by Lexi Ryan
But it wasn’t the sexy, entirely-too-enjoyable sunscreen application process that was weird. The weird part was when the guys all went inside and never came back out.
Bailey and Mia told me they were in the middle of some “team drama” and to let them be, but the whole thing was bizarre. When I did venture inside to pee, the guys were gathered around the TV, and the mood in the room was definitely somber.
Is there such a thing as a football emergency? I vaguely remember drama over the New England Patriots’ partially deflated balls—a news story that was only interesting to me in its comedic potential—but I really don’t know enough about the sport to speculate what could have been going on.
Eventually, there was laughter coming from the house, Bailey offered me a ride home, and I accepted. I don’t have to understand the sport to understand when a guy needs his friends, and Chris gave me a key to the apartment yesterday. Bailey stopped at a liquor store for cheap wine and then brought me here, promising to call tomorrow. Because apparently we’re best friends now. I’m not sure what to make of that.
When my phone buzzes just after ten, I expect it to be her. Instead, it’s a text from Willow.
Willow: How’s the bustling metropolis of Blackhawk Valley, Indiana treating you?
Reading the text is the next best thing to hearing her voice, and I smile as I type out my reply.
Me: Way better than expected. How’s the new job?
Willow: Oh, no big. I’m just working for Maverick Christianson and Eva Connelly.
I gape at my phone. Maverick Christianson is by far the sexiest villain in Hollywood.
Me: Are you shitting me?
Willow: I wouldn’t lie about Maverick.
Me: Well, holy shit. Meet any sexy Brits to distract you from the sexy American you’re living with?
Willow: Everywhere I look. Which is good, since Robbie fucking broke up with me via TEXT MESSAGE today!
I draw in a breath. I knew that asshole didn’t deserve her. Okay, actually, I didn’t know that. I thought he was an all right guy who was head over heels for Willow, and the breakup comes as a shock. His lame-ass way of doing it I find less shocking.
Me: He didn’t! OMG. Are you okay?
Willow: Feeling a bit shallow and bitchy because I was relieved, but otherwise fine.
Me: You are neither shallow nor bitchy. In fact, you’re excused from the generally required post-breakup abstinence because he did it by text.
Willow: Thanks for that. How’s Mary Poppins?
Me: Who?
Willow: Mr. Practically Perfect in Every Way?
There’s a scrape in the lock and the door swings open.
“Speak of the devil,” I say as Chris strides in the front door.
After such a long bro session at Arrow’s, I expect him to stumble in the door half-drunk, if not three sheets to the wind. Instead, he gives me a completely sober, dimpled smile, and drops his keys on the island.
Mason follows him in, equally sober, but less bright-eyed. “Nice music,” he tells me.
“Thanks.” I type a quick response to Willow.
Me: Mary Poppins is good. Sweet. Thoughtful. Fucking gorgeous.
Willow: And what about you? How are you doing?
Me: I AM THIRSTY.
“Who are you texting?” Chris asks from behind the couch.
I jump and tuck my phone under my leg so he can’t see it. “Willow.”
“Willow?” He arches a brow. “Have her tell her sister I said hi.” He winks, and the slutty butterflies do the wave like they’re in the stands at a baseball game.
“I need to get some sleep before tomorrow,” Mason announces. “Night, you two.”
I grab my portable speaker off the coffee table and turn down the volume.
Chris turns a questioning eye on me. “Is that Prince?”
I lift my chin. “Yes. And before you ask, I was a fan long before he died and made everyone else remember how awesome he was.”
He folds his arms across his chest and cocks a brow. “Of course. And you got your tattoos before they were trendy too, right?”
Laughing, I throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
He grabs it out of the air, puts it back on the couch, and takes the spot next to me. “What is all this?”
“My idea of an exciting evening in?” I lift my stack of papers. “Job applications.” I point to my brimming wine glass. “And alcohol to make me forget that I don’t actually want to work the Taco Bell drive-thru.”
He grimaces. “Can’t blame you there, but I mean all the blankets. Are you cold? Want me to turn down the AC?”
“Don’t you dare touch that thermostat!” Mason calls from the bathroom over the running water. Judging by his muffled words, I’m guessing he’s mid-tooth-brushing.
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” I call before turning back to Chris. “I’m not cold. The blankets are for bedtime. I’m sleeping out here.”
Chris reaches across me with his big arm and grabs my wine off the end table. He takes a drink and makes a face. “You and Bailey like the same sweet shit, don’t you?”
I shrug. I like about anything that doesn’t make my tongue feel like sandpaper, so I was happy to let Bailey choose. Way more interesting than my choice in wine is that Chris just grabbed my glass and drank after me. Is he this familiar with everyone? Not that I’m going to overanalyze it. Definitely not.
Which is why my brain is already examining twenty-five possible explanations for his actions.
He takes another sip, makes a face again, and sighs. “We’ve been over this. You’re not sleeping on the couch.”
I take my glass back from him and drain it. Because if he’s going to sit this close and drink after me and then carry on as if this doesn’t affect him at all, I need it. “I’ve decided. It’s no use talking me out of it now.”
“You’ve decided?” He cocks a brow. “Do I get a say in this decision?”
“No, but your long legs do, and when I came out here in the middle of the night, they were all over the place.” I wriggle my butt, burrowing into my blankets, and pull a pillow to my chest. “You’re too big for this couch, but I can sleep here quite comfortably.”
“Sure. You’ll sleep just fine until Mason and I are clanging around getting ready for morning practice and wake you up.”
“If you want me off this couch”—my empty glass tinks as I set it down on the end table—“you’re going to have to pick me up and move me.”
Sighing, he stands.
“Ha! And my dad told me being stubborn wouldn’t get me anywhere!”
“You should listen to him.” Chris squats in front of me, slides his arms under my thighs and my blankets, and lifts me and my comfy nest into his arms.
I shriek, instinctively clinging to him by grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. “What are you doing?”
He shakes his head and walks toward his bedroom. “End of discussion.” He plops me onto the full-sized bed. “My mother didn’t raise me to put my guests on the couch.”
“Don’t do that.” I grab a pillow off the bed and hurl it at him. “Oh my God, my ovaries will never be the same.”
He frowns and sinks to his knees as he studies my stomach. “Did I hurt you? Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.” I smack at his hand as it comes toward my shirt. “You just carried me, Christopher. You picked me up and carried me, and now all the weakling men out there who try to impress me with their brains are going to make my girly parts yawn. I am ruined for normal men, and it’s all your fault!”
His face splits into a grin. “I lift more than you in my warmups, Grace.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep in the bed, but for the love of God, stop it,” I growl. “That information is not helping.” I throw myself back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling fan overhead. When I roll my head to look at him, that shit-eating grin is still covering his face. I need to put a stop to that. “What about Sebastian? Can he lift me?”
That does
the trick. His grin falls away in a blink. “Do you need anything from the living room before I crash?”
I want to tell him I was joking about Sebastian, but I bite back the apology and point to the top bunk. My pride be damned—we need to be mature about this. “Why are you sleeping on the couch when there’s a perfectly good bed up there?”
He lifts his eyes to the lofted bed and then back to me. “I wanted you to have your own space.”
Every minute with this guy only confirms everything I already thought about him. He’s such a capital N, capital G, Nice Guy. And I don’t know if it’s despite or because of the one exception five years ago that every additional piece of evidence makes my heart ache.
“You want her for yourself or something, Montgomery?”
“As if I’d put my dick near that.”
The memory is like a hot poker to the heart every fucking time.
“I will have my own space,” I say, subdued now. “You’re about to start two-a-days, right? You’ll be taking up residence on the football field. That’ll give me all the time I need. Never mind the fact that I’m an insomniac, and I want access to the kitchen for midnight munchies. In fact, I need some now.”
“You’re sure? It won’t be weird for you?”
I hop out of bed and head to the door. “Not weird at all.” Then, because I feel like he can see the vulnerability on my face, I add, “I mean, assuming you’re not going to spank the monkey while I’m sleeping beneath you.”
“Spank the . . .” He drags a hand over his face. “You know normal women don’t talk about masturbation like the weather, right?”
“I’m not normal.”
“And I’m not a total creep. You don’t have to worry about me doing that when you’re in the room.”
I shrug, only mildly disappointed. “Then we don’t have a problem. Goodnight, Chris.” I shut the door before he can respond.
Chapter Twenty-One
Grace
It’s just a job interview, I tell myself, smoothing my skirt for the hundredth time because I’m about to be interviewed for a research assistant position with none other than Drew Gregory.
I’m no good at lying to myself, and this is just a job interview in the same way that ice cream is just food.
It happened so fast. Yesterday, I was at Arrow’s pool talking to Keegan about his uncle, and then this morning, the shrill ring of my phone pulled me from a deep sleep. It was the drama department at BHU, and they wanted to know if I could be there at two for an interview with Mr. Gregory. I said yes—of course I did!—and a series of panicked texts later, I found out that they got my number from Keegan, who got it from Chris. Meaning, not only am I about to have the most important interview of my life to date, everyone knows about it.
I enter the stairwell and head up to the BHU drama department to meet Keegan’s uncle. I’ve spent most of the morning training myself to think of Drew Gregory as Keegan’s uncle and not as a playwright I adore or a possible mentor. And definitely not as the best opportunity I’ve ever been handed and one I’ll hate myself forever for fucking up.
The guest lecturer’s office is just past the secretary’s office, and I freeze at the door. I was hoping for a walk through the halls before I reached my destination—anything to put this off. Instead, I’m here, standing in front of his office long before I’m ready.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and smooth my skirt again.
“Well, don’t just stand out there, come on in!”
Shit. I paste on a smile and enter the office. It’s larger than I would have expected. There’s a couch and an oversized leather chair in front of the double windows that overlook the rolling hills at the center of campus. The other half of the space is filled with a big walnut desk, piled with books and haphazard stacks of paper. A tiny laptop is perched crooked on top of an open book.
Then there’s the man himself, standing at the large bookcase and running his index finger along the spines. Mr. Gregory is bigger than I imagined—in height and breadth. He has the same broad-shouldered build as his nephew and the same dark brown hair.
“Library of shit is what they have here,” he says, shaking his head. “Salinger—as if anybody ever got a good word from that man.”
Personally, I love J.D. Salinger and everything he ever wrote, but I decide to keep that piece of personal trivia to myself.
Mr. Gregory turns to me and arches a brow as he runs his gaze from my black flats to my fitted black skirt that hits below my knees and my black-and-white polka-dot blouse. He stops when he reaches my eyes and gives a satisfied nod. “Keegan told me you were pretty.”
Well, shit. I’m sure he’s not looking for a pretty girl to do his research this summer. He needs someone talented, and I’m not sure I fit that bill, frankly.
Girls everywhere want to be pretty. I’ve been told I’m pretty all my life—with tattoos, without, with red hair and blond hair and black hair. Pretty is easy. It’s literally as simple as my DNA, and while beauty has its perks, my biggest, most secret fear is that being beautiful is and will forever be the most remarkable thing about me.
“Why do you want the job?” he asks.
I’m a little taken aback. No introductions or how-do-you-dos, but maybe that’s my fault for waiting outside the office so awkwardly. “Um . . . uh . . .”
“Um doesn’t pay the bills, sweetheart. Keegan told me you were smart, so I assume you can string a few words together to create what we call a sentence?”
My cheeks heat, and I want to turn around and run out the door and never come back. Maybe there’s a reason his first research assistant “bailed” on him so quickly.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime, I tell myself, rooting my feet in place. Sure, this isn’t the best first impression, but I’m the one who’s supposed to be trying to impress him, not the other way around. And aren’t all the greatest artists a little odd?
I swallow hard and remind myself to take deep breaths and to speak slowly and in short sentences. Even though stuttering is a well-known problem, people still associate stuttering with stupidity and a lack of self-confidence. I don’t want to stutter ever, but especially not right now with a man I respect so much. “I’m studying playwriting at Carson College in New York.”
“You fancy yourself a writer, then?”
I swallow hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Ever done any stage managing?”
“I thought this was a research assistant position?”
“It’s an assistant position, and I’m tasked with putting on a new play before I leave this Podunk town. Anyone can call themselves a writer, but can you be part of making that writing come to life?” He makes a fist and taps his chest. “The heart of theater. I need somebody who can help me create something entirely original and put it on the stage.”
“Are you writing and producing or just producing?”
“I can’t write for shit anymore,” he says, and I try to hide my shock, because it’s kind of like hearing Santa say he doesn’t give presents anymore. “They don’t care what we put on that stage as long as the summer ends with some sort of production that will give this college some press. It’s all about the press, you know.” He releases a grunt and shakes his head. “So, you and me, we have to find something worth producing. Something that’s already great, and we can add the signature Drew Gregory twist to make it better.”
Well, fuck. I was hoping I’d get to work for him and mostly hide in the library. “I’ve never done anything like that before, but I’d be willing to learn.”
He gives a sharp nod and gives me another shoes-to-eyes once-over. “Well, my nephew seems to respect you a great deal, so we’ll do this. You’re hired. On a trial basis, of course. If after two weeks, you’re not happy or I’m not happy, we’re off the hook, no questions asked.”
This is officially the strangest job interview I’ve ever had. “That sounds fair.”
“Good.” He grabs a stack of papers off his desk, shoves them in
to a manila folder, and crosses the office to push the folder into my hands. “This is what we’re working with. Read my notes tonight and come back tomorrow with your ideas on different projects. Remember, I need something original.”
I’m afraid to look. I don’t want to dissolve into a puddle of fangirl mush and rave about how excited I am for the opportunity he’s offering me. So I just nod and clutch the papers to my chest.
“You’re out of here, then,” he says. “Go fill out the paperwork with the secretary. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight a.m. Don’t be late. I can’t stand waiting on people.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I say, and I rush out of the room and to the secretary’s office. I stare at her for a solid thirty seconds before I can find the words to ask for what I need.
I’m going to spend my summer working for a famous playwright.
Holy shit.
* * *
Chris is waiting for me when I walk in the door. He’s sitting on the couch in basketball shorts and a T-shirt and tying on a pair of running shoes. “How was the interview?” Standing, he props his hands on his hips.
I grin—and I know it’s one of those giant grins that takes up half my face and makes me look more like a caricature than a real person, but I’m so excited that I don’t even care. “It was fine. I . . . I got it.” It feels weird to say it. I don’t think I expected that to happen. “It was the weirdest interview ever, honestly. It’s not even for research. He needs an assistant to help him produce a play.”
He returns my smile and my insides turn to warm, gooey heat. “Well, Keegan put in a good word for you. That’s gotta help. And I bet you’re talented.”
But I’m not, and I feel like a phony for not correcting him, but to tell him the truth would make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments from a guy who’s never even read my writing. I trust the professors at my school, and though they’re complimentary to my work, it’s never been good enough to be chosen as one of the student plays they produce each semester. Good doesn’t matter if it’s not good enough.
