the blond hair and the tan skin and the corded muscle. It’s very …”

“Yeah?” I ask when she doesn’t respond. Jesus, did my voice just crack?

“Hot,” she says.

I deserve a medal, I really do. Because I don’t kiss her, even though every single part of my body is demanding that I do.

And then I feel her breath on my ear. Her lips on my neck.

There goes my self-control.

I tilt my head toward her, my free hand cupping her cheek, feeling her smooth skin as her lips explore my neck. She moves slowly, her lips never breaking contact with my skin as she leans toward me. Over me. And then her lips are on mine, and I guess I don’t deserve that medal after all, because I’m kissing her back, my fingers tangled in her hair.

She has the wherewithal to move both of our glasses to the table, freeing our hands, and then our hands are everywhere.

Her arms are around my neck, her nails clawing at the skin at my nape, and I realize that it’s the first time she’s really touched me. The first time that she’s initiated.

She wants me.

The thought sends me through the roof, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands on her waist, on her back … and not move them to the places that I’m dying for them to be.

As though reading my thought, she arches into me, wiggling restlessly, and I hope to God I’m not reading the signs wrong. That I’m not going to scare her off.

I lift one hand to the back of her neck, keeping her head still so my tongue can circle hers as I slowly move the other up over her rib cage, brushing for one heartbreaking moment against her breast before settling my palm against her collarbone, my fingers toying with the strap of her tank top.

“These stupid tiny shirts drive me crazy, you know,” I say against her lips.

I feel her smile. “Yeah? Even though they’re not pink and couture?”

“They’re little,” I say, wrapping my fingers around a strap. “I’ve always wondered how much give they have. How hard I’d have to tug to break one.”

“Sounds painful,” she says, gasping against my mouth as my fingers drift infinitesimally lower on her chest.

“I guess we don’t have to break it. We could simply remove it,” I say.

I hold my breath then, knowing this is the moment when she’ll either send me to the moon or cut bait and run.

She freezes and starts to draw back, and I stifle a groan of disappointment even as I school my features into a mask of understanding. Because I do understand. I do.

Stephanie pulls back just enough to smile shyly at me. “I wouldn’t mind if you broke it.”

I close my eyes for a second and pray that I’m not dreaming. Her mouth is on mine again, and she rocks her hips against mine. Nope. Definitely not dreaming.

Even though I have permission, I’m determined not to rush her, and I let my fingers continue their playing, alternating between rubbing the backs of my fingers against the skin of her shoulder and plucking at the strap, torturing us both.

I release her lips long enough to slide my mouth down to join my fingers, licking and nibbling at her collarbone, her shoulder, before I let my mouth brush against the swell of the top of her breast.

We’re not even close to the good stuff, and yet we both groan, her back arching into me as she offers her breasts up to my hands, to my mouth. I hook the fingers of both hands under those tiny straps and slowly ease them down her shoulders, exposing her breasts inch by creamy inch until I’m one tiny tug away from exposing her nipples.

I stop then, moving my hands down to her waist, leaving her arms semi-pinned by her tank top as I ravage the top of her breasts with sweet kisses. I’ve known from day one that she’s beautiful, but this is beyond any fantasy I’d ever had of her. And I’ve had more than a few.

I suck and lave her skin until we’re both panting and her fingers are in my hair urging me forward. Urging me down.

I let my tongue snake beneath the thin fabric, coming so close to her nipple but not quite, and she cries out. I do the same thing on the other side, refusing to give her what she wants until she asks for it.

“Ethan,” she says, her voice little more than a breath. “Ethan.”

It’s enough for me.

I tug the tank top down to her waist, and she’s fully exposed to me. As soon as the cool air hits her nipples, she lifts her hands to cover herself, and the sight of her tiny hands on her not-tiny boobs has me wanting to explode.

“Don’t,” I say hoarsely. “Let me see. Let me touch.”

Her eyes are wide and scared, and I simply meet her gaze, asking her to trust me.

Finally she gives a small nod, moving her hands to my shoulders. I move slowly, giving her time to back away. But she doesn’t, and when my tongue makes that first pass over her nipple, I think it’s going to kill both of us.

I lose track of how long I tease, giving her long licks alternating with playful pecks until she’s writhing in my lap, panting for more. Only then do I wrap my mouth around her and suckle, breathing in the sweet smell that is Stephanie while I feast on the part of her anatomy that’s been haunting me every goddamned day.

Her hands are doing some wandering of their own, and until I feel her tugging at my undershirt I scarcely notice that she’s discarded my tie and unbuttoned my dress shirt. Giving the tip of her breast one last long lick, I move my hands to her waist, setting her back on the couch long enough for me to remove my shirt. Her tank top is still around her waist, and the sight of her topless paired with those camouflage pants is so ridiculously sexy I almost wish she’d kept the boots on.

Maybe next time.

She smiles at me, and I smile back before pushing her farther into the couch cushions and following her down. We kiss again as our hands continue to explore, and finally—finally—I move my hands down to the waistband of her pants.

I undo the first button before she freezes.

I freeze too. “Is this okay?” I ask softly, trailing kisses over her chest.

She doesn’t say anything, and I pull back to look at her face, keeping my hands lightly stroking her arms, her sides … trying to figure her out.

She licks her lips. “I, um … I want to, I do. It’s just …”

I give her a quick kiss for encouragement. “Yeah?”

“I don’t have a lot of experience with this.”

I give her a little smile. “I’m oddly pleased to hear that.” And I am. I like the idea of Stephanie being … mine.

“You want to talk numbers?” I say teasingly, even though I’m half dying.

She licks her lips but doesn’t answer, and I realize I need to tell her that I’m not exactly experienced myself. It’s humiliating to admit, but I don’t have a lot of notches in my own belt. Olivia and I lost it to each other when we were sixteen. And unlike Olivia, I believe in fidelity.

“Well, is it less than one?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “Because that’s about the extent of my experience.”

She doesn’t answer, and the uneasiness doesn’t leave her face. Which doesn’t make sense, unless …

Holy hell.

“Stephanie, are you a virgin?” I say it as casually as possible, letting her know that either answer is okay.

Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I put a finger under her chin to force her to look at me. “What about David?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Never got that far.”

A little alarm bell is going off in my head. “What about the guy from high school? You said you guys were good before he …”

There it is. The terrified-rabbit look.

My hands still for a second in rage before I gather her toward me.

“Stephanie, that night when the bastard put something in your drink … was that your first time?”

Please say no. Please tell me the bastard didn’t rape you.

I’m so prepared for a black-or-white answer that it doesn’t occur to me that there’s a potential gray zone.

Her eyes find mine, and they’re filled with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Chapter Seventeen

Stephanie

“You do know we’re only going to be gone for a couple of days?”

I glance over my shoulder. Ethan’s leaning against the door jamb of my bedroom, wearing blue plaid shorts and a coordinating blue polo. I swear to God, he’s more color coordinated than any of my girlfriends from high school.

I turn back to the bed, where I’m setting all my clothes into piles. It’s a blatant visual representation of the last couple of months: brightly colored piles for fake Stephanie, black piles for old Stephanie.

I fold a pair of freshly washed black pants and set it in the old-Stephanie pile. I frown a little as I realize I’ve stopped thinking about my old stuff as the real-Stephanie pile. Before meeting Ethan, I was so sure about who I was. But the thought of going back to the way I was—skulking around campus, studying film so I don’t have to interact with people …

It’s lost some of its appeal.

Ethan wanders into the room like he owns the place—which he does—and picks up a tiny pink thong with two fingers, raising an eyebrow. “Thought you didn’t like pink.”

I snatch it back. “Go play with your own underwear.”

“Not nearly as interesting,” he says as he inspects a pair of green polka-dot boyshorts.

I don’t bother to stop him, sensing that it’ll be a losing battle. Ever since that night on the couch, the mood between us has alternated between easy and loaded with sexual tension.

I’m still not sure what the hell happened. But I’m definitely sure how it ended.

To borrow his friend Andrea’s words, we definitely did not consummate.

He sits on top of the pile of clothes I’ve just finished folding and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word. Just studies me.

“What?” I snap.

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?” I’m not proud of playing dumb, but sometimes it’s reflexive.

“You know what.”

I take a deep breath and spend way too much time folding a pale yellow cardigan so I won’t have to look at him.

“I wrote an email,” I say finally. Quietly.

“Good.” His fingers brush along the back of my hand, and I take a long, shuddering breath.

“What if he doesn’t write back?”

I meet Ethan’s eyes then, and they hold the same gentle understanding that was there when I told him my secret.

That I don’t know whether or not I am a virgin.

I didn’t mean to tell him, or anyone. But then I got lost in his kisses and I wanted—needed—him to know.

And then I started talking …

The real kicker is that I didn’t want to go to that stupid party in the first place. I wanted to stay in the hospital with my mom.

But she wanted me to go. She was too weak to push the issue, but my dad wasn’t. He told me it was important to my mother to see me happy. To see me living my life, even as hers was ending.

So I went. But I was mad, and sad, and lost. I had more drinks than I should have, but not so many that I didn’t realize the last rum and Coke tasted faintly bitter. I set the cup aside almost immediately, but it was too late. The dizziness followed soon after, and in those last lucid moments I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I just wanted to lie down somewhere. Anywhere.

My eyes found Caleb, and I knew. Knew that he knew what was in my cup.

I woke up in Caleb’s bed, barely managing to get my head over the side of the bed before throwing up all over his white carpet.

I retched again and again as I tried to clear the cobwebs and piece together what had happened. Why I was naked. Why I was so hung over after a few drinks.

Caleb came in then. I expected him to lose his shit over the fact that I’d thrown up on his bed, on his floor, but he didn’t seem to see it.

Then I saw a phone in his hand.

My phone.

I raised my eyes to his face, and I knew. Knew that he’d answered my phone.

Knew that it was my dad calling.

Knew that my mother was dead.

And then I retched again.

It was the first time I’d talked about it. Ever. I’d never told anyone what happened. I mean, of course I was a zombie after it happened, and of course everyone noticed. I’d just lost my mother. I was entitled to be a zombie. Nobody suspected that there was anything else to it. That I’d lost more than Mom that night.

Well, Caleb knew.

It may sound odd, but I’d never really considered Caleb in all of this. On some level I suppose I hated him, but on another it was like he wasn’t even a person. He was just this demon in my past that had sort of been absorbed into the bad memory that was that night.

But Ethan wasn’t inclined to let Caleb off that easily.

After I told him the entire sick story, I expected him to give me a condescending hug and then tell me that it sucked and that it was time to move on.

And he did give me a hug, but I didn’t expect the next words out of his mouth.

You’ve got to find Caleb, Stephanie. Confront him. Get answers. You deserve answers.

I guess it’s weird that I needed someone else to tell me this, to point out that the worst night of my life doesn’t have to be shrouded in mystery.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that Caleb will remember, or that he’ll be honest with me. But deep down I suspect that he will. We cared about each other once. And I’m pretty sure that at one time he even loved me, before he heeded the siren call of booze and drugs.

It took all of thirty seconds on the Internet to find him. He’s at Boston University, which I knew, of course. He sent me about a dozen messages our freshman year asking if we could talk, all of which I ignored. And he tried to get in touch through Jordan and the handful of other high school friends I kept in contact with. I ignored those efforts too.

But this is the first time I’ve sought him out. I was expecting a rush of anger, but mostly I just feel curious. Jordan told me he’s clean now. That he’s reverted back to the “nice guy” he was before the Jack Daniel’s and pills and shit took over his life.

If his online profile pictures are any indication, Jordan is right. Gone are the red-rimmed eyes and bloated face I remember from the end. Instead he’s clean-cut and handsome. Not unlike Ethan, actually—blond, blue-eyed, and totally preppy.

I don’t know how long I stared at his smiling face, waiting to feel some sort of emotion. Mostly I felt relief. And a hope that maybe Ethan is right, that I can move on.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ethan asks, yanking me out of memories.

I give a little smile and shake my head. “I think I’m all talked out on that topic, you know?”

He searches my face. “But when he writes back, you’ll tell me.”

I meet his eyes. “I’ll tell you.”

I don’t have a choice. Not if I want Ethan to touch me. Because he made it very clear that night when he gently set me away from him and slowly pulled his own T-shirt over my head to cover me that he won’t touch me again until I have closure.

You deserve more, Stephanie. You deserve everything.

And in that moment, whatever I was feeling for this all-wrong-guy exploded into something I absolutely, positively do not want to name. Can’t name.

Because a few days from now I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Ethan will have survived this stupid party and can move on with his life. Maybe get a real girlfriend instead of an impostor.

My stomach clenches at the thought.

“Okay, Goth, one more time. Why is your entire wardrobe on your bed? I did mention that this is just a two-night thing, right?”

I swat at his hip until he shifts and I can pull a couple of now smashed bras out from under his ass. He doesn’t look twice. I can’t blame him, I guess. I mean, they’re some boring blue cotton affairs. But it’s another reminder that he hasn’t made a single romantic move since that night on his couch.

I know why, of course.

But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Damn Caleb.

And damn myself for being such a chicken for the past three years that I didn’t seek answers. Hell, worse than that, I actually avoided them. I was like those weird birds that stick their head in the sand.

No more. I want my dignity back. I want my life back.

I gesture toward a smaller pile of clothes on the desk chair in the corner of the room. “That is for the trip. I just haven’t put it in my bag yet.”

He gestures toward the piles on the bed. “Then what’s this?”

I lift a shoulder. “Figured while I was packing for the trip, I may as well start packing for good.”

Ethan freezes in the process of inspecting my bras. (Guess he isn’t so immune after all.) “What do you mean, packing for good?”

“Come on, smart guy, you’ve got this,” I say, keeping my tone light. I shouldn’t be glad that he sounds upset, but I am getting a little rush because he’s clearly not happy to get rid of me.

“Fall semester doesn’t start for two weeks,” he says.

“You’re on fire today with the observations,” I say, going to the closet and pulling out the huge duffel bag I purchased a couple of days ago. I have about four times as many clothes as when I moved in, thanks to Ethan’s shopping spree, and he insisted that I keep them. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with all of them, unless I decide to take on a career as a life-sized Barbie, but I’m not ready to part with them either.

Ethan’s all up in my face, taking the bag out of my hand and holding it out of reach. “I never said you had to move out as soon as the party was over,” he says. “Stay until the end of the summer.”

“Thanks for the offer, but my housing crisis has come to a close,” I say with a timid smile. “Since I work in the dean’s office during the school year, they’ll let me move into the dorms early for no additional charge as long as I take on a couple of work shifts.”

“You’re leaving this to move into the dorms early?”

I feel my temper starting to spike at the condescension in his tone. “You want me to stay? As what, your whore?”

His face goes furious. “It’s not like that and you know it.”

“Yeah? What’s it like, Ethan? What is this?”

His mouth twists in frustration, but instead of responding, he tosses the bag behind him like a petulant child, crossing his arms as I stomp over to retrieve it.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice calmer but no less cold.

I throw my hands up in exasperation, abandoning all pretense of packing. “I thought I just did.”

“Only because I asked.”

“I don’t report to you, Ethan!” I say, fed up with his childish reaction. “You can pull the control-freak routine with your next girlfriend, but don’t you dare try it on me.”

His eyes meet mine. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

Exactly. I close my eyes briefly. “You know what I meant.”

Ethan rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and I hate that I’m starting to adore that frequent gesture. “What about our screenplay?”

“We’ll get it done. We don’t have to turn it in for a couple of weeks, and we have most of the major scenes laid out.”

I haven’t told him, but I added the whole making-out-on-the-couch episode to the scene list—omitting, of course, the abrupt ending. In our movie, the heroine wouldn’t be damaged goods who doesn’t know whether or not she’s ever had sex. In the movie, Tyler and Kayla would consummate. Professor Holbrook had said he’d wanted conflict. And sex would definitely add conflict.

I still don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that that particular plot development won’t be based on a true story.

“What about the ending?” he asks.

“Still open-ended,” I say more calmly, bending down to grab the bag and hoisting it onto the bed. “I thought maybe we could get some inspiration from this trip. Maybe have a big blowup with the ex-girlfriend or something.”

He smiles at that. “You want me to get into a public fight with Olivia for the sake of a two-credit class?”

“Well, we’ve got to have something good for our denouement.”

“You act like I’m supposed to know what that means.”

“The climax. The explosive ending,” I explain. “I know up until now we’ve been loosely basing it on our own experiences, but that won’t work for the final scenes. We can’t just have Tyler and Kayla go quietly into the night.”

“As you plan to do,” he says.

“As do you,” I say, giving him a look out of the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, well,” he says, rubbing his neck again, “I suspect you’ll do it better. You hating the sunshine and all. Creeping in the night is just your style.”

He’s trying to make me smile, but I find I’m not up to it. In fact, I don’t like that description of me at all, and that scares the crap out of me. I’d better not be losing my edge after a few short weeks of wearing high heels and short skirts.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I turn to load a pile of black shirts into the bag, and I will him to acknowledge what neither of us has mentioned: the fact we’ve now kissed twice for reasons that have nothing to do with pretending.

I want him to tell me that the movie’s becoming true. That Pygmalion is falling in love with the girl he created.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he wanders to my nightstand and picks up a picture. “Your mom?” he asks.

I don’t bother looking up. I have the photograph memorized. It’s my parents and me the night of the homecoming game. I’d just been crowned the sophomore homecoming princess, and they were proud. I remember thinking that nothing in my life would ever feel as good as that moment.

So far I’ve been right.

Ethan isn’t saying anything, and when I turn to make sure he’s not up to his elbows in thongs, I see him still staring at the picture.

“You were a cheerleader,” he says.

“Good eye,” I mutter, resisting the urge to rip the picture from his hands.

“And a tiara.”

I say nothing. I know what he’s thinking: What the hell happened to you? Except he already knows.

“Some guys have a thing for cheerleaders,” he says, his voice easy.

I roll my eyes as I start tossing socks into the bag. “Let me guess. You want to know if I still have my old uniform.”

He sets the picture back on the nightstand and moves toward the door. “Nah. Not my speed. But I think I could develop a thing for girls in combat boots.”

I spin around in surprise, wanting to see his face, wanting to know if he means what I think he means.

But he’s already gone.

Chapter Eighteen

Ethan

I’m on a boat with Stephanie again. Only this time the boat is actually an enormous chartered yacht, and the tiny little swimsuit she wore last time would absolutely not be appropriate.

My parents aren’t exactly the type to break with tradition, and they kick off their Hamptons weekend spectacle the same way they do every year: a “black and white” cocktail party on a pimped-out mansion of a boat, in which everything from the food to the requested guest attire is—you guessed it—black and white.

I grab two flutes from the champagne fountain, only to realize that I’ve lost Stephanie in the crush. I told her I’d be right back with the bubbly but was stopped by about a dozen of my parents’ already tipsy friends, and I’ve left her alone for a good fifteen minutes now.

Weaving through the crowds, I keep my eye out for her shiny dark head. She’s wearing heels, which means she won’t be quite as minuscule as usual, but she’s still short. A good deal shorter than say, Olivia, whom I’m also keeping an eye out for, but not in the excited-to-see-you way.

My father warned me that she’d be here. I already knew, of course. Although her family isn’t an official co-host, they always host the clambake and bonfire extravaganza that follows this fancy cocktail party. My only consolation is that my mom muttered something about Michael having a conflict. She’d asked me for details—like I’d know.

But at least it’s looking like I’ll have to face only one demon this weekend. Although the thought doesn’t seem as heinous as long as Stephanie is by my side.

The crowd parts briefly and I finally see her, my breath hitching a little in a way that annoys me. If forced to choose, I prefer the swimsuit version of Stephanie on a boat, but this version is pretty spectacular.

Her dress is strapless and white, but there’s a black belty thing just under her boobs to keep it from being too boring and bridal. And I don’t have a foot fetish or anything, but I’m digging the white sandals combined with the black toenail polish. I know the black polish is for the sake of this evening’s theme, but it also reminds me of the dark polish she wore when we first met, and I love the subtle nod to the real Stephanie that’s lurking beneath the good-girl dress and makeup.

She’s talking to some dude our age I don’t recognize, and I can tell from the way his gaze keeps dropping away from her face that I’m not the only one who appreciates her primping effort. A stab of something hot and bitter creeps up my back, and I recognize it as the same emotion that went through me when I walked into our apartment and saw her and David together.

Jealousy.

I slide up beside her, putting a hand on her back. She glances up at me as she accepts the glass of champagne, and I can sense the amusement there. She knows exactly what I’m doing: I’m claiming.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” I say back.

The other dude’d have to be a moron not to get the hint.

Our eyes hold for a beat longer than necessary before she puts on what I recognize as a society smile. It’s the same one I’ve seen on my mother and Olivia countless times, and I don’t know whether I’m proud or annoyed that Stephanie seems to have mastered it.

“Ethan, this is Austin. He goes to NYU too.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, extending a hand. “What major?”

“Econ,” he answers as he shakes my hand. He’s friendly enough, but I can tell he’s lost interest after learning that Stephanie’s taken, and after a few minutes of stale chitchat about favorite professors and what’s next after graduation, he moves away, leaving Stephanie and me to ourselves.

She clinks her glass to mine before turning toward the water and bracing her forearms on the railing. “I’ll give you this, Price, you filthy-rich kids certainly know how to do a party right.”

“You don’t think it’s pretentious?” I ask, turning to mimic her posture.

Stephanie snorts. “Of course it’s pretentious. But it’s also pretty damn nice.”

Her voice is devoid of scorn, and I’m oddly relieved that she can hang in this world without feeling disdainful of all the opulence. Because even though it is opulent, and completely, disgustingly over the top, it’s also my world. It’s my future. One day it’ll be me hosting Hamptons parties on behalf of Price Holdings.

I drain the rest of my champagne, letting the flute dangle from my fingers by its stem over the water. “You know, now that I’m here, I feel a little foolish that I was so scared to face this alone. I don’t know why it was so important that I have a girlfriend. There’s no shame in a twenty-one-year-old coming to his parents’ party alone, you know?”

She glances at my profile, and I can tell she’s surprised by the admission. And perhaps a little irritated, seeing as I’ve dragged her out of her element when she’s undoubtedly wishing she were lurking in some little hole-in-the-wall theater in Soho right now.

She bumps her hip lightly against mine. “You saying you want me to leave, Price?”

Now it’s my turn to glance at her profile and her turn to stare at the water. “No,” I say slowly. “I don’t think I’m saying that at all.”

It’s the closest I’ve come to admitting that there’s something between us other than the plan, and I can tell from the flush on her cheeks that she knows it. I should let it go, but I’m suddenly desperate for reassurance that I’m not alone on this limb. That I’m not the only one who wants to make this weekend more than a good-bye.

Because I suppose that it will be a good-bye. There’s no future for the heir to an empire and a girl who simply wants to be left alone.

But I also want to show her that I’m more than the Price Holdings heir apparent. That there’s more to what I feel for her than a stupid agreement. And that there’s more in the balance than a stupid screenplay.

So I push her. Just a little. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” I ask softly. “I can get you back to Manhattan within a few hours, your part of the bargain completely fulfilled.” But tell me you want to stay.

She says nothing for several seconds, and my heart starts to thud in panic that I’m wrong. That she’ll take me up on my offer and be on the next jitney back to the city before I’ve had a chance to …

Shit. I’m not even sure what I want out of her this weekend.

It’s not sex. I mean, it’s not just sex. At least not until she gets answers from that asshat ex-boyfriend of hers. I meant what I said that night. Stephanie deserves answers.

But whether or not she and Caleb had sex that night, she doesn’t remember it. Which means that whoever she sleeps with will essentially be her first. And she deserves her first to be someone other than a guy who’s more or less paying her to pose as his girlfriend.

But still, I want her to choose to be here.

Choose me. I don’t say it. But I want to.

“I don’t want to go home. Not yet.” She says it so softly that I think at first I’ve imagined it. But then she turns to face me, her blue eyes shining with support and friendship and something else neither of us will name.

I take her free hand and lift it to my lips. Not because anyone’s watching. But because I want to.

“I’m glad.”

The moment is mushy as hell and out of character for both of us, but neither of us moves for several minutes, and it’s just us, the lights reflecting off the water, and some Frank Sinatra song from the band.

There’s a shift happening, and it’s crucial and dangerous, yet I want it anyway.

I kiss her hand again, letting my teeth lightly scrape her knuckles and smiling in satisfaction when she sucks in a breath.

“Don’t you dare try to seduce me on this boat, Price,” she says, plucking her hand away from mine. “Not until I get to try some of this caviar you’re always rambling on about.”

I grin, letting her lighten the mood. “You’ve never had caviar?” I say in mock affront. “What are you, an animal?”

“Well then,” she says, letting me link fingers with her, “educate me.”

And I want to. In more ways than just caviar.

But then we turn in the direction of the buffet table, and all my plans go out the window when I spot the tall blonde staring at me with wounded green eyes.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

Olivia.

Chapter Nineteen

Stephanie

Olivia’s beautiful.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. Of course Ethan’s ex would be beautiful. And I don’t just mean pretty in a more-attractive-than-average type of way. She’s completely stunning. I knew she was blond, but I’d been thinking (hoping) that it’d be some fake platinum nonsense. Instead it’s this silky honey-wheat color that makes her resemble a really hot farmer’s daughter, but in a classy, sophisticated kind of way. She’s also tall and willowy, and she looks like one of those girls who’ve done ballet since the age of two.

Adding insult to injury, her eyes are startlingly green and almond-shaped, and just exotic enough to keep her from ever being the boring girl next door.

Next to her, I feel stubby, frumpy, and phony.

But that’s not why I hate her.

I hate her because of the way Ethan is looking at her. Despite his assertions just moments ago that he had no problems being at this party alone, when he’s looking at her his face says otherwise.

I was right about her being the reason he had to reinvent me. I may be the subject of this modern Pygmalion story, but she’s the motivation.

Suddenly I’m all too aware that I’m playing dress-up. That although I think I’m falling in love with him, the only reason he’s here is Olivia.

The air feels rife with pain. His. Hers. Mine. And it’s now that I realize how much I’ve come to care about Ethan. Because my pain fades to the background at the thought of him hurting.

And wasn’t this the entire point of our escapade? To help him through this?

I can’t take away his pain. But perhaps I can help his pride.

I fix a polite yet vacant smile on my face as though I have no idea who Olivia is.

“Ethan?” I ask, keeping my voice light and confused. As though he’s never told me about her, and she’s just some skinny girl blocking my way to the caviar.

My voice ends their staring contest, although it takes him a couple of extra seconds to look at me, and my heart twists just a bit, even as I keep my face the perfect picture of innocent confusion.

He blinks down at me, his familiar gold eyes so lost, I find myself squeezing his fingers in reassurance, even as I want to tell him that she is not worth it.

Ethan glances down at our linked hands as though confused as to why he’s touching me, before he finally—finally—gets his shit together.

“Right. Right. Um, Olivia, this is Stephanie.”

She tears her eyes away from Ethan long enough to give me a little ghost of a smile. I have to give her credit, because she has to hate me, but she looks polite and non-bitchy considering I’m holding the hand of a guy she’s been dating for the majority of her life.

“Hi,” she says, extending a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Liar, I think as I shake her hand, never once letting my smile slip. For a second I consider asking how they know each other, but that seems like it might be a little over the top in the he’s-never-mentioned-you game.

Her dress is white like mine, but it’s a simple drape-necked sheath that’s completely flattering and simple and leaves me feeling like I’m wearing a cookie-cutter bridesmaid dress.

“I heard you were seeing someone,” she says softly to Ethan.

“Yeah.”

Both she and I wait for him to say something more. At this point I don’t care whether he’s using me as a flat-out set-down or simply as a polite excuse to end this awkward encounter; I just want him to do something. Something other than stand there like a guy who’s facing the love of his life.

I run my hand up his arm. “Maybe we should get some of that caviar before it’s gone, hmm?”

He turns to look at me again, his brow furrowed, and I catch Olivia as she gives a little blink of confusion.

I immediately see my mistake. Of course this type of shindig wouldn’t run out of caviar. The possibility doesn’t even cross these people’s minds. And I am not one of these people.

“Sure,” he says, giving me a smile that I’ve never seen before. It’s wooden and distant and horrible.

Oh, hell, no.

It’s clear that he wants to stay and exchange longing glances with his cheating ex, and I’ll be damned if I give either of them the impression that I’m dragging him away. I don’t need a pity escort to the caviar table.

I pull my hand away from his, not caring that the gesture looks childish and obvious.

“Actually, hold that thought,” I say, my voice too high and bright. “I need to use the restroom first. Meet you at the fish eggs later, yeah?”

I turn away before I can enjoy their snobbish reaction to my bastardization of caviar, and pride myself that I neither run nor trip on the way to the bathroom.

I’m even more proud of the fact that I don’t cry once I’m in there, even though the lump in my throat tells me that I want to.

I stare at my reflection in the elaborate yacht bathroom for a good while. When I was getting ready in the bedroom the Prices had put me in, I felt every bit the part of the rich boy’s girlfriend. But after seeing Olivia, I realize that fitting into this world isn’t just about the right dress or the right hair or the right look. It’s about confidence. It’s about a conviction that you belong here and that the people surrounding you in all this ridiculous opulence want you here.

That’s the real kicker with the Pygmalion story. That’s the conflict Martin Holbrook talked about. Because you can dress up a hooker and she’s still a hooker. A flower girl is still a flower girl.

And a grungy film student is still a grungy film student. Even in a pretty dress.

Although I feel humiliated and completely out of place, I try to look on the bright side. At least I’ve finally got some inspiration for those ending scenes of our screenplay. Maybe I can pass the time by jotting down ideas on cocktail napkins while getting blitzed on the fabulous champagne. I suspect Ethan won’t be needing me as his fake girlfriend the rest of the evening.

I open the door, fully intending to take advantage of the first and probably last time I’ll have access to a top-shelf open bar and fancy rich-people food, but before I can step out of the bathroom, I’m being pushed back into it.

“What the—Ethan?”

He slams the door shut behind him, locking it, before turning toward me, his eyes murderous.

“You left me.”

The simple statement throws me off balance. I left him?

“I thought you didn’t want me there!” I say. “I felt like a fifth wheel while you guys made hungry eyes at each other.”

He has the decency to look guilty for a split second before he resumes his possessive glare, as though I’m the one making a mess of things.

“I haven’t seen her in months. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t—” He breaks off.

“You missed her,” I say softly.

Ethan rubs his neck and doesn’t meet my eyes, and for the briefest second my chest literally hurts.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “For a second I thought so. But then you were gone, and I wasn’t thinking about Olivia. I was worried that you’d changed your mind and hightailed it back to Manhattan.”

The pain in my chest eases, just a little. “I wouldn’t do that,” I say softly. “I said I’d stay.”

He lets out a long breath before reaching out and hooking his hands around my elbows, pulling me closer.

“Promise?”

I search his face, wanting him to tell me that it’s only me that he wants. That he’s completely over Olivia. But he doesn’t say that, and I don’t ask.

Still, I’m not going to leave him. I can’t.

“I promise,” I whisper.

And then he kisses me, there in the privacy of the cramped bathroom, where nobody can see us.

Where nobody can see us.

I’m beginning to realize that there are two kinds of kisses for us: the stage kiss and the important kiss.

And the important kisses have just officially outnumbered the stage kisses.

Chapter Twenty

Ethan

“That dress suits Olivia.”

I close my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice. Is she kidding me with this? I’m only surprised my mom waited for the last evening of the house party to make her move.

“Oh?” I say. “I haven’t seen her yet this evening.”

That’s a lie. I saw Olivia almost immediately. And not because I was looking for her, but because it was damned difficult to avoid someone whose all-too-familiar eyes are on you 24/7.

She was watching me the entire time I was giving Stephanie a caviar-tasting lesson at the cocktail party last night.

She was watching me during the bonfire when Stephanie and I fed each other marshmallows.

And then there was this morning, when I showed up for my tee time only to realize that Olivia was in my foursome, along with our fathers. And no way to get out of it.

I had yet to tell Stephanie that Olivia and I had spent eight hours together. It’s not like it was my fault. I hadn’t planned it. But Olivia golfed, and Stephanie didn’t, so … there was that.

But the real reason I haven’t told Stephanie is that the morning with Olivia wasn’t nearly as awful as I’d expected. In fact, once we got past a little stiffness and stilted small talk on the first few holes, it was almost as though nothing had changed. And as hard as I’d tried to hold on to the memory of seeing her in Michael’s arms, when the two of us were together, trading criticism about each other’s golf swing or helping the other locate a lost ball, it had felt … well, familiar.

Not that I want to get back together with her. But I was acutely aware that we are well matched in every way that matters. That we will always be well matched.

I remembered that Olivia doesn’t go leaping off the docks with the little kids, squealing all the way. Stephanie does. Olivia doesn’t roll her eyes when one of my parents’ wino friends starts discussing the nuances of various vintages. Olivia doesn’t roll up her capris and dive into a way-too-competitive game of croquet with the men of the party, ending up by charming them all.

Olivia doesn’t startle me into unexpected smiles. She doesn’t make my heart pound.

Stephanie does.

“Stephanie seems to be adapting to our people,” my mother says, taking a sip of her pinot grigio.

Annnnd that’s about enough. “Mom,” I say simply, “you’re a snob.”

My mother takes a sharp intake of breath, but my eyes never leave the spot where Stephanie is talking animatedly with my father and one of his many accountants. My father, whom Stephanie accompanied fishing earlier today. My girlfriend went fishing with my father.

Or my fake girlfriend. I no longer know whether the distinction still applies. I’m not sure I even care.

“Ethan,” Mom says, her voice sounding exasperated rather than offended. “What’s happened to you?”

I glance around at the candlelit tent that marks the beach gala. Maybe it’s girly to think this, but it’s always been one of my favorite parts of my parents’ house parties. After a weekend of sunning and boating and sporting, it’s always seemed like the perfect cap to the weekend.

But tonight it feels a little stale, and I’m more preoccupied with whether it’s a fire hazard to have this many people surrounded by hundreds of tea lights in a fabric tent. Not to mention it’s the same thing they did last year. And the year before.

I’ve never really put much thought into the distinction between tradition and monotony, but now I find I can’t think of anything else.

“You know what happened to me,” I say, belatedly answering my mother’s question.

“Ethan, she’s a pretty girl, and nice enough, but are you sure she’s not …?”

“Not what?”

“Well, after your money. Our money.”

The thought is too incredible even to fathom, and suddenly I’m wishing I could show my mother a picture of Stephanie when I first met her, all flea-market boots and unstyled hair. I wish I could show her how I had to drag the girl shopping.

“Mom, I don’t think she wants anything to do with us.”

“I just worry you’re not thinking clearly. Have you given any thought to what it must be like for Olivia, watching you flirt with an outsider?”

An outsider?

And suddenly I can’t remember why I’ve done any of this. Why I’ve hidden the truth from my mother, or cared about what Olivia would think.

“Olivia cheated on me, Mom.”

She’s quiet, and I know that inside her, maternal concern is warring with societal image, to say nothing of how she must feel to hear me accusing Olivia of the very thing she herself is guilty of. “Are you sure?” she asks. “The lines aren’t always clear, Ethan, especially when you’re young.”

“There’s a line. She crossed it. With Michael.”

“Michael?”

I don’t think it’s my imagination that her voice has gone up an octave, from soothing to nervous.

“Yup. My best friend was doing my girlfriend. I walked in on them.”

She’s silent for several seconds. “When?”

Here it is: my chance to walk away and put it behind me. Or my moment to come clean—not to judge her, but because we can’t keep going on like this, with her hiding it and me pretending to let her.

“Same day I saw you with Mike senior.”

It’s like a bomb went off, but the two of us are the only ones to notice. She doesn’t move, but I can feel her panic.

“Ethan, let me explain—”

“You don’t have to explain, Mom. Not to me. But to Dad?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “You haven’t told him?”

I take a sip of the too-sweet themed cocktail I grabbed from the bar and give a little shrug. “It’s not mine to tell. But it is his to know.”

“It’s so complicated, Ethan.”

She puts an imploring hand on my arm, but I shake it off. “I’m sure it is, but I don’t want or need the details. I just needed you to know that I know.”

Mom gives a little nod. “Thank you for not hating me.”

I exhale and stare at the ground for a second, still not able to look at her. “You’re my mother. I don’t hate you, and I’m dealing with it. But you have to drop the Olivia thing, okay? One affair in my personal life is enough. I can’t cope with two.”

“Ethan …” There’s an apology there, and I nod to show that I accept it. And then I walk away.

Eventually we’ll have to talk more, but now isn’t the time to get into it. Hell, now wasn’t the time to bring it up at all. But I’d been watching Stephanie, thinking that I felt the most at peace I’ve felt in a long time, and I just needed to let go.

There is, of course, the other, equally large elephant in the room in the form of my ex-girlfriend. And I’ll get to that.

But for now …

I move up behind Stephanie, not touching her, just close enough to breathe in the slightly spicy scent of her perfume. I’m thinking I can never get tired of the sight of her in dresses, but she’s outdone herself tonight. Because tonight … tonight there is cleavage. Not porn-star cleavage, not trashy cleavage, but just enough to let the world—okay, the male world—know that she has really, really awesome tits.

She catches me looking and gives a little wink, and then I know … she’s worn it for me.

“I knew from that first day that you’re a boob guy,” she says out of the corner of her mouth, just low enough so only I can hear.

“What can I say? I’m bewitched,” I say, lifting a hand to touch a finger to her bottom lip even though it’s not at all the part of her that I want to touch. Or at least not the only part.

Her breath catches a little, and the people around us have the good sense to move away.

She gives a nervous laugh and makes a big show of looking around at the lavish surroundings. “Your parents continue to one-up themselves with the party hosting.”

I nod, even though I never take my eyes off Stephanie. “It’s the finale of the weekend, except for the casual send-off brunch tomorrow. We Prices like to say good-bye in style.”

The bright blue of her eyes dims just slightly, and I realize that she’s misread my words. That she’s thinking I’m saying good-bye.

And then I realize I don’t want that. Not at all.

I hold out a hand. “Walk with me.”

I don’t say where. She doesn’t ask. Just puts her hand in mine and lets me lead her. Past people I’ve known my entire life. Past my mother, whose eyes are resigned. Past Olivia, whose eyes are not.

None of it matters. Stephanie matters.

We get to the edge of my parents’ paved courtyard and pause long enough to remove our shoes, leaving them in a pile as I roll up my pants.

I take her hand again, leading her toward the water. I’m not even sure where we’re going or why, only that I want to be alone with her. And that I don’t want an audience.

Ironic, since the entire point of all of this was precisely to have an audience.

Despite the fact that I’m wearing a suit and her dress isn’t exactly outdoor-friendly, we find ourselves sitting in the sand, our feet just out of reach of the lapping waves.

Her back is pressed against my chest, my legs on either side of hers, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to wrap one arm around her, my arm across her waist, my hand on her hip. The wind off the water occasionally shifts her hair into my face, not bothering me in the least.

Stephanie leans her head back against my shoulder before letting out a small, shuddering sigh. “My dad remarried six months after my mother passed away.”

Christ. Six months? But I say nothing, letting her talk.

“The worst part was, I didn’t see it coming. I mean, I guess in hindsight I heard the name Amy come up a couple of times while he tried to make conversation over the burnt dinners that he made for the two of us. But I was like the walking dead at that point. I didn’t even bother breaking up with Caleb. We just … ended. I barely remember my mom’s funeral, and then my dad was moving me to another freaking state so I didn’t even graduate with my friends.…”

I shift our positions slightly, sitting up straighter so that I can lean into her. Curl around her. Protect her.

“I know you think I’m just begrudging my father happiness. Hell, maybe that’s it a little bit. I was still up to my throat in grief, and here he was moving on with his life mere months after burying his wife. And you’d have to see a picture of my mother and Amy side by side to understand. They could be sisters. Maybe even twins. He didn’t try to move on from Mom. He tried to replace her. And after they got married, it was like the first part of my life hadn’t even existed.”

I rub my chin against her hair, trying to imagine being eighteen and losing a parent. And not just losing a parent, but watching her slowly fade away, probably painfully, and then not being there at the final moment. Having to learn from the guy who drugged your rum and Coke that your mom had died.

The missing piece of Stephanie clicks into place. The prickliness, the chronic frown, the attitude—I used to think those were all just the result of anger at the world, but now I’m thinking it’s something more heartbreaking than that. It’s simply self-protection. She lost her mother and boyfriend, and she sort of lost her father, in the span of a few months.

No wonder she changed from smiley teenager to hate-the-world goth.

I kiss her ear, wondering how to reassure her that she doesn’t have to go back to being guarded. That she’s allowed to trust someone. That just because the primary sources in her life disappeared doesn’t mean there aren’t other sources out there.

And that I want to be one.

She squirms a little, and I know she’s unnerved by her spontaneous confession, so I run my hands up and down her arms, keeping the touch gentle and easy as I do some confessing of my own.

I tell her that I miss Michael. He may have betrayed me, but he’s my best friend, and I’m torn between thinking of forgiving him and thinking that I don’t need “friends” who sleep with my girlfriend.

I tell her about confronting my mom, and how I’m terrified that my parents won’t know how to work things out.

Together we discuss infidelity, and how we always thought it was such a black-and-white, don’t-do-it scenario, but how perhaps it’s a good deal more complicated than that, because it seems to be all around us. Olivia and Michael. My mom and Mike senior. David. Even her father, in the sense that he wasn’t loyal to the memory of her mother for very long.

I lose track of how long we talk, cuddled there on the beach, getting our evening clothes sandy and completely ignoring the distant sounds of my parents’ party as the noise floats down to the water.

But even amid our dear-diary confession session, even as I’m vaguely aware that I’ve never talked so much to anyone ever—not even Olivia—I don’t say the things that matter.

I don’t tell her how I feel, for fear she won’t feel the same way back.

I don’t ask her what’s going to happen when our screenplay’s done and she’s moved out, because I’m scared of the answer. Scared that what we’re experiencing now is a result of the atypical situation we’ve put each other in, and that we’re not cut out for the long haul.

But I don’t tell her good-bye, either.

Because I don’t think I can stand it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Stephanie

I’ve been in bed for almost an hour, and I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been staring at my phone. Lost track of how many times I’ve reread the same email.

I didn’t take my phone with me when I went down to the party, and the email came through sometime during the hours Ethan and I sat talking on the beach.

I reluctantly set my phone aside on the nightstand. I have the entire thing memorized anyway. But there’s only one line that keeps playing over and over.

Although I know it doesn’t begin to excuse what I did to you, you have to know that I would never have taken advantage of you in that way. We never slept together, Stephanie. I thought you knew that, and I’m so sorry for not making that clear.

Well, holy shit. I’m a virgin.

The rest of Caleb’s email is more or less crap. A lot of effusive apologies about how he wasn’t the one who actually put the shit in my drink, but he hadn’t “tried hard enough” to keep me from drinking it. That his friends never meant for anything to happen, just thought that I could “loosen up.”

Because that’s just the way every girl hopes to take the edge off when her mom’s dying. By completely blacking out.

He even claimed that he wasn’t the one to take my clothes off. That I’d been rambling incoherently about being too hot and had stripped off my clothes before immediately claiming to be too cold and crawling into his bed, where he’d apparently stayed watching over me the entire night.

There’s the chance, of course, that he’s lying. But I don’t think so. He may have temporarily fallen in with a rough crowd, but I remember Jordan telling me that Caleb completely cleaned up his act after my mom died. She said that he’d wanted to be there for me but that I wouldn’t let him.

Damn right I didn’t let him. I didn’t respond to a single missed call or text message, and there were dozens.

But now I’m thinking about what Ethan said earlier about trying to forgive Michael.

I don’t know that I can forgive Caleb. I just don’t. The dude is still a shit for letting his girlfriend or any girl get in that situation. He doesn’t get a freaking medal for not raping me when I was strung out on drugs.

I can’t forgive. Not yet. But I can move on.

And I know exactly whom I want to move on with.

I roll out of bed and head to the mirror, grateful that my status as Ethan’s girlfriend gives me access to one of the guest rooms with a private bath.

I stare at my reflection.

Not great.

The humidity down by the water has made my hair fuzzier than usual, to say nothing of what Ethan’s fingers did to it when he kissed me outside the bedroom door. And after I read the email I was too shell-shocked to properly take off my makeup. All in all, not a sexy look.

I quickly wash my face, debating reapplying makeup before realizing what a ridiculous idea that is at 1:00 a.m. There’s nothing I can do with the hair without washing and drying it, so I hope he’ll interpret the mess as sexpot instead of homeless.

The reality of what I’m about to do hits me as I’m brushing my teeth. I’m about to crawl into bed with Ethan Price.

And I’m pretty sure he’ll want me tonight.

But what about tomorrow?

The thought twists my stomach as I realize that despite the closeness between us this weekend, there’s been no talk about the real world. No talk of tomorrow or a few days from now.

If it were any other situation, we could just keep going as we are. Everyone thinks we’re dating anyway; nobody else needs to know that it’s only recently become real. But now we’ve trapped ourselves in the Pygmalion story. I may not be pretending anymore about my relationship with Ethan, but I am pretending to be a society girl. And I can’t keep that up forever.

The minty toothpaste does nothing to remove the bitter taste in my mouth from the very real fear that whatever Ethan feels for me has nothing to do with the Stephanie Kendrick he met and everything to do with the Stephanie Kendrick he created. He wants Steffie Wright, and I quit being that girl when I was eighteen.

Hell, the guy doesn’t even know that I used to go by Steffie, or that I adopted my mom’s maiden name, Kendrick, only as a big fuck-you to my father after he got married to Amy.

I spit and take a bracing breath, pushing my doubts aside. Ethan knows me in the way that matters. I have to believe that. He wouldn’t have held me and confided in me and kissed me if he didn’t.

Mind made up, I open the door as quietly as possible, hoping to God I correctly remember which room is Ethan’s. I always imagined “summer homes” as being cottage- or cabin-like, but this is a freaking mansion. Most of the party guests have access to their own lodging in the Hamptons (naturally), but the rest of them are staying here. Somehow I imagine they wouldn’t appreciate a booty-call-seeking college girl sneaking into their room in the middle of the night.

I pad silently down the hallway in the direction of Ethan’s room, mentally counting the doors. One, two … five … take a right.…

I pause in front of the first door on the left, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

And then I open it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ethan

My first thought when my door opens is that I really should remember to lock it when my parents have house guests. But I spent too many carefree summers in this room as a kid, and now the concept of a lock doesn’t even occur to me.

I sit up in bed, ready to tell whatever old fogey is wandering around without their glasses that they got the wrong room.

But it’s not an old fogey.

I can’t see her face, but I’d know that silhouette anywhere.

Stephanie.

She stands there in the doorway for several seconds, clearly terrified that I’ll send her away or ask what the hell she’s doing here.

Doesn’t she know it took every bit of self-control I had to send her into her bedroom alone a few hours ago?

But I had to. My parents aren’t fools. I can do whatever hanky-panky I want at my own place, but under their roof, it’s separate bedrooms all the way. I was expecting a “goodnight, darling” visit from my mother at the end of the evening, just to ensure that Stephanie and I were, in fact, where we were supposed to be, and I was right: my mother knocked softly and quietly opened the door, although I pretended to be fast asleep.

But I’m not pretending to be asleep with Stephanie, only she probably can’t tell that since it’s pitch-black in here and she has no way of knowing that I’m awake and that I want her here.

She starts to take a step backward, and I reflexively reach out a hand. “Stephanie.”

There’s a startled little breath from the door, and then she moves again, this time toward me. The door closes behind her, and I will her to lock it.

She does.

The room is silent except for her soft footsteps as she approaches the bed. She stops by the side of the bed, and I’m really wishing I brought some water up to my room because my throat is completely dry.

I rack my brain for something to say—the right thing to say—but I don’t want to fuck this up, so instead I stay silent, lifting the covers up several inches, inviting her in. My heart is pounding, and she’s close enough now that I can just make out the glow of her eyes, the shape of her face.

For one crushing moment I think I’ve misunderstood. That she’s here to tell me to fuck off, or to say good-bye, or to say something else that will feel like it’s putting my heart through a meat grinder.

Then she’s slipping beneath the blanket, and all I can think is, Thank God.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, loving the way she curls into my arms even as I reach for her.

She burrows closer, her nose against my bare chest. My boxers aren’t doing much to protect her from the fact that I’m really digging the tiny-ass shorts and tank top that are her pajamas.

Then she speaks.

“Caleb wrote back.”

She says it so softly that at first I’m not even sure I’ve heard her correctly. I’m careful not to let my body tense, keeping my touch easy, even as I know how important this is for her. For both of us.

“Yeah?” I ask.

I can hear her swallow. “He, um … we didn’t …”

Stephanie dips her head as her voice breaks off, and I hear a sniffle a second before I feel the moistness against my chest, and I’m torn between wanting to kill this Caleb because he’s a fucker who made her cry and wanting to kiss the tears away.

She tells me the story in soft whispers. Her voice is steady, but she’s more or less quoting his email word for word, so she’s clearly read the damn thing at least a dozen times. That tells me how much it matters.

“How do you feel?” I ask when she’s finished.

She gives a little sigh, and then she shifts so that her palm’s against my chest. Her touch is tentative, and there’s nothing overtly sexual about it, but I suck in a breath all the same at her touch.

Knock it off, Ethan. This isn’t about sex.

“I feel relieved, I think. And a little surprised. I guess I just always assumed … I mean, when you wake up naked in your boyfriend’s bed, you’re kind of inclined to believe the worst. All this time I’ve been blaming him, and I guess now … well, I blame myself too. He tried to explain. I can’t tell you how many times he called. Even came over …”

I hook a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine. “Stephanie. This is not your fault. Absolutely no part of it.”

She holds my gaze for several seconds before she very slowly nods. “Okay.”

I don’t release her chin. “I hate that any of it happened to you, and I’m not going to give you any bullshit about a silver lining, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad that that your first time will be separate from that horrible night.”

Her eyes widen a little, and I hurry to correct her impression. “For your sake, I mean. I didn’t mean, you know … I don’t expect that your first time will be now.…”

Her hand moves from my chest to my lips, her fingers very lightly tracing the outline of my mouth. Even though I fully intend to be simply a comforting friend tonight, I can’t help flicking the pads of her fingers with my tongue, watching as her eyes close and her breath goes shallow just from that tiny contact.

I know the feeling, sweetheart.

I stay perfectly still, waiting for her to make the next move, and when she opens her eyes again, they’re burning hot, and my heart starts to thud with anticipation, even as I’m terrified that I’m misinterpreting.

She wiggles upward until our faces are even and slowly moves her head toward mine until our lips are a fraction of an inch apart. Every fiber of my being wants to roll her onto her back and kiss her senseless, but this is her moment. Her night. She had the choice taken away from her once. I won’t let that happen again. It’s the reason I wanted her to get closure. I want her to know what she’s offering me. To make that choice intentionally. Purposefully.

And I want to be the guy who helps her heal.

But I don’t want to be just that guy. If I’m totally honest, I want her to choose me because she cares, not just because I’m the first guy who’s offered to help get rid of her ghosts.

Her kiss is soft and sweet, and I let her take charge of the kiss. I let her hands move where they want, and they’re everywhere, running over my shoulders, up my pecs. We both groan a little when her fingers brush the waistband of my boxers, and she yanks her hands back as though she’s been burned.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting for control, refusing to rush her.

Cupping her face with my hands, I use my lips to play with hers, keeping it light and teasing. Letting her know that I could spend all night kissing her. Just kissing her.

But she’s making it hard, squirming against me, her hands resuming a wandering that I don’t dare reciprocate. I’m not about to be the asshole who insists she find out if she’s still a virgin and then takes that virginity from her the very night she finds out. She means too much to me.

But then I feel her hot fingers on my wrist, and she’s tugging my hand downward until she slowly, deliberately rests my hand over her full breast.

“Stephanie, I don’t—”

She stops me with a kiss. “Make love to me. Please.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Stephanie

He’s going to turn me away. Ethan pulls back slightly, his hand already moving from my breast where I blatantly made him touch me.

My face flames.

He’s rejecting me.

The first and only time I want to sleep with a guy, and he’s not interested.

“You don’t want me.” I don’t mean to say it, but there it is.

He freezes, his fingers plowing into my hair. “God, Stephanie. Of course I want you.”

“Then why—”

“You haven’t had any time to think about this. You just got a bomb of an email like an hour ago. You’ll hate yourself if your first time—your real first time—is with someone who …”

His voice breaks off, and I have to know, even though I dread the answer. “With someone who …?”

Will be gone in the morning?

Who only wants to sleep with you as part of the game?

Who may or may not look at you twice when you go back to being your real self?

I hear him breathing, and he doesn’t respond for several seconds. “I care about you, Stephanie.”

My heart thuds. “But then why …?”

“Because it won’t just be about sex. If you’re looking to get rid of your V-card on the easiest target, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “Which is it, Ethan? You won’t sleep with me because you’re concerned I’m making a rash decision, or you won’t sleep with me because you’re afraid I’m using you for your rich-boy body?”

He lets out a little laugh. “God, I don’t know. The first one. Maybe both. I just—”

“I’m not using you,” I blurt out. “You think it was easy to come in here? But I just got something major handed back to me, Ethan. Now it’s my choice to make. And I choose you.”

He tips his head down, his forehead resting on mine. “Why?” The question is hoarse. Desperate. Needing.

I lay my hand along his jaw. “Because I care about you too.”

He closes his eyes, but only for a heartbeat, because then his mouth is on mine again, and there’s nothing teasing or soft about it, and I know I’ve won.

As our kisses grow more frantic and more heated, he shifts, leaning toward me just slightly, giving me time and space to freak out, but I don’t. I wrap my arms around his back, my fingers playing over the muscles there as I let him roll me beneath him.

Our hands are more adventurous now, looking to give pleasure rather than simply explore, and he captures my cry with his lips as his hand finds my breast, his palm circling, putting the perfect amount of pressure on my nipple.

All of my writhing has made my tank ride up to my rib cage, and he slips his hand beneath it, moving slowly, as though I might freak out.

I don’t.

His lips are all over me, sucking and teasing, and I can do little more than hold his head to me, even though I want more. So much more.

His face moves up to mine as his hand moves downward, his fingers finding my warmth even through the fabric of my silk shorts.

“Is this okay?”

All I can do is moan.

“You can stop me at any time.”

“Ethan.” I sink my teeth into his lower lip. “Shut. Up.”

I feel him smile, and then his hand moves gently between my legs. He rubs me there until my thighs fall apart, and then he slides a hand beneath the shorts, beneath my panties, exploring the wet heat of me. I hear soft mewling noises from somewhere, and am humiliated to realize that they’re my own.

Ethan kisses away my embarrassment even as he eases my shorts and underwear down over my butt, pulling them slowly down my legs until I’m able to kick them away.

I’m naked underneath Ethan Price, and nothing has ever felt so right or so perfect.

It’s not until he’s removing his boxers that practicality sneaks through my sexual haze. “Wait!”

He exhales sharply through his nose, but he moves himself off me entirely, his gaze concerned.

“Protection,” I say, mortified that I didn’t think of it before, though I’ve never needed to.

There’s a little flash of relief in his eyes, and he brushes a kiss over my shoulder. “Lucky for you, I happen to be a dude past the age of puberty. We like to be prepared at all times in case we get lucky with a sexy film student.”

I smile a little, rubbing my hands over his chest, noting the way he sucks in a breath when I touch his flat nipples. “You think I’m sexy.”

His eyes roam my face, and his gaze grows soft. “You’re definitely sexy.”

He’s not kidding about having protection handy, as it takes him a half second of digging through a nightstand drawer before he’s rolling the condom on.

It occurs to me that I should be terrified, but I’ve never been so turned on or so certain of anything in my life.

“Last chance,” he whispers in my ear, settling above me.

I pull his lips down to mine in response, and he moves a palm between my thighs, parting them before positioning himself.

There’s a pinch at first. Not pain, just tight, and I automatically tense against the pressure.

“Relax as much as you can,” he says, his lips on my neck.

I do, trusting him, and he slides into me slowly, each of us groaning. I know when he’s all the way in, because I feel full and satisfied.

So this is it.

That wasn’t it.

Because then he braces his hands on either side of my head and begins to move, his eyes never leaving my face. There’s still a remnant of that tightness, but not enough to stop my hips from lifting to meet his slow thrusts.

For some reason I always assumed that it would be over in a couple of minutes, but it’s deliciously prolonged until we’re both moving faster and faster, and I’m so close but don’t know how to reach for it.

Ethan’s hand slides down my body, and his fingers do something wonderful, touching me in just the right spot, and in a matter of seconds I have to slap my hand over my face to keep from crying out as everything explodes.

Ethan gives a muffled curse, and for the first and only time that evening he forgets to be gentle, his body slamming into mine before he jerks once, twice, and I know everything’s exploded for him too. And I love it.

After, he slowly rolls me onto my side, pulling my back against his chest as he wraps an arm around my waist.

“I should get back to my room,” I say finally, partially because it’s true, and partially because I don’t know what else to say in the awkward aftermath of something so amazing.

“Had I known what you had in mind, I could have come to you,” he says against my hair. “Saved you the walk of shame.”

“Is it bad that I almost hope to run into your mother? Just to see her face?”

His hand moves slightly and he pinches my butt. “Don’t even think about it. It’ll be funny for about a half second, but I guarantee the memory won’t be so humorous the next time you see her at Sunday dinner.”

It takes my brain a second to register what he’s said, and my heart gives a little jump of happiness, even if I wonder if he’s just speaking hypothetically.

“Is there going to be another Sunday dinner?” I ask, keeping my voice as light as I can for such an important a question.

Ethan moves, lifting slightly so he can rest his head on his hand while the other moves from my waist to the curve of my cheek.

“Stephanie—”

I turn slightly so I can see his face, my heart melting a little when I do. He’s nervous.

“The timing of this is all wrong,” he says, “because we just—you know—but I swear to God I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow, even before I knew we’d—”

“Consummate?” I say with a cheeky grin.

But he doesn’t grin back, his face serious. Hopeful. “I know we agreed that this would only last until school started again, and I know you’re planning to move into the dorms and all that, but …”

“But?” I whisper.

His eyes are on my lips. “But we make pretty good roommates. And even better lovers. And I was thinking … I was wondering … if you want to … I was hoping that you might, you know … stay.”

I feel something warm and comforting uncurling in my stomach, moving slowly up my chest, and it’s been so long since I’ve felt it that it takes me a second to name what I’m feeling.

I’m happy. Ethan makes me happy.

It’s crazy. And it’s fast. Jordan will flip. My dad will have a heart attack. His parents will probably call the freaking police.

But we’re adults, and it’s just a month of playing house, not a wedding ring. And there’s no way I’ll say no to him. I can’t.

Instead, I pull his lips down to mine. “I could probably stick around … roommate.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ethan

I get Stephanie back to her room sometime around four in the morning before creeping back to my own bedroom and catch a few hours of sleep before we need to get up for my parents’ farewell brunch and the trek back to the city.

When I wake up at nine, it takes me five groggy seconds to realize why I’m in such a good mood. Then I remember the moment when Stephanie slid between my sheets, and everything that followed.

I realize now why I’ve felt like there’s been an elephant sitting on my chest for the past few days. I’ve been dreading the moment of returning to my apartment and not smelling whatever bubbles she has going in her nightly baths. I’ve been dreading not having anyone mock the fact that I iron my golf shorts and dry-clean my polos.

I’ve been dreading life without Stephanie. And now I don’t have to.

I take a quick shower before pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a green button-down, just because she once told me I looked “not too bad” in green. It was a begrudging compliment, but it was definitely a compliment. I’ll take it.

As I emerge from my room, I practically collide with Mike and Michelle St. Claire.

“Ethan!” Michelle says, her face as familiar as my own mother’s, and she looks so pleased to see me that my gut twists. “I haven’t seen you all weekend. Or all summer.”

There’s a question there, but I’m not about to answer it. That’s Michael’s to deal with. Still, it’s not her fault that her son slept with my girlfriend, or that her husband is probably sleeping with my mother.

I wonder if she knows.

Fueled partly by pity and partly by fond memories, I give her a hug and kiss her cheek, doing my best to avoid eye contact with Mike. How he could cheat on a woman like Michelle St. Claire is beyond me.

I make small talk for a few seconds before Mike grumbles about being hungry and drags his wife toward the stairs.

She gives me one last beseeching glance. “We’ll tell Michael you say hi, okay?”

Please don’t. “Okay,” I say, forcing a smile.

Still, the thought of my best friend doesn’t burn as badly as it has in recent weeks, and I wonder if maybe it’s time that I give him a call. The least we can do is have it out. Over a decade of friendship deserves at least that much.

I knock softly on Stephanie’s door, not bothering to wait for a response before entering.

Her back is to me, and she’s carefully loading her cocktail dresses and swimsuits into her suitcase.

But it’s not the clothes she’s packing that has my attention. It’s the clothes she’s wearing.

She turns her head toward me, giving me a shy smile. “Hi,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.

I tell myself to say something to make her less nervous. To tell her that she should absolutely not be embarrassed about what happened between us last night. That it was one of the best nights of my life, and not just because of the sex. The talking, the cuddling, the confiding … all of it.

But I can’t take my eyes off her boots. Her pants. Her black top. Her eye makeup.

I see the moment that she registers that I’m not saying anything. That I can’t stop staring, and not in the way a guy who’s just lovingly taken her virginity should be looking at her.

But I can’t help it. This isn’t the Stephanie from last night. This is the pissy, angry, world-hating Stephanie. I thought she was gone. But she’s staring right at me.

In my parents’ house. Where anyone can see her.

“What’s, um … what’s with the get-up?” I ask.

Her face immediately clouds over, her blue eyes blinking in hurt and I feel like a dick. But she recovers quickly, and the pain fades into wary anger.

“My get-up? You mean my clothes?”

I gesture toward her suitcase. “Those are your clothes. And I thought I got rid of that gray eye shadow.”

The shadowy eyes in question narrow on me. “You did. I bought some more.”

Why?

“Are you mad at me? Is that why you’re all gothed out?” I ask tentatively, trying to figure out what I’m missing. Why she’s not wearing some cute little brunch-appropriate sundress like everyone else will be wearing.

“I wasn’t. But I’m certainly getting there,” she says between gritted teeth.

“Spell it out for me,” I say with an easy smile. “What did I do to deserve the all-black attire?” And I do mean all black. From the slim T-shirt to the baggy pants to the boots the pants are tucked into, there’s not a speck of color on her, save for the blue eyes, and the eyes are pissed.

The warning bells that had started as mere chimes were now wailing in my head.

“You didn’t do anything to deserve it, Ethan.” Her voice is calm, and that’s way worse than if she’d been screaming at me. “But we’ve said from day one that today marks the end of the charade. The day I can stop pretending.”

“But last night … I thought …”

She looks at me patiently. “Last night was everything to me. But I don’t see what it has to do with my wardrobe.”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck, struggling to find the right thing to say. On one hand, I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter. That I’ll feel the same about her no matter what she’s wearing. That she could wear a space suit and I wouldn’t care.

But then I imagine the two of us walking down to my parents’ brunch with her wearing that. I imagine the stares, the raised eyebrows, the confusion.

And before I realize what’s happening, there’s a montage running through my brain like an unbidden slide show.

Me taking Stephanie to my frat formal when she’s dressed like a horror-movie extra.

Stephanie and me at my parents’ for dinner with her wearing all twelve hundred earrings.

Us meeting up after class, me with my fellow preppy business students and her with her goth film friends, and none of us having a thing to say to each other.

Trying to take her out to a nice dinner, me in my suit and her in her scuffed battlefield boots.

I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see any of it.

“Ethan, do you want me to change?”

I feel a flood of relief at her suggestion. God, yes. “I think you look great in your new stuff,” I say, patting myself on the back for being diplomatic.

Silence.

Oh, shit. Her question hadn’t just been a question. It had been a test. A test that I’d failed.

I’d never seen anyone’s expression so cold. The hurt I could fix. The anger I could deal with. But this numb, don’t-give-a-shit Stephanie?

This was bad. Really bad.

“Stephanie …”

She holds up a hand. “Get out.”

My own temper spikes at her cool dismissal, as though we don’t owe it to each other to have a conversation about this. “You’re regressing, Kendrick.”

“Regressing to what, exactly?”

“The old you. The version of you that was wary, scary, and maybe a little mean. The version that was mad at everyone and scared of everything.”

She takes a half step closer, her eyes flashing. “There is no old me, Ethan. There’s the real me, and then there’s the made-up Barbie version that I’ve been faking for the past month.”

I shake my head, not buying it for a second. “You’ve been happy the past few weeks. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying it! But it wasn’t the new clothes or makeup that made me happy, Ethan.”

I get what she’s trying to tell me, I do. And I should be mollified by the fact that it’s me that’s made her happy. Not my money, or my lifestyle, or the fact that there’s legit marble in my bathroom. Isn’t that what every dude wants? A girl who likes him for him and not his image?

But then she tucks her hair behind her ear and the morning light catches her earrings. All seven of them.

She won’t last a day in my world. Everyone from my parents to my friends to my colleagues will talk about her behind her back. I can’t ask that of her.

But neither can I ask her to change.

I meet her eyes, and I know the second she understands. This isn’t going to work.

But I want it to. Hell, I’m determined. Maybe she just needs to see that she doesn’t have to wear that shit. Maybe then she’ll get rid of it for good.

And if she doesn’t … well, we’ll work it out. I think.

I extend my hand. “Let’s go to brunch.”

She looks surprised at the offer, and I feel a little pang that she thinks I wouldn’t want to be seen with her like this.

And it hurts a hell of a lot more that for a second there, I actually didn’t want to be seen with her like this.

“Ethan, are you … I can change.”

For a second, I’m tempted. For her sake as much as mine. But her eyes are vacant and lost, and I know that if I ask that of her, she’ll be lost to me.

I shake my head. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Stephanie

Everyone is staring. I mean, I knew they would, but …

It’s worse than I thought.

Not that I have anyone to blame but myself. I knew when I’d dressed up like a character out of The Nightmare Before Christmas in this group that I’d be getting some looks. That I’d fit in about as well as a mutt among purebred poodles.

But I needed to know. Needed to know how Ethan would react. If he’d even see the boots and the eyeliner, or if he’d see me.

The answer was heartbreaking.

He was holding my hand now, but the gesture felt empty. Cold. As though my black T-shirt with the name of some random rock band I don’t even like printed across the front was slowly erasing everything that happened last night.

I give him credit for trying to pretend like we’re okay. I really do. But the words we exchanged when he first entered my room are hanging between us, and I know we’re both guilty. Me for not trusting him. For waking up this morning with the paralyzing fear that I’d just given my virginity to a real-life Pygmalion—a guy who’d fallen for his creation instead of the real deal. For testing him. And him for making me right. Because he did look at me differently now that I’m not dressed up like an Easter egg.

Just like it’s as clear as day that he’s uncomfortable right now, holding the hand of someone who’s so clearly not one of them.

“Ethan!”

We both turn around, grateful for a distraction from the stares. From the silence between us.

There’s a well-dressed older man whom I remember seeing at the bonfire but haven’t met yet. He’s wearing a white polo and khaki shorts. The guy is solidly middle-aged but looks more tanned and fit than most of my social circle of twentysomethings. In fact, the guy could be Ethan in several years. Or what Ethan might be if he quits hanging around me.

“Hey, Pat,” Ethan says, giving the older man a friendly if slightly strained smile.

“Just wanted to meet your new girl. Didn’t have a chance earlier in the weekend.”

Ethan hesitates, not enough for Pat to notice, but I notice, and the tightness in my chest is back.

“Sure. This is Stephanie Kendrick. My girlfriend.”

I should feel mollified that he says it out loud, but there’s no enthusiasm there. Certainly no pride.

“Pat Middleton,” the guy says, shaking my hand. “My daughter and Ethan grew up together.”

I almost snicker. Sure. If by “grew up together” he means “had pretty much been betrothed.” I’d paid enough attention to last names enough to know that I was meeting Olivia’s dad. And although the man was nothing less than polite, his puzzled expression said it all.

My daughter’s being passed over for her?

“Well, we should get something to eat before we head out,” Ethan is saying.

“Sure, sure. Good game yesterday, by the way. Maybe the four of us can head out next weekend for another round if it cools down a little bit?”

“Sure, definitely,” Ethan mumbles before saying some sort of lame good-bye and pulling me toward the buffet table.

I glance at his profile. There’s something else warring with embarrassment on his face now. Guilt.

And I’m pretty sure I know what’s causing it.

“The four of you?” I say casually as we begin mechanically heaping food onto our plates. Everything looks flawlessly prepared, although I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to eat a bite.

“Sure, same foursome from yesterday’s round,” he says, taking way too long to select the right serving of eggs Benedict.

“So you, your dad, Pat, and … Olivia?”

He drops the spoon with more force than necessary. “Yes, I played golf with Liv, okay? It was hardly salacious.”

Except you didn’t tell me about it.

It’s not a big deal, really. I mean, golf isn’t the sexiest of sports, and their dads were there. And to be fair, I didn’t ask about his golf game. I was completely willing to buy that it had been a harmless round of the world’s most boring sport.

Except …

It was a sport that I’ve never played. Will probably never want to play. I’ll never be invited to join “his people” for a round of golf next weekend.

“Well, have fun with Liv next weekend,” I say, hating the petty jealousy in my voice at the thought of the two of them in little matchy outfits with their clean-cut dads and probably some mesclun salad lunch to follow, but unable to change my tone.

“Christ, Stephanie. Don’t pick a fight. Not about this.” Ethan heads to one of the vacant round tables and I follow, feeling like an outcast foreign exchange student. Except I’m not from another country, I’m from another freaking world.

I let my plate clank to the table, delighted when a strawberry rolls off my plate onto the white cloth. Hope that shit stains.

“I’m not picking a fight. I just want to know why you didn’t tell me that you spent most of yesterday with your ex-girlfriend.”

He shoves a pile of some truffled potato shit in his mouth, and I have a sudden craving for diner-style greasy hash browns, just because it’s normal. “Probably because I knew you’d respond like this,” he says irritably.

Ethan has a point. I’m acting like that totally immature bitch of a girlfriend from the movies, the one who always gets dumped. But I’m apparently a glutton for punishment because I keep going.

“Was it fun?”

“Was what fun?” He drops his fork on his plate, and we quit bothering to pretend we’re hungry.

“Your little country-club expedition. Was. It. Fun?”

“Sure …” he says slowly. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

And then I know why he didn’t bother mentioning it. Maybe nothing sexual happened with Olivia, maybe not even anything flirty.

But there’s something more dangerous than sex.

Compatibility.

Ethan and Olivia have it.

Ethan and I do not.

It’s the same reason he was freaked out this morning by my attire. Hell, it’s the very reason I put on these clothes; I just didn’t realize it. Because my subconscious knew what I didn’t. That although he cared about me—and I didn’t doubt for a second that he did—it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be happy on the outskirts of his world, when the rest of his friends were yachting and I was trying to drag him to some one-man off-off-Broadway show.

He would miss out on golf games, tennis matches, and whatever other preppy crap because of me.

And because I care about him too, I won’t let that happen.

It’s why I have to let him go.

I feel my lips curve into a gross semblance of a smile. “Guess we have the end of our Pygmalion movie, huh?”

“What?” he snaps, looking exasperated.

I tell myself to shut up and walk away, but my stupid mouth keeps running. “You know, all this time, I sort of thought it was going to be one of those trashy romantic comedy scripts. I’m actually kind of relieved that it’s real.”

“Stephanie …”

I keep going. “It’s pretty standard, actually. You, as Pygmalion, are forced to realize that what you thought you cared for was something of your own creation and not real. And I, as the subject, am forced to realize that it was too good to be true. That someone like you wouldn’t fall for damaged goods with multiple piercings.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “That sounds like a bunch of melodramatic babble.”

“Give it time. You’ll see I’m right.”

He frowns, his bored expression turning intense. “Wait—what are you saying?”

You know what I’m saying. “We do what we always planned to do at the end of all this,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice that my voice cracks. “We go our separate ways. No harm, no foul.”

My own trite phrase almost makes me wince, but throwing out clichés is easier than saying what I want to. That I’m hurt. That I’m scared. That I love him.

“Stephanie, let’s talk about this. I know this morning has been rough, but maybe we can compromise.”

I feel like he’s just landed a karate chop on my solar plexus. “Compromise? You want me to compromise who I am?”

“Maybe this isn’t who you are!” he says, his voice rising enough to draw a few looks. “I’ve got nothing against the color black, but you’re just trying to prove some point that nobody cares about but you!”

Wait, what? That catches me off guard.

He thinks I’m doing this because I’m protecting myself? I’m doing it for him.

Aren’t I?

I push away the seed of doubt. “I’ve gotta go.”

He tries to grab my hand, but I snatch it back.

“Don’t leave me,” he says, his eyes pleading. “I just need a minute. Let me think for a minute.”

I hold his gaze. “Think about what, Ethan? Whether you want your golf games and your country club, or me?”

“Who says I have to choose?”

“Because I don’t belong here! How do you think this will work, you doing your upper-crust shit on weekends and me doing my goth agenda on mine, and we see each other … when?”

“We do go to the same school.”

“A school with over thirty thousand students, Ethan. We don’t have any of the same classes, none of the same friends. We’re on opposite sides of campus.…”

His hand reaches out for mine, but I snatch mine back, ignoring the pain in his eyes.

“You’re pushing me away.” His voice is flat.

Am I? Maybe.

But staying isn’t an option. If I stay, I’ll become whatever he wants me to be. I know I will.

And if the time I’ve spent with Ethan over the past month has taught me anything, it’s that I’m done letting other people shape me. Done getting piercings because I want to push away my dad. Done getting a tattoo because I want to separate myself from that foolish girl who was Caleb’s girlfriend. Done wearing all black because I want to be that troubled girl who just lost her mother.

I’m not entirely sure what I want anymore. But I need to figure it out.

And I can’t do that as Ethan’s puppet girlfriend.

“I’ve got to go, Ethan.”

“You mean like … you want to get back to the city? I can take you—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I see the second he realizes it. His eyes turn from gold to black and his features are completely blank.

He looks mad. But he also looks relieved. And that burns more than anything else.

I stand, almost turning over my plate in my clumsiness, and hating that I can’t meet his eyes.

“Stephanie,” he says hoarsely.

I meet his eyes. Silently, I beg him to beg me to stay.

He looks away. “You accused me of being Pygmalion … of falling for my own creation, or whatever.”

I swallow. Nod.

His eyes clash with mine again as he stands to tower over me. “You may be right, but that’s not the whole story.”

“No?” My voice is pathetic. Barely a whisper.

He leans in slightly, bracing his arms on the table. “I may be the Pygmalion in the story, but you’re the statue. All that black shit you hide behind? That’s just your version of ivory. You have the chance to come alive, Stephanie, and you’re choosing to be a lifeless piece of rock.”

I feel the color drain from my face.

Is he right? I know he’s right. Yet I still can’t speak.

Because being the statue is easier.

He straightens, and right before my eyes, I watch my Ethan fade away. His expression is blank, his eyes vacant, and just like that, he’s the don’t-give-a-shit jock I met on that first day.

Before I can run the other way to lick my wounds, he catches my eyes and flays me with one more cut. “I’ll be in touch about the screenplay. I’m thinking we might have to reconsider the female lead. God knows we can’t base her on you. We need someone with guts. Someone not afraid to bleed a little. So go back to being the statue, Stephanie. But don’t expect me to be the one to bring you back to life next time. I’m done.”

And then he walks away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ethan

I’m dimly aware of making small talk with a handful of people after I walk away from the table—walk away from Stephanie.

Every instinct is screaming at me to turn back. To take her in my arms and tell her that we will find a way to make this work.

But I don’t.

She’s fucking bailing on me. On us.

After everything, after last night, she’s ready to call it quits because I didn’t swoon over her boots and her creepy makeup.

So I walked away first, thinking it would hurt less that way.

But I’m wrong. Because turning away from her feels like I have a knife in my chest.

And probably in my back too, if I know Stephanie.

Although I’m no longer sure that I do. That scared, indifferent creature isn’t the feisty, gutsy girl I know. I meant what I said to her: she really is turning into the statue. I mean, I know why, of course. To protect herself and all that shit.

But does she really think she has to protect herself from me?

Well, you did flip your shit because she had more earrings than you’d prefer. Why the hell should she trust you?

I rub a hand over my face. I’m an ass.

A really, really confused ass.

I don’t even realize where I’m headed until I’m there, climbing onto my father’s sailboat and heading toward the bow.

It had always been my getaway when I needed space from my parents during the summers. A chance to gather my thoughts, or escape lectures, or just have a break from people. Later I’d shared my getaway with Olivia, and it had become a place to make out under the stars.

I freeze when I catch the familiar sight of dark blond hair. As though I’d conjured her up with my memories, Olivia is there. I’d recognize her slim back and shoulder-length hair anywhere. She’s sitting in my spot with her legs thrown over the ledge, staring out at the water.

I mean to back away slowly, find another place to be alone, but she senses my presence. Her eyes aren’t the least bit surprised when she turns around to find me, and it’s as though she knew it would be me.

Almost as though she’s been waiting for me.

I don’t know that I’m ready for this conversation, but suddenly the timing feels right. Maybe I can get Olivia and Stephanie completely out of my system and go into my senior year with a fresh start.

Maybe find a girl who won’t cheat on me. A girl who’s real rather than pretending.

She scoots over as I walk toward her, and I sit next to her. Before, I would have sat so close our hips were touching, but today there are inches between us, and I know the space isn’t just physical. It’s emotional too.

“Where’s Stephanie?” she asks softly.

I’m impressed that she uses her name. I’d always imagined ex-girlfriends as sneering Where’s your new girlfriend? or something even more derogatory when it comes to their competition. But Olivia’s never been catty.

Unfaithful, yes. Bitchy, no.

“Waiting for the jitney, I presume,” I reply, referring to the bus that shuttles dozens of Hampton-goers to and from the city.

“Without you?”

“Yup.”

She glances down at her legs swinging above the water. “Want to talk about it?”

It’s not what Olivia and I should be talking about. We should be talking about us, and yet Olivia and I don’t seem to be the important part here.

When Olivia and I ended, I was pissed. Humiliated.

But I don’t remember feeling this crippled. Like I didn’t know what my next steps were supposed to be.

So yeah, I guess I do want to talk about it, and she’s here …

“Stephanie and I … we’re different,” I say, not knowing where to start.

Olivia glances at my profile. “Different how?”

I stare out at a distant yacht. “She’s not like us, you know?”

“Snobbish, you mean?”

I glance out of her at the corner of my eye, surprised to see that she’s smiling. “Are we? Snobbish?”

“Ethan, we’re sitting on a luxury sailboat outside a mansion in the freaking Hamptons, and I don’t think either one of our current ‘casual outfits’ cost under five hundred dollars.”

I wince. When she puts it that way …

“But it’s not a bad thing, you know. To have money. It’s not evil.”

“Noooo,” she says, drawing the word out. “But it can be toxic when we let it become our bubble. When we’re not willing to go outside it.”

Her words are like lemon juice on a paper cut. Is that what I’m doing? Hiding like a scared child inside a bubble that cares more about class and appearance than substance?

For the first time, I wonder what my dad will do if and when he learns of my mother’s affair. Will he brush it under the carpet to maintain appearances? Will he pretend it didn’t happen in order to maintain his working relationship with Mike?

Possibly.

No. Probably.

The thought makes me sick, and yet am I any better? I’m doing the opposite thing for the exact same reason. Instead of keeping close someone who’s perhaps bad for me, I’m pushing someone away who’s absolutely good for me.

All because she doesn’t fit.

Olivia’s eyes are on my face. “You love her.”

It’s like she’s stabbed me. That word was thrown out so easily between the two of us over the years, each giving and receiving it, and while I’m sure we meant it, it was too light. We took it for granted. Took each other for granted.

And because I can’t think of love and Stephanie just yet, I focus on Olivia.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask.

She had to know the question was coming, and yet she jolts as though dealt a blow.

“Ethan … I’ve tried to explain so many times. I’ve called. I’ve texted. I came by your parents’ house, but you were never there.…”

“So explain now.”

Her hand finds my arm, and I expect to feel either loathing or longing, but I feel … nothing.

“You have to know, Ethan, we never, never meant to hurt you.”

“Lack of premeditation’s not going to help your case, Olivia. I still saw you. And don’t tell me it was all him, because I know a reciprocal kiss when I see one.”

Her head dips, her chin almost touching her chest. “I went over there because I wanted to talk to Michael about planning a surprise party for your birthday.”

I snort. “Well, congrats. I definitely got my surprise.”

“It just happened, Ethan. You have to believe me. It was a one-time thing, and it’s not something I’d even thought about before it—”

“Never?” I prod, genuinely curious. “Because Michael’s a good-looking guy.”

“So are you,” she says loyally. But it’s still not an answer to the question, and she’s not meeting my eyes. Not really.

“Olivia,” I say more softly. “Do you have feelings for Michael?”

“No.”

But she says it too fast, too loud, and I’m starting to feel a little enlightened.

“Olivia …”

I don’t know why I’m prodding. Don’t even know if I really want to hear the answer. But I’ve known Olivia for so long, and there’s something not adding up. She’s not the crazy type who falls victim to her hormones. If she kissed him, regardless of who initiated, there was something there.

It would also explain the expression I saw on Michael’s face when I interrupted them. I hadn’t let myself think much about that—I was too busy being the victim.

But beneath Michael’s shock at seeing me, beyond the guilt … There was something else there when he immediately moved in front of Olivia, as though to protect her from my wrath.

There was longing.

Jesus Christ. I rub a hand on my neck. Maybe my best friend had had a thing for my girlfriend the entire time, and I’d never seen it. I wish I could say I could look back and see various hints, but the truth is, I’d never bothered to notice.

“Ethan, you have to know how sorry I am,” Olivia is saying. “I’ve hated myself every minute of every day. I know it’ll be hard for you to trust me again, but we can work toward it together, if you’ll just give me a chance—”

Her hand is flailing all around, her panicked monologue a little disarming because it’s so out of character, and I reach to grab her trembling fingers, cupping her hand in both of mine and holding it still. There’s no shock at the contact. No zip.

Olivia’s eyes meet mine and I know she realizes it too.

There was something between us once. But it’s gone now. First because of Michael, and now because of Stephanie.

Stephanie.

I think Olivia can tell the second I really, truly put us behind me, because her green eyes go a little bit sad before softening altogether.

“Okay, Eth,” she says softly. “Okay.”

I squeeze her fingers. “You’ll be all right.”

Olivia gives a harsh little laugh. “I can’t believe you’re the one trying to comfort me when I’m the one who cheated.”

“I know how it feels to lose someone you care about.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re not talking about me.”

I don’t respond. But we both know the answer.

“One last question?” she asks, stretching her hands out behind her and tilting her face to the midmorning sun.

“Shoot.”

“You’re over me. Clearly. But you are so not over Stephanie.”

I don’t even know Stephanie. “You said you had a question. That’s not a question.”

She gives me a knowing look. “You only play word games when you’re trying to dodge a point.”

“And the point would be …?”

Olivia stares back at the water, her eyes serious. “You know, when I heard from my mom—who heard it from yours—that you were seeing someone, I didn’t believe it. I mean, I believed that they believed it. And I believed that you had in fact produced some girl and slapped the label ‘girlfriend’ on her. But I had it in my head that you were doing it as a way of saving face after I’d betrayed you. Or even just as a way of keeping our matchmaking mothers away, because we know how they can be.”

She’s so dead on, I almost smile. Ironic, really, that Olivia would be the only person to know what I was up to. But it made sense. We really had known each other. Almost more like brother and sister.

“But then I got here this weekend,” she’s saying, “and I watched so carefully for the crack in your charade. I kept looking for a tiny little cue that it was all fake.”

Her eyes meet mine. “But it never came. You two … you were the real deal. You are the real deal, because I can’t believe that much has happened since last night.”

I open my mouth to tell her that she doesn’t know shit. To stay the hell out of my business.

But Olivia holds up a hand, calmly stopping me before I can argue. “Ethan, what I saw between you two … that’s worth reaching through the social bubble for.”

It’s a simple statement, but it feels like she just hit me with an anchor.

She’s right. She’s so damned right.

“Liv, I’m an idiot.”

She gives a nod of agreement. “It shouldn’t matter if she lives in a cardboard box, if you care about her—”

“I do,” I say, cutting her off.

I care so fucking much.

I’m on my feet, already turning to race after Stephanie, when on impulse I plant a brotherly kiss on Olivia’s familiar head. “You always were a freaking genius,” I tell her softly.

Although really, I should have been the one to see it. I should have known that what Stephanie and I felt together was every bit as real when we were in pastels as it was when we were naked or wearing spikes and leather. Not that I have any experience with the last of those.

What Stephanie and I had had nothing to do with that fool Pygmalion or that stupid statue, and everything to do with two people perfectly right for each other.

And Olivia’s right about something else too.

I don’t just care about Stephanie.

I love her.

And I fucking turned away from her because I didn’t like what she was wearing.

“I’m an ass,” I mutter.

“Totally,” Olivia says back with a small smile.

But I’m already climbing over the boat rail, running down the dock, and bounding up the steps toward Stephanie’s room.

It’s empty.

I find my mom in the kitchen, where she’s arguing with the caterers about how they used the wrong champagne flutes.

“Where is she?” I interrupt.

My mother raises an eyebrow. “Who, dear?”

“Stephanie. The next jitney’s not for another forty minutes. She should still be here.”

Mom’s eyes scan my face, and her features soften a little at what she sees there. “Mike and Michelle offered to give her a ride back to the city, sweetie.”

I slump against one of the counters. “Did you catch where they were going to drop her off?”

“Mmmm?” Mom’s already turned back to the caterers. “Oh, I think she said NYU. Something about moving in early to the dorms.…”

I close my eyes. It’s not a surprise, of course. Turning my back on her hadn’t exactly reaffirmed last night’s suggestion that she stay. At my place. With me.

But NYU is huge, and the perfect place for someone who doesn’t want to be found.

I push back from the counter, propelling myself up the stairs to grab my bag before heading toward my parents’ garage. They’ll be pissed, seeing as they need the car themselves to head back to the city in a few days, but hell, maybe a little exposure to the “riffraff” on the Hampton Jitney will do them good.

I call Stephanie as I’m pulling out of the driveway and am totally unsurprised when it goes to voicemail. I text her just in case: Where are you?

I make it back to Manhattan in record time.

She still hasn’t responded.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stephanie

Okay, I’ll admit it.

North Carolina’s not nearly the hell I’ve been making it out to be in my head. Even if it were, it’d be worth it for the look of surprised pleasure on my dad’s face when I showed up unannounced.

It was worth it for the way he hugged me to him and held me on the front porch for five minutes past awkward.

And then, because he was predictably Dad, he wanted to know about my classes.

I didn’t bother to correct the impression that I’d given him earlier by explaining now that I had been taking just one class.

“Oh, turns out everything’s been pretty flexible,” I’d demurred. “Just have to turn in my final project in a week, and then I’ll have a week off before the regular year starts up again.”

By project, of course, I meant the screenplay. I haven’t touched it since before the Hamptons trip, but I suppose I’ll have to face it at some point. God knows I don’t trust Ethan to finish the damn thing. He’d probably end it with Kayla wearing a cotton-candy-colored dress while changing her major to communications and declaring that she really did like pearls.

No freaking way am I going to let that happen.

Our screenplay is going to be based on real life. In which our pigheaded, stick-up-the-ass Pygmalion realizes showing someone how to pretend to be something won’t make them that way.

And yet …

Something’s wrong. Because although I’ll probably die happy if I don’t see another pair of four-inch heels for the rest of my life, I feel off in my clothes. And I’m not talking about my new stuff. I mean my old stuff.

I expected to feel like I did before. Sort of comfortably invisible.

But my endless supply of dark pants? They’re hot and not at all comfortable in the middle of the summer. I tried to put on my usual Midnight Sky nail polish but hadn’t applied it to more than two fingers before I removed it and opted for the pale yellow I’d purchased during the charade.

Yes. Pale yellow. And not because anyone expected it, but because I wanted to. Because I liked the way it looked against my summer tan, and the way it matched the polka dots on my favorite dress.

Because yeah, I’m wearing dresses now. Not every day, of course, but I threw one on when I let my dad and Amy take me to a welcome-home dinner. I paired it with my boots, which probably wasn’t in fashion, but I kind of liked the contrast. And although I haven’t gotten rid of my dark eye makeup—truthfully, I kind of like the way it makes my blue eyes stand out—I’ve eased up a bit, so now the look is sort of edgy rebel instead of gothic scary.

The symbolism of all this isn’t lost on me. The old Stephanie and the fake Stephanie had collided, and now I’m new Stephanie. And it feels right.

Even if I’m lonely as hell.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect that I’d miss Ethan. I shouldn’t miss him. He’s a shallow, superficial little boy who was scared that hanging out with creepy old me might dull some of his upper-crust shine.

I should be angry. And I suppose that I am.

But more than that, I’m hurt.

That look on his face when he saw me that horrible last morning in the Hamptons? That horror on his face?

I hope to God I never feel like that again, ever. It burned.

He didn’t just reject my admittedly ugly outfit. He rejected me.

And the worst part was, I didn’t see it coming. I really thought he cared beyond what I looked like, beyond what people thought.

I was so awfully, horribly wrong.

It’s not that I was faultless. Everything he said about me was right. I opted to be the statue instead of taking his offer of life.

I just wish it didn’t have to be his life. His way.

The pain was bad enough that I actually wanted to come home. I hadn’t even realized I thought of North Carolina as home until I was at the airport, after telling my campus job that I wouldn’t be able to start early after all.

I just wanted my dad.

I wanted family.

There’s a knock at my door, and I tug off the headphones that are blaring angsty break-up music.

“Come in.”

It’s Amy.

“Hey, I’m headed to the mall to get something for my niece’s baby shower. You want to come?”

“No, thanks,” I say automatically. Saying no to Amy is a habit.

She forces a little smile onto her face. “Okay. No problem. Shrimp scampi for dinner sound good?”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

Amy closes the door softly behind her, and I feel righteous and justified for about four seconds before I feel like a total brat.

I’m on my feet and out the door before I realize I’ve moved.

“Hey, Amy.”

She turns around.

“Actually, I would like to come to the mall. Just give me a sec to do something with my hair.”

I don’t know which one of us is more surprised, but she recovers quickly, and her smile gives me a little stab of regret about my behavior for the past four years.

“Your hair looks great,” she says. “I love the cut.”

“Thanks. I do too,” I say. Another surprise. Another part of me that’s changed. Another change I’ve embraced.

Maybe it’s time to take on a change bigger than hair and dresses.

Maybe it’s time to change my relationship with Amy. Maybe that too will be better than expected.

Shopping is considerably less painful than I would have thought, and when Amy suggests that we stop at her favorite wine bar before heading home for dinner, I hear myself say yes. And not just because I feel obligated to, but because sharing a glass of wine with a mother figure sounds kind of … nice.

My wine-drinking expertise is less than a year old, as my access to alcohol before the age of twenty-one was pretty much limited to keg cups. I ask Amy to pick something for me, and she gets us two glasses of sauvignon blanc, which is every bit as refreshing as she said it would be.

“So your dad and I are so glad you decided to surprise us,” she says as we settle into chairs on a little outdoor patio.

“I’m sorry to miss Chris,” I say. “I didn’t realize he’d be at baseball camp this week.”

“He gets back next week, so hopefully you can have a couple of days together before you head back to school. Your father and I would love it if you guys could become closer, although I suppose a twenty-one-year-old film student and a seventeen-year-old jock might not have a lot in common.”

The word jock makes me think of Ethan, and I take a bigger-than-classy sip of wine.

“So what inspired your visit?” she asks. Her tone is casual, but she’s watching me closely, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s fishing, although not in an obnoxious way.

I give her a knowing smile. “Did my dad put you up to this?”

Her white teeth beam. “Guilty. If you don’t want to share, that’s totally fine. I just thought you might want to, you know … talk.”

I run a finger around the base of my glass, considering. Ever since that conversation on the beach with Ethan, my resentment of Amy has been sort of fading, as though saying it out loud forced me to realize how petty I was being.

And that while maybe six months was fast for them to get married, love apparently didn’t work on a schedule. Perhaps my dad and Amy weren’t guilty of anything but finding happiness with the other person, and it just hadn’t happened to adhere to my emotional schedule.

Talking to Ethan about Amy had been therapeutic.

Maybe it would work the other way as well.

I take a deep breath. “It’s about a guy.”

She nods knowingly. “It usually is.”

Suddenly I’m telling her the whole story. How Ethan was gorgeous, even when I thought he was a prick that first day. How he was even more gorgeous when I started to think he wasn’t such a prick after all.

I tell her about the screenplay, and how I think we both knew all along that we weren’t doing it for the sake of our film class, or even the sake of his fake-girlfriend story, but because it had given us a way to be together when we lacked the guts to do it for real.

I tell her about the first time he kissed me, and how it had been the most incredible kiss of my life. I tell her about the clothes, the haircut, and the makeup, and how even as I resented it all, he made me feel pretty for the first time in a long time. I tell her about the wedding, the parties, and the dancing. I tell her about the quiet moments too, watching movies or sharing a pizza.

I tell her that I love him.

And that he hurt me.

And that I think I hurt him too.

Somehow in the midst of all this I’m crying, and I hate that I’m crying, and Amy’s moved her chair around the table to put an arm around me. And I let her.

She doesn’t seem to care that I’m soaking her white button-down with mascara-stained tears, and strokes my hair. And it’s nice. She’s not my mom, but she’s here. And that counts for more than I realized.

I finally pull myself together enough to lift my head from her shoulder, and she digs a travel-size package of tissues out of her purse and hands them to me, along with her assessment of the situation. “Men are the worst.”

I laugh a little as I blow my nose. “Seriously.”

She squeezes my hand. “Do you want me to tell you all the stuff you already know deep down? That if he doesn’t love you for you, he’s not worth loving at all? Or should we just leave it at the guys-are-shits phase for now?”

“The second one,” I say with a smile. “But thanks.”

She nods in understanding.

“I didn’t like you,” I blurt out.

It’s her turn to laugh. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

“It just felt like you came out of nowhere. Like one minute I had my little happy family, and the next my mom was gone and my dad had you, but I had … nobody.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand again. “You had us. You always had us.”

“I think I was too busy being mad,” I mutter.

“You were entitled. No girl should have to lose her mom like that. And if I’m not mistaken, there were boy troubles back then too?”

I nod but don’t elaborate. Maybe someday I’ll tell her about Caleb and that whole mess, but I’m too exhausted to tackle it now.

“You look like her, you know,” I say softly. Wanting to get it all out there.

She gives me a sad smile. “I know. I can’t help it.”

“I thought that’s why my dad married you.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch. “Honestly? Maybe it is why he was attracted to me at first. But it’s not why he married me, Stephanie. And it’s not why we’re still married now.”

“I know,” I whisper, feeling small.

She glances around for a server. “I’m thinking we need another glass of wine.”

I nod. Definitely. “Amy?” I say suddenly. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been …” Nice, friendly, civil … “I haven’t been decent to you.”

“Oh, please,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Remember I was your age once too. I had blue streaks in my hair and a nose ring, and tube tops were the defining part of my wardrobe.”

I lift an eyebrow, taking in the immaculately dressed, perfectly groomed woman beside me. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “I grew up. Grew into myself.”

I realize I’m fiddling with one of the several earrings on my ear, feeling oddly defensive. As though she’s trying to tell me that my “goth” clothes, as Ethan calls them, are some sort of adolescent acting out. “So you think I’m just going through a phase?”

“Oh, honey,” Amy says as she gestures to the server for another round, “Life is nothing but phases. Some things stick, lots of things don’t. You’ll figure it out.”

I glance down at my boots. I wonder if guys also go through phases.

And I wonder if Ethan will ever go through one that brings him back to me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ethan

It’s actually my mom who put the idea in my head. She’s been calling pretty much every day lately. I only pick up half the time. Until she comes clean with my dad, there’s not a whole lot I have to say to her.

But to her credit, she’s completely dropped the idea of me and Olivia getting back together. She even used some of her connections at NYU in an attempt to help me figure out what dorm Stephanie’s in. Can’t say I ever thought I’d see the day when my mother helps me stalk a girl, but I appreciate the effort.

After a few days of frantically roaming around campus, my brain gets a word in edgewise over my moping, and I remember that Stephanie said she worked in the dean’s office. But a quick phone call later, I’m even further away than when I started.

Because Stephanie apparently decided to not pick up any shifts until the fall semester started. Which means she won’t have access to the dorms.

She’s even more MIA than before.

“Did you find her yet?” my mom asks. She asks pretty much every time we talk now, in the same matter-of-fact voice as though we’re talking about fucking Waldo.

“No, Mom. Don’t you think I would have mentioned it?”

“Probably,” she says, unfazed by my tone. “I also think you’d be a lot less grumpy with your mother.”

I ignore this.

“And you tried her home?” she says.

“Stephanie doesn’t really have a home,” I say, thinking about her whole Rhode Island/North Carolina identity crisis.

“Of course she has a home. Where does her father live?”

I reluctantly explain that they’re not on good terms and that there’s no way Stephanie would go back there. Hell, it was her desperation to avoid it that led her to agree to this whole disaster.

“Yes, honey, but that was before,” Mom says patiently.

“Before what?”

“Before you broke her heart.”

I wince. “Jesus, Mom.”

“Trust me on this. She’ll have wanted to get as far away from you as possible. Ten bucks says she’s in North Carolina.”

“Ten bucks? You wouldn’t think twice about blowing your nose on a ten-dollar bill.”

But now Mom’s got me thinking about how falling in love with Stephanie helped me let go of my anger toward Olivia and Michael, because I didn’t need the anger anymore.

What if the same is true for Stephanie? What if she’s ready to make peace with her father and stepmom?

“I’ve gotta go, Mom. Love you.”

I hang up before she can start asking a million questions, and immediately pull up the Internet browser on my laptop.

Two minutes later, I grin in victory. Sometimes I love being born into a tech-friendly generation. I thought my mom was a good stalker assistant, but she’s got nothing on social media.

I’ve never bothered to look up Stephanie’s online profile before, and there are multiple Stephanie Kendricks, but I know which one is hers immediately. An NYU film student with a creepy black raven as an avatar? It’s a no-brainer.

She’s got the same raven tattooed on her butt cheek. I asked her what it meant, and she said she’d simply liked the color. Of course she had. What a weirdo.

My weirdo.

I don’t bother reaching out to her online. She hasn’t responded to my calls, texts, or emails, so I think it’s safe to say she wants nothing to do with me. It’s time to get creative.

Finally I figure out which of her friends must be her stepbrother, and I send him a message. Three days later I get a response: Dude. How’d u find me? That’s creepy. Yeah, I’m Stephanie’s bro. Are u the guy that makes her cry at nite? If yeah, fuck off. If no, fuck off anyway. She kinda hates guys right now.

Okay. So not a great start. But I’ve got my foot in the door. I hit reply and type: Sorry on the creep factor. I’m desperate. I’m pretty sure I’m the one who made her cry. I’m a dick. Want to make it better, but need your help. Saw that you have a girlfriend. Surely you’ve made a mistake at some point …?

I sit there like a total weirdo, refreshing the screen every five seconds for ten minutes before I realize that a seventeen-year-old guy on summer break probably has something better to do than monitor his inbox for messages from his stepsister’s asshole of an ex.

So mostly I pass the time by working on our screenplay. It’s taking forever since I have to stop every five minutes to reference the pile of screenwriting books I bought, but I’m actually kind of enjoying the process.

Stephanie’s probably working on it too, which means we’re doing double work, but that’s what she gets for going AWOL on me.

Besides, my version will be better. I’m pretty sure about this.

Later that evening, he writes back: I’m listening.

I close my eyes briefly and fist-pump the air.

Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Stephanie

My parents have thrown me a going-away party. Which is a little ridiculous considering I’ve only been here two weeks, and have only been around once a year before now. Not to mention they didn’t even know I was coming in the first place.

But I know what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to make me understand that I have a home here. And they’re letting all of their friends and neighbors know that their New York college girl is one of them.

Oddly, I’m okay with that.

Amy took me shopping for a new dress, and I picked a bright blue one with ruffles at the hem, because I like the way the flounce contrasts with my boots. The whole dress-and-boots thing has become a trademark look for me in the past two weeks. It’s the best I’ve felt in my skin in a long time.

I’ve continued to ease up on the eye shadow, although I’ll never get rid of my black liner or gray shadow completely. Or maybe I will, if Amy’s right about that whole life-is-a-bunch-of-phases thing. But for now I’m loving it.

The earrings have stayed too, although I gave the rest of my clunky, spiky leather jewelry to the Goodwill. In the same way I like the contrast of pairing lace with my boots, I’ve also started wearing a bunch of colorful, girly bangles on my wrist to offset the badass of my makeup and earrings.

And if the way that my parents’ neighbor is flirting with me is any indication, I’m pulling off the new look quite well.

That could also be the low neckline of the dress.

“Your hooters are about to fall out,” Chris says as he brings me a soda and tells the neighbor to scram.

“Gosh, it’s a shame we didn’t grow up together like other siblings. I’m sure you were such a sweet little boy.”

I wait for his comeback. We’ve spent less than a week together, but he’s seemed more than willing to forgive my intentional absence for most of our parents’ marriage and has risen to the occasion of pain-in-the-ass little-brother marvelously.

But today he’s slow on the sparring, instead staring around the backyard like he’s looking for someone. Probably his on-again/off-again girlfriend, who calls eight hundred times a day, usually to yell at him.

I use my boot to gently kick his knee. “This is my party. You have to pay attention to me.”

He smiles, although he doesn’t stop looking around. “Dad says you were a total attention whore when you were a kid. I believe it.”

Chris calls my father “Dad.” It bothered me at first, but now I’m actually kind of jealous at how quickly Chris adjusted to the whole new-family situation. Granted, it was different for him. He’s younger, and he’s never known his own father.

Still, I don’t think I’ll ever call Amy “Mom.” Because she’s not my mom.

She is, however, turning out to be a pretty fantastic stepmom. As if sensing my eyes on her, she turns and waves from where she’s talking with some friends on the deck, then points at my dad’s feet and rolls her eyes. Both of us launched a no-socks-with-sandals campaign this morning. We lost.

I’m about to go over and join them when I realize that the buzz of the party has changed. It was cheerful and mellow, and now it’s hushed. I scan the group, trying to figure out what’s got everyone’s attention.

“Is he lost?” I hear someone whisper.

“I bet he has a motorcycle,” someone else says.

The crowd shifts slightly, and suddenly I see what they see.

Oh. My. God.

I’m frozen in place, my eyes taking it all in. The leather pants. The boots. A leather vest, for God’s sake. The hair is a tousled mess, and completely at odds with his pretty-boy features.

“Is that a spike in his ear?” Chris mutters. “The dude wasn’t joking around when he said he was going all out.”

His words manage to penetrate my shock. “Chris,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, “tell me you don’t know who that is. That you haven’t been in communication with him.”

“Ehhh …”

He’s slowly shifting away from me, guilty-like. I make a grab for his shirt, but he’s already blending in with the crowd, all of whom are staring at the newcomer.

But the newcomer is staring only at me.

He stops in front of me, and even though I hate him, even though he hurt me, and even though he’s barely recognizable in this ridiculous get-up, my stupid heart still gives a ridiculous flip of joy.

“Ethan,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Tell me this is a bad dream. Tell me that you didn’t seriously hunt me down in North Carolina looking like you got separated from the rest of the Hell’s Angels.”

He grins, and his smile is so familiar that I want to weep. “You like?”

“You look ridiculous.”

His eyes skim up my body, taking in the boots, the dress, the jewelry … the changes. “You look wonderful,” he says.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Careful, someone might think you’re actually interested in someone like me.”

“Stephanie, I—”

“Ethan, don’t you think I’d have answered my phone if I wanted you to find me? How did you find me?”

“Stalked your brother,” he says, not looking the least bit guilty.

I knew it.

“But if it’s any consolation, the guy totally put me through the wringer. Made me send him a reference from Jordan, and send a picture of my ID, and prove that I know you personally, which of course was as simple as saying the words ‘totally scary’—”

I put up a single finger to stop his rambling. “You have about thirty seconds to walk yourself off the property before I call my dad over and ask him to remove you.”

“I finished our screenplay,” he says, as though he didn’t hear me.

I blink a little in surprise at that. “No, I finished our screenplay. I’m emailing it to Professor Holbrook tomorrow.”

“Too late. I already handed my version in.”

I feel my jaw drop. “Tell me this isn’t part of it. Tell me it doesn’t end with Tyler showing up at Kayla’s house dressed like a Halloween character.”

“That scene’s in there. But it’s not the end.”

There’s something in his eyes then as he searches my face. It’s vulnerability.

Don’t ask him how it ends.

“How does it end?” I ask. Damn it. My voice is all breathy.

He swallows, then takes a step closer. He raises his hands as though to touch my shoulders, but drops them immediately when I shift back a step. He has the nerve to look hurt at my rejection. As though he’s not the one who shoved me away. Who walked away from me because I wasn’t wearing the right thing.

“The screenplay, Price,” I say. “How does it end?”

He starts to rub a hand across the back of his neck but stops, glancing down at his fingerless gloves. Yeah. He’s wearing some.

“After the guy spends eight hundred dollars on leather pants, you mean?”

I suck my cheeks in to stop from smiling. “Let me guess. They’re designer? From Saks?”

A corner of his mouth turns up. “Guilty. I didn’t know where else to go.”

I shake my head. “You wouldn’t. Go on. What happens after Ethan-slash-Tyler spends an obscene amount of money on clothes he’ll never wear again?”

“Well, see, turns out he’s not done swiping his credit card. Because then he has to go buy a last-minute plane ticket from JFK to Charlotte.”

I roll my tongue around in my cheek. “Business class, I assume.”

Ethan tilts his head. “I didn’t realize there was any other way to travel. Not when the private jet’s in use.”

“Okay, so our big-spending movie hero is in Charlotte because …?”

“Honestly, Kendrick, it’s like you’ve never been to the movies. He’s in Charlotte because his girl’s in Charlotte.”

“Well if she’s his girl, why is she in Charlotte?”

He takes a tiny step closer, and this time I don’t back away. “Because he was an ass. And he fucked up. Big time.”

He doesn’t bother to lower his voice, and a quick scan behind him reveals that every single person at this party has gone perfectly still and is watching this unfold. I wonder if Ethan has any idea just how movie-like this actually is.

“And he thought the apology would go over better with a little leather?”

Ethan moves then, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve to show me his biceps. “And this.”

I gape. “You got a tattoo? Of a pigeon?”

“Well, I wanted to do a raven, but then I felt like that wasn’t very original.”

“Ethan, pigeons aren’t even birds. They’re like giant sky-rats.”

“Well, they’re very New York. And I think he’s cute. I named him Goth.”

I put my hands over my face, trying to figure out if I want to laugh or cry. “You should go, Ethan. Please go.”

He grabs my hands, pulling them away from my face and tucking them against his chest as he draws me closer.

All signs of the lighthearted Ethan are gone now, and his eyes are urgent as they scan my features. “That’s not how it ends, Kendrick. First he has to apologize. Then he tells her how wrong and stupid he was. He tells her that he doesn’t care if she decides to start wearing a velvet cape to dinner at his parents’ house. He doesn’t care that her boots belong in a Civil War museum. He doesn’t care if she wants to wear sweats to the opera or black to a wedding, or if she wants to draw black permanent marker around her eyes. And he tells her how wrong he was for saying that she lacked guts, because the truth is he wasn’t willing to meet her halfway.”

“Ethan—”

He presses his fingers to my lips, closing his eyes briefly. And when they find mine again, I feel sucker-punched at the emotion I see there.

“I wouldn’t change a single thing about you, Stephanie,” he says, dropping all pretense that this is about the movie. That it’s anything less than the two of us.

I dip my head, afraid to meet his eyes. “It’s easy to say that now,” I say softly. “When nobody here knows you, and none of your friends and family can witness this weird leather thing you have going on.”

He shifts slightly, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “I knew you’d say that. Which is why I did this. And this. And this …”

I gape as he swipes through the various social media apps on his phone, my brain barely processing what I’m seeing. “You changed your profile picture to a photo of you dressed like that?”

“Yup,” he says proudly. “I also stopped by my parents’ house. Thought they deserved to see it in person. And I’ve gotta tell you, these pants are damned uncomfortable, but I’ll wear them every day, to every class, to every frat party, if it means you’ll come back to me.”

“Why?” I ask quietly. “This isn’t you.”

He gives me a small smile, running a thumb over my cheek. “I’m still the same guy, no matter what I wear. And you’re the same girl.”

“You didn’t want me,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes briefly. “I did want you. I still do. I was scared and small-minded. Stupid.”

He opens his eyes.

“I love you, Stephanie. Just the way you are. You can wear pink, or black, or fucking feathers, and it won’t change how I feel about you.”

Just like that, I feel my heart explode. In joy. In fear. In hope.

“Your people won’t accept me,” I whisper, throwing up the last defense I can think of.

He shrugs. “Then we’ll find new people.”

“But your parents …”

“My parents like you. And besides, they have their own issues to deal with.”

His hands are cupping my face now, and I’m relieved to note that even though he doesn’t look like my Ethan, he still smells like him.

I let my fingers curl into his shirt. “My screenplay doesn’t have a happy ending.”

His fingers tighten, and his brown eyes flash in panic. “No?”

I shake my head.

He rests his forehead on mine, his gaze beseeching. “So which ending do we choose? Indie angst, or romantic comedy?”

“Depends,” I say, my voice raspy. “Is that tattoo real?” He avoids my eyes, and I grin. “I thought not. And the earring?”

He clears his throat guiltily. “Clip-on.”

Thank God.

I lay my hand against his cheek. “In that case … I choose the happy ending.”

I see a flash of smile, and then his mouth is on mine and my arms are around his back as he lifts me and swings me around.

When my feet touch the ground again, I’m aware that everyone is grinning foolishly at us. The only way it could get more cheesy is if they started clapping, but they don’t, for which I’m thankful. I can’t say I ever imagined a scenario in which I’d be in North Carolina and the center of attention along with a guy who I’m pretty sure has a polo mallet in his hall closet. But I’m loving it.

Chris catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up sign, and I grin at him before my eyes find my dad and Amy. She’s self-consciously dabbing her eyes as she gives me a watery smile, and my dad gives me an inept “A-okay” sign. Classic awkward father.

Family. My eyes water.

Ethan squeezes my hand, and I know he understands. Understands that he’s given me my life back.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Kendrick, please. Like I didn’t know.”

I’m about to say more. That I’m sorry too. That he was right about me being a scared little moron, and that I’d worn all my black crap that day to drive him away because it was easier than facing my issues.

I glance at his profile, and he winks at me. And then I realize. He already knows all that. And he forgives me.

Because he loves me.

I grin back at him. “I stand by what I’ve been saying all along, you know. You’re a horrible Pygmalion. In no part of the myth or any of the movies based on the myth does Pygmalion himself get compromised with leather and whips and shit.”

“Well, probably because none of the other Pygmalions knew just how comfortable leather pants are. Nor did they look this good in them.”

I laugh, knowing I’ll never get tired of him. Never get tired of us.

His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out as I head to the cooler to grab Ethan something to drink. Everyone is giving us space, although I know it’s only a matter of time before Amy swoops in to ask for the details, and my dad starts asking Ethan about his intentions.

Ethan accepts with a distracted thanks the beer I hand him, and I raise my eyebrows at the bemused expression on his face as he continues to stare at his phone.

“Let me guess,” I say. “The country-club set loves your new look.”

He looks up. “We got an email from Martin.”

It takes me a second to follow. “Professor Holbrook?”

“Yup. He’s read the script and loved it. Took the liberty of showing it to his agent, who also loved it and wants to shop it around for us.”

My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”

“Looks like Tyler and Kayla might be headed to the big screen, baby.”

“On one condition,” I say, standing on my toes to brush my lips against his.

“Yeah?”

“It’s got to open with ‘Based on a true story.’ ”

“Okay—that can be your request. Me, I’m pushing for a cameo.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’ll be too busy trying to get those leather pants off. What are they, like painted on—”

He kisses me to shut me up.

And it’s better than any movie kiss. Ever.

Acknowledgments

As always, I owe so much to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for introducing me to New Adult books, for gently insisting I write one, and for holding my hand the entire way. You’re the best.

To Sue Grimshaw, who had faith in this book from the very beginning, even if it was little more than a skeletal chapter and a seed of an idea: thank you.

And for the fantastically eager readers out there who love New Adult as much as I do: Your undying enthusiasm for the genre kept me going.

About the Author

LAUREN LAYNE graduated from Santa Clara University with a B.S. in political science that she has yet to put to good use. After dabbling in an e-commerce career in Seattle and Southern California, Layne moved to New York City, where she now writes full-time. She lives with her husband and their plus-size Pomeranian in a tiny Manhattan studio.

Read on for an excerpt from Cassie Mae’s

Friday Night Alibi

Chapter 1

I’m naked in the same room with Alex Finnigan. This is so not good for business.

Of all the places I thought someone would first see the fully grown boobs, I definitely didn’t picture the girls’ locker room at one of Georgia’s many Christian country clubs. But here we are. Alex must have some kind of superpower that pops off dead bolts because I could’ve sworn I locked up.

“Kelli Pinkins.”

Not even a quaver in his voice. He must be used to seeing bare chests. Why should I be any different?

“What do you want?” Yes, I’m confident, too. I don’t even reach for a towel, just continue rinsing the shampoo from my hair. It’s just business with him, after all.

He chuckles and sits on one of the benches, kicking his feet up against a locker. “The usual.”

“And it couldn’t wait till after I’m done getting the stench of tennis sweat off me?” I shut off the water and ring my hair out. Guys and their impatience. He better be paying me extra since he got a look at the goods.

“I kinda need it ASAP. Brianne’s expecting me at seven.”

I sigh and wrap a towel around me, then push his legs out of the way to get to my locker.

“You know that’s going to cost you. Short-notice packets are double.”

“That’s fine.”

Of course it’s fine. It’s always fine with every person in need of my services. They’ve got the money, and if they want to get that lovely thing called a “trust fund” when they turn twenty-one, they need me.

Their alibi.

One thing about Sundale, image is everything. If your churchgoing, button-down, I’m-going-to-run-a-charity-for-sick-kids son or daughter doesn’t live up to all of that, bye-bye, trust fund, hello, working at Dairy Queen. And heaven forbid they want to date someone outside of our perfect little community. There goes your college money. Sorry, guys, that’s not what Mommy and Daddy had envisioned for you.

But once that trust fund is signed over, that’s when the standing up to the ’rents starts. Since money is everything after all.

And true love, of course. But not till after you’re twenty-one. Just how it is. I didn’t make the rules.

It’s a good thing I keep spare packets in my purse. I’ve needed them way more than I thought I would, but it’s all good. One packet equals two hundred bucks. Cha-ching!

“Okay, how long are we talking about?” I ask, opening my locker and digging through my bag for the red emergency folders.

He kicks his feet back up. “Till midnight. So around five hours.”

Two hundred bucks for five hours? I’m making bank on this deal. And he’ll pay it. Alex and Brianne have reached that part in the relationship where I’m needed almost every weekend. Mr. and Mrs. Finnigan are going to start thinking him and I are getting it on. …Well, they would if I wasn’t so dang good at my job.

I pull out the bright red envelope with the words “Alibi number 7: Movie Marathon.” Good thing I spent last night prepping all the emergency packets. They’re my moneymakers, so I run out all the time since most of my clients don’t know how to plan ahead. The blue envelopes are for my clients who pay me weeks in advance. Yeah … those packets are pretty much covered in dust.

“This should cover you, Cinderella.”

He rolls his eyes and yanks the packet from my hand. “You’ve got it memorized?”

“Yup. And my own copy as well. We watched funny yet tasteful comedies, and you were a perfect gentleman. And since you’ve ‘been with me’ for the last three Fridays, before you left, you gave me a very platonic kiss on the cheek. It rocked my world.”

He chuckles, standing and tucking the envelope in his back pocket. The epitome of “good guy,” he’s got on a button-down shirt, rolled sleeves to his elbows, and of course it’s tucked into his khakis. His hair is combed over, but it’ll be messed up in a few hours, and that shirt will be crumpled in the middle of Brianne’s floor. Ah, the price some people pay for love. Cliché as it sounds, I mean it literally.

“Thank you, Kelli.” He gives me that “rockin’ ” kiss on the cheek.

“Ahem .” I put my hand on his chest and push him back. “Don’t thank me. Just pay me.” I wave my fingers to emphasize my point. No getting emotionally involved. If I actually start caring about the people I’m helping, I may lower my prices. Or start helping them for free. Yeah, that’s not happening.

He laughs again. “All right.” As he takes his wallet out of his back pocket, I take the opportunity to make sure my towel is still covering all of me. He got one look. He’s not getting another.

“You said double?”

“Uh-huh.”

The two bills—from a stack of about fifteen—crinkle in my open hand and my smile widens.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” I nudge him in the arm before I tuck the bills in my purse. Now that the money part is over, I can joke around. “Now go have fun. Tell Brianne I say, ‘What’s up?’ ”

“Will do.” Then without warning, he wraps me in a hug. Awkward … “Thanks again, Kel.”

He must have it bad. It really is a shame Brianne isn’t Mom and Dad approved. She should be. She’s way nice and supercute, but she’s also a “hippie” child. Her parents are the ones who go around stark naked while they mow the lawn and get the mail. The ones who believe sexuality is something to be experimented with. And Alex, being part of the tightwad Christian community that is Sundale, has better luck telling his parents he decided to date a fish. Poor guy.

Crap. Must not get emotionally invested here. I wiggle out from his hold and shrug. “Just doing my job.”

Friday nights are usually spent locked in my room playing online videogames, headset and all. Don’t call me a nerd or a loser or anything, because while I’m exploding fictional heads off and trash talking to strangers, keep in mind I got paid two hundred bucks tonight to do exactly this. So I’m blowing raspberries at anyone who judges me.

Since I can’t be seen anywhere—I’m supposedly having a movie night with Alex—I stock up every weekend. (Protocol for the successful alibi.) I’ve got a mini fridge in my room, ’cause yes, I’m rich. Not just me, but the fam. Everyone who lives in Sundale is on the verge of ga-zillionairism. Another thing that plays in my favor as an alibi. I’m not sure if anyone who lives here knows how not to live off their parents’ money. Even after they’ve started at the university. Anyway, I’ve got a fridge stocked full of all the stuff I’ll need, and I’ve got my own bathroom so I don’t have to pee in a jug or anything, and I’ve got enough books to fill a library, enough videogames to stock up a GameStop, and enough movies to … Well, you get my point.

Also, it’s lucky I work at the local Christian bookstore, which is closes early on Fridays, so I don’t ever have to worry about taking time off.

Why do I work when I obviously don’t need the cash? Well, it’s nice to do something other than go to church, play tennis, and hang out in my room. That, and I’m a bit of a bookworm, and I won’t say no to a discount, even if I don’t need it. And—probably the most important factor—in order for my “business” to be successful, I have to be the good girl. Parent approved. So the prim and perfect Kelli Pinkins who works at the Christian bookstore, plays tennis at the country club, and goes to church every Sunday, has “perfect influence” written all over her.

I do it all ’cause I totally give my clients what they pay for. And it’s really not a big deal. I mean … I do go to church because I believe in it, not just ’cause I have to. I love tennis. And I do like working at the bookstore. Nice way to pad the pocketbook for college. Not talking tuition since good ole Mom and Dad will take care of that as long as I don’t become a hooker or something. Don’t have to worry about housing because where am I gonna find a place sweeter than the room I’ve got? No, I’m talking for when I travel the world. Set off and see all the places I want to and Mom and Dad never take me to. I’m hoping alibi money and bookstore money (aka, my own well-earned cash) will have me in Europe by Christmas—and then until I get my own trust fund.

I just found a way to be myself and make money off of it. Win-win.

“Okay, you think you’re going to creep up on me? I’m standing right behind you.”

This guy I’m playing against really doesn’t know what he’s doing, but still, he’s the only one on Xbox Live close to my age—or at least he says he’s close to my age—so I may as well teach him a lesson or two.

Plus, he’s not bad company, considering I’ve never officially met him. I guess it’s easier to talk to people you don’t know about life’s crap. He knows all about my alibi stuff, since I started logging on three years ago and while kicking his butt in HALO, we talk about why we’re the only people alive who don’t do things on Friday nights.

His army man turns around, and I point the rifle right in his face. “Any last words?”

“How about … Don’t shoot?”

I laugh and push RT, blowing his character’s head apart.

“Whoops, finger slipped.”

He chuckles; it’s kind of like this guttural thing, like he was drinking at the same time. “All right, another round?”

“Sure, but I need a pee break.”

“ ’Kay. Back in ten.”

I pull off the headset and stretch out on the bed before hopping into the bathroom. I’ve had three Cokes already tonight. Way over my limit. This guy probably thinks I have the world’s smallest bladder. It’s, like, I drink a can, then empty it almost immediately.

I’m doing gunfire sound effects as I wash my hands, then pounce back into my room, ready for round two. But someone is sitting on my bed. Her long brown hair covers her shoulders and her back where her shirt doesn’t, and her big baby-doll eyes blink as a smile tugs at her mouth.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Running at my best friend full speed, she screams as I hit the bed and swing my legs up on her lap. “What’s up, my Sades? Use the window again to get in here?”

She nods and picks up the bag of Twizzler Bites I have on the bed. “Girl, it’s Spring Break. What the heck are you doing here at home?”

I hold up a finger and grab the Xbox headset. “Hey, ChazTaz, round two will have to wait till next weekend.”

“You’re just worried I’ll beat you this time.” He laughs and I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “But it’s cool. Talk to you next week.”

“Bye.”

I hold the off button, shut down the console, and wait for the screen to turn blue, then snap the TV off. “It’s not like it’s Spring Break for me since I graduated last semester.”

Sadie dangles her head off the edge of my bed, talking to my floor. “Yeah, yeah, genius woman. But not all of us graduated early. Come onnn, Spring Break is our last hurrah before we head off to be adults.”

I snort. Yes, it’s very adult-like to go to frat parties and sorority car washes. I can’t wait. “I can’t leave the house. Working tonight.”

Sadie shakes her head, leaning up to pop a Twizzler Bite in her mouth. “Who is it this time?”

“Alex.”

“Again?”

“Yep.”

“You know, he’s going to empty out his bank account. He may as well just tell the ’rents because either way, he’s losing all his money.”

I shrug. “I don’t tell them what to do, just give them another option.”

“Uh-huh.” Another bite goes into her mouth as she lays flat on my California King. Sadie’s never been a fan of my “job,” but she’s my best friend, so she doesn’t rat me out. Plus, she’s had to use me for her own alibi a few times so when she gives me crap, I throw that in her face. And it’s not like I can risk my years of keeping up my perfect rep for one night of partying.

“We can hang out here, though. Want to watch a movie?”

She shakes her head.

“I can paint your toes.”

She sighs.

“Fine, what do you want to do then?”

Her lips pull up as she leans on her elbows. “Something that normal people do on Spring Break.”

“Which is?”

The bag of Twizzlers goes flying at my face and I catch it before it smashes into my nose.

“Go out.”

“Sadie …”

“Seriously, Kel,” she says as she sits up. “I get the whole ‘good girl’ thing, but live a little bit!”

I shake my head. “I can’t get caught.”

For some reason, Sadie takes my answer as a “Oh please take me outside and let me risk Alex’s two-hundred-dollar purchase!” and drags me to my closet with a big smile on her face. “Then put something cute on, and leave the stealth to me.”

Experience the first rush of love

eOriginal New Adult fiction from Random House

www.readflirt.com

Follow us online for the latest new releases, giveaways, exclusive sneak peeks, and more!

readflirt

readflirt