by Marni Bates
I could trip over my own feet and knock over the modern art sculpture on a nearby end table. Maybe Spencer would shoot me one of those devastatingly wicked smiles and somehow I’d become discombobulated enough that I’d drop the frozen yogurt container . . . right on their taupe-colored carpeting.
“Home sweet home,” Spencer said dryly. Instead of slowing down, he passed me and headed down a hallway. I tagged behind him sheepishly, like a lost puppy . . . or, y’know, a sheep.
“So where are your parents?”
It seemed like a reasonable question to me, especially since one glance down at my cell phone showed that I had seven text messages waiting in my inbox, all of them from my mom and dad.
WHEN WILL YOU BE HOME?
WHO ARE YOU WITH? YOUR DAD SAID IT WAS A BOY!
IN THE FUTURE, WE WOULD APPRECIATE ADVANCE NOTICE.
That last text made me wince. Of course, they wanted time to properly vet anyone who might be spending time with me. I was lucky they didn’t know anything about Spencer’s reputation, or they might not have let me go at all.
I personally thought that would be taking the whole protective thing way too far.
IS MELANIE WITH YOU?
CALL US IF YOU PLAN TO STAY OUT LATER THAN 8:30 PM.
SCHOOL NIGHT RULES, ISOBEL. HOME NO LATER THAN 9:30.
STAY SAFE, HONEY. CALL US IF YOU NEED A RIDE.
It was sweet. A bit much sometimes, but I wouldn’t have traded their concern for anything. Especially after receiving late-night phone calls from Melanie when it was painfully obvious that everything was not okay at her house. She wouldn’t come out and say it, but I could hear the tension vibrating in her voice.
All I could do was keep her talking until the worst of the disappointment, the bone-aching frustration of watching her father slowly drink himself to death, had passed.
I would take a billion concerned text messages from my parents over Melanie’s situation any day of the week. Even if that meant I had to tell them, Be home by curfew. All good here. Love you! while I tried not to accidentally bump into something that cost more than a semester at a private liberal arts college.
I wondered how Spencer managed to throw his parties in a house that looked like a museum showroom. If he liked living somewhere that had to include a regular cleaning service to maintain its air of stately elegance.
I wanted to know what he thought about my house.
Mentally filing all of those questions away for a later date, I pulled up short when Spencer opened the door to his bedroom, tossed his wallet on the dresser, and strolled into his walk-in closet. I stood frozen at the doorway like a freaking vampire waiting for permission before crossing the threshold, while I examined Spencer’s room every bit as closely as he’d looked at mine.
It was a mess.
Okay, to be fair, it probably wouldn’t have seemed so disorganized if the rest of the house hadn’t looked like it was on the market to be sold. In fact, I had expected it to be a whole lot worse. I didn’t see any half-naked girls tacked up on his walls, which didn’t mean they weren’t there somewhere . . . they just weren’t visible from my vantage point. Maybe because the enormous windows that overlooked some trees and gave the barest glimpse of the gazebo cut into the available poster space.
Even without a tanned swimsuit model pouting back at us, the room was undeniably masculine. There was a dartboard to the left side of his desk and judging by the wayward holes in the wall around it, he had probably enjoyed more than a few rounds when he wasn’t entirely sober. There were weights sitting on the other side of the desk and a beatup-looking pair of boxing gloves. I craned my neck, wondering if he had a bag hanging from the ceiling in my blind spot or if the King family would never keep large athletic equipment in a bedroom.
That was probably stored in their private home gym.
“Do you want me to—uh . . .” My words petered out as I watched Spencer grab a shirt from his dresser and in one smooth move yank off the yogurt-splattered one he’d been wearing. I sucked in my breath and wondered if he’d forgotten about me entirely. If he was so comfortable in his own space that he didn’t care who witnessed this impromptu strip show.
Or if he was in the mood to drive every platonic thought out of my head.
It was working.
My mouth went dry as my brain began cataloguing every detail, like the way the low-slung waistband of his jeans perfectly showcased his abs. I half expected someone to yell, “And cut! That was a great take, Spencer. Now, I just want to film your smolder from a different angle. Think sexy.” Not that Spencer would ever have to think sexy. The guy left a trail of pheromones in his wake, which was why, despite the fact that everyone knew he wasn’t boyfriend material, he had no trouble with girls.
Unless . . . maybe this was a test?
I gulped nervously and then leaned against the doorjamb; the pose was more to ensure that my knees wouldn’t start wobbling than because I thought it would make me look cool. “So, is this the part where I’m supposed to swoon?”
Spencer silently tugged a clean shirt over his head, tousling his hair in the process, before he tossed the wadded ball of cotton in his hand toward his laundry basket. It sailed right in, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
Spencer King, everyone. He shoots, he scores.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Hardwood floor, y’know? They’re easy enough to clean, but not exactly the most comfortable surface to sprawl out on.” He flashed a grin. “I would know.”
“You’re doing it again.”
He sank down on his bed and waited with an exaggerated air of patience for me to finish that thought.
“The sex to eleven thing!”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s not even seven-thirty. I appreciate the vote of confidence on my stamina, but not even I can—”
“Is this supposed to impress me?” I demanded. “How does this usually work for you, Spencer? You bring a girl home, give her the grand tour, take her to your room, and . . . what? Raise your eyebrow at her until she strips?”
He made no attempt to hide his amusement. “I like that one. I’ll have to keep it in mind for future reference. Do you think it’s enough to raise just one eyebrow, or will clothes be removed twice as fast if I use them both?”
“Not funny,” I ground out.
“Sure, it is. Almost as funny as the way you’re staring at me as if I were the big bad wolf.”
“I’m not entirely convinced you’re not.”
He shrugged and then stood, moving toward me with a predatory grace that didn’t help change my opinion. Still, instead of invading my space the way he had back at Mackenzie’s house, he paused with a little over an arm’s length between us. “That’s because you’re as suspicious as you are smart.” Spencer took one deliberate step closer and my breath caught in my throat as he raised his hand and . . .
Ruffled my hair as if I were a petulant five-year-old kid.
“Come on, buddy. We have a pizza to order.”
Chapter 9
Ballots will be handed out tomorrow and the instructions are simple. Every class will vote for five male and five female nominees for prom court. The results will be tabulated by the student council and announced at the actual event. There have been rumors that perhaps this year there should be greater transparency in the voting process, but this reporter thinks that would kill the suspense.
So relax, everyone.
—from “Predictions for Prom,”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian
I paused to stare at the family photos lining one of the hallways.
There were hardly any of Spencer.
I mean, sure, he was in all of the professionally taken family portraits, but nothing that felt remotely like him was up on the wall. Every hair was combed neatly in place, and his frozen smile was stiff as he stood next to his older brother and an impeccably dressed, distinguished looking man I assumed was his dad. The photo be
longed in a presidential library or an election campaign. I had no trouble picturing an overworked intern creating a promo piece with it for Spencer’s older brother.
Brandon King knows the real meaning of family. A devoted son and brother, he works hard to keep his family’s tradition of philanthropy going strong. He asks himself every day, “What can I do to help my community?”
It’s time for the community to help itself by electing Brandon King for Congress.
It wasn’t hard to imagine Spencer being forced to hand out pamphlets and shake hands with strangers. Okay, and he’d probably flirt with some intern at the same time . . . or maybe a politician’s equally bored daughter, until they were discovered together in a supply closet at the campaign headquarters. His hair would be mussed and there’d probably be some tell-tale lipstick stains smeared in a downward trail. And he’d be busted with an enormous smile on his face.
Even a photo of him like that would be better than the row of bland portraits. At least that would be honest. The lock-jawed guy on the wall looked like Spencer’s painfully boring doppelgänger. The charismatic Notable next to me was really good at messing with my head . . . and my nerves, but there was still no doubt in my mind that he was infinitely more interesting than anyone who would fit his family mold.
“Any insights now, Freud?” Spencer quipped. “Or do you need to start all the way back with my baby pics to get a major revelation?”
“Now that you mention it, that sounds like fun. I’d kind of like to see for myself if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
Spencer laughed, but it wasn’t the rich, throaty sound I’d become accustomed to hearing. This one sounded decidedly upper crust, like a stereotypical rich person’s chuckle before they said something obnoxious like, “Oh, how droll of you.”
“The spoon was sixteen-karat gold and passed down from generation to generation. The King family never does anything halfway.”
I pursed my lips thoughtfully and then tried to steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. I’m not sure why I bothered; without the aid of my glasses he looked like a decidedly blurry lump. But I didn’t have to see him to sense the tension that suddenly filled the empty corridor.
“Do pizza toppings fall within the scope of the family motto? Because we definitely shouldn’t skimp on those.” I wanted to get him to smile and relax again. I wasn’t sure if it was the subject of money or his family or . . . something else entirely that had him look ready to bolt, but I felt guilty for being nosy.
Our deal was that I could ask anything, but it was still rude to pry into parts of his life that were private.
It worked. Laughter danced in his eyes as he lightly tugged the sleeve of my jacket and led me into a new room; the term “entertainment center” didn’t do it justice. There was a flat-screen TV, surrounded by leather couches, and in the middle of the room stood a regal-looking pool table. I half expected Spencer to open a secret compartment and offer me a glass of bourbon and a cigar.
“Definitely. We take pizza very seriously. What toppings do you like?”
“Everything except anchovies,” I said without hesitation.
Spencer nodded, pulled out his phone, and gestured at the couch in a silent, Well, what are you waiting for? Coming from Fake or Bake, I would have flinched with embarrassment at my obvious display of uncertainty. Then again, the girls would have said something snotty.
Spend time with humans much, nerd? Apparently not.
Listen up, loser. You don’t have to stand at attention until the food is delivered.
Alex Thompson would definitely have gone for the direct approach: Yo, fat-ass. Down in front.
I sank into the buttery soft leather of the couch and tried to block out the barrage of imaginary insults. Spencer hadn’t meant the gesture that way. I knew he hadn’t. The same way I knew that he hadn’t meant anything with his slow, appreciative once-overs.
It was simply a reflex for him.
“Yes, I’d like a large pizza with anchovies. Lots of anchovies. Pile ’em on there for me, will you?”
I jerked upright in the sofa, or at least, I tried to move. I suspected it would take a harness, a crane, and maybe the help of a Navy SEAL team to tug me free from the couch.
“What?!”
Spencer’s smile widened. “Payback for the frozen yogurt.” He turned his attention back to his phone call. “Hi, I’d like to order a large pepperoni pizza with olives, tomatoes, and green peppers. No garlic, please.” He pointedly raised an eyebrow at me, and I knew that he was thinking about the idiotic statement I’d made in his bedroom about girls stripping off their clothes for him.
I burst out laughing.
“Never going to happen,” I mouthed slowly.
Spencer rattled off his address, ended the call, and then claimed the sofa cushion right next to me. “In the wise words of Justin Bieber . . .”
“Don’t say it!” I instinctively lunged forward to cover his mouth with my hand.
Spencer did his best to evade me, but I had no intention of giving up easy and he began laughing himself as he tried to clearly enunciate, “I will never say—mmph!”
I tackled him.
It wasn’t intentional. Not really. It just seemed like the fastest way to shut him up, and technically . . . it worked. Spencer stopped talking real quick.
His grin faded away and that intense look came back into his green eyes, the one that made me feel as if he could see every single inch of me. It both unnerved and excited me, especially now that I was acutely aware of the way my body was plastered against his. I knew he felt every curve of what my mom called my “generous” figure pushing him deeper into the cushions.
I tried to prop up some of my weight with my arms, but the movement didn’t help the situation. Instead of putting distance between us, I’d somehow managed to awkwardly straddle his knees, and for a brief moment, I panicked. There was no trick I could use to appear slimmer. Sucking in my stomach wouldn’t do anything to alter my weight.
But then I looked into Spencer’s eyes and I forgot to care about my body mass index or the number on my bathroom scale. None of that could change the power—the sheer exhilaration—I felt as our limbs tangled and the heat between us sparked higher.
He wanted me.
The full force of that shook me to my core. It didn’t matter that Spencer was probably interested in any girl who sprawled across him. That for him this might be nothing more than a normal Thursday night. That he might not even bother adding me to his list of high school conquests.
In that moment, I wanted him right back.
His pupils were dilated, his breathing was shallow, and then his gaze dipped briefly to my lips and rose back to my eyes in an unspoken question.
Are you going to kiss me?
Yes.
I didn’t give myself time to think through all the possible repercussions so that I could reason myself out of making a mistake. And, yes, I knew it was going to be a mistake. I didn’t doubt it for a second. Launching myself on top of Smith High School’s biggest Lothario wasn’t exactly the way I had daydreamed my first kiss would happen. I thought it would take place at Comic Con with some adorably nerdy guy who wore glasses and enjoyed discussing the nuances of political discourse as presented by the third season of Battlestar Galactica.
Not some . . . hotshot.
I was supposed to be smarter than this.
But apparently everyone, including myself, had been deceived about my level of intelligence, because I tilted my head slightly so that we wouldn’t bonk noses and . . . kissed him.
It wasn’t slow and the only thing sweet about it was the hint of alpine vanilla that still lingered. Neither of us was gentle either. My hands gripped his arms as our lips met in a heated battle that I suspected wouldn’t have a winner. Or maybe it had two winners. Or a billion. I couldn’t think straight and never before had that seemed more perfectly, gloriously right than in that moment, because my body was doing just fine
with my brain off-line. There was no reason for me to overthink it. Not when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alive.
I wasn’t entirely sure I had ever felt so alive.
Spencer’s hands gripped my waist and the world began tilting while I struggled to catch my breath before diving back in for more.
I wanted so much more.
And he seemed to be on the exact same page because his hands slid lower and gripped tighter right before the world tilted. My glasses slipped off entirely and I wasn’t sure which direction was up, but that seemed irrelevant since our bodies were still pressed together.
“Belle.” Spencer’s voice was hoarse and held an urgent I want to keep you pinned against me like this for a week undercurrent that made my heart feel like it was humming, and not just because my nickname sounded thrilling coming from him, but it proved that Spencer knew he was kissing me.
Isobel Peters.
Smith High School’s biggest geek. The girl most likely to be asked to fake a relationship with a hockey player in order to lower his social standing.
That thought silenced my stupid heart midway through its musical audition.
Instead of feeling sexy and strong and powerful and very I am woman hear me roar, I suddenly felt like I was spiraling out of control.
“Don’t . . . stop,” I managed to say as Spencer lightly nipped my neck and I choked back a moan.
He lifted his head to stare at me. “Was that a don’t stop, this feels so good or—”
I tried to shove him away but only succeeded in nearly rolling off the edge of the couch, which probably would’ve been disastrous for my glasses had I landed on them. But I didn’t tumble off because Spencer steadied me before he raised his hands as if he were following instructions from a cop.
“Okay, I guess I know the answer now.” He raked one hand through his hair while I took a deep breath to compose myself and retrieve my glasses. “What’s the problem here, Belle?”
Everything. The problem was everything. His golden boy looks and frat boy charm, and incredible kissing skills that temporarily had the power to turn me stupid—all of it was the problem.
