I’ve known Mrs Briggs since I was a kid, just as I know everyone else in this place, by face if not by name. Most of them are older, like she is. A few people from my school year are still hanging around these parts, so I’m told, holed up with local jobs and a couple of kids of their own by now, but the majority of my generation have long flown the coop onto pastures new.
“Can I help?” I ask as she follows me down the aisle.
She leans in close. She smells of peppermint and orchids. “Do you have anything raunchy? Like the Grey stuff?”
I give her a grin and point her around the corner. “Check out the top shelf, you’ll find the good stuff there.”
She pats my elbow before she goes on her way. I’m still grinning as I return to the front desk.
Margaret, my library colleague, tips her head at me. Her voice is a hushed whisper. “Mrs Briggs is after the dirty stuff?”
“Aren’t we all?” I whisper back, and she raises her eyebrows.
“I’m more of a Chaucer woman myself.”
Sure she is. I’ve seen her staff borrow history on the cranky old library PC, I tell her so and her poker face breaks into a smile.
The dirty stuff. If only.
It’s been over four months since I got back here already. Never mind the dirty stuff, any stuff is becoming a distant memory.
Margaret hands me another hefty pile of paperbacks from under the counter. For our sleepy little town this library does see some action, but nothing that warrants the way Margaret’s jaw drops when the entrance door creaks at my rear. It’s the lingering sense of doom I’ve come to live with that prevents me cranking my head round to investigate.
Margaret’s eyes are wide. She swallows and smiles this crazy grin, and her cheeks bloom pink before my eyes.
I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all until I risk a backwards glance.
And then I get it.
I get every fluttery, floaty, heart-pounding barrage of hormonal, ovary-exploding emotions that accompany a guy like Kyle Jordan Prescott.
The Kyle Jordan Prescott – male-model soon-to-be-turned TV actor if the Twitter buzz is telling even half a truth. Kyle Prescott graces the sexiest man alive lists of every glossy magazine from here to Narnia.
Before you think this is like Brad Pitt walking into a random small-town corner shop, it’s not. Kyle is from here. We went to the same high school. We shared words occasionally if not the same social circle. We definitely didn’t share the same social circle.
I mean this was years ago now, before he became quite so… so, um – I register how wide my own eyes must be, and how ridiculous I feel as I gawp like an idiot at the man heading in our direction – before Kyle Prescott became quite so… everything.
I’ve seen him – on the internet, on my Facebook feed, even on TV giving interviews about some show or another. I’ve done my fair share of online stalking and bought the occasional magazine with his photo gracing the cover. Ok, so I have a pile of them.
Quite a pile.
I’ve watched how seamlessly he morphed from the hot young stud who strode through our school corridors into the tatted-up, cocky-smiled, ripped-abs demi-God standing before me today. I’ve seen the way he wears his jeans slung low on his hips and his perfectly slick hair so perfectly styled. I’ve even seen him naked to the hips in glossy photographs, just like every other member of the female populous.
But none of that prepared me for the way his cocky half-grin lights up his eyes these days, or the way he moves as though he owns the whole place and everyone in it. It didn’t prepare me for the way he seems so much taller in the flesh, or the way he smells like sex on fire as he drops a couple of books on the counter.
He’s too close for me to think straight, clinging onto my cardboard smile and breathing through my nose, just my armful of paperbacks standing as a shield between his body and mine.
Kyle Jordan Prescott kissed me once. A long time ago. Long enough ago that I’m sure he doesn’t even remember my existence.
It was just a stupid glitch on his part, but I’d sell my soul if he’d do it again. I’m not at any pressing risk of eternal damnation, because Kyle Prescott dates supermodels with legs to their armpits and he goes through plenty of them by all accounts.
Kyle Prescott definitely doesn’t go for geeky little mice like me, even if I do have a pink streak in my fringe to make myself feel more edgy.
When his eyes meet mine and stay there I regret the stash of donuts I’ve been chowing down in my bedroom late at night. I regret the way I’ve piled on more than a handful at the hips these past few months and how I couldn’t be arsed to do my eye makeup this morning. Emotional eating and general life-apathy are such bitches.
Margaret clears her throat as she takes his books. “Returns?” she asks, and her voice is higher pitched than usual.
“From my mum,” he tells her, and my heart thumps at the sound of his voice. “Elaine Prescott.”
Like the surname was necessary. The scanner bleeps as Margaret checks the books back in.
I’m certain I haven’t seen any members of the Prescott family at any point during my months here, I’d have definitely noticed. Margaret’s next words confirm I’m right on that.
“These books aren’t from this branch,” she says, but he isn’t looking at her, he’s looking at me.
I wish the ground would swallow me up as his big browns search out my gold name badge and stay there.
Emily Foster. Library Assistant.
He looks as though he’s about to say something, so maybe I am still a ghost in his memory somewhere after all. My breath hitches before Margaret negates my panic.
“These were checked out from Hereford,” she tells him. “But we can take them. I’ll get them transferred back over.”
“Thanks,” he says, and I guess that’s him done. His eyes move away from me to meet hers and his smile is easy and even.
It’s enough to snap me back to my senses, bailing out of there before I’m obliged to offer a professional goodbye. I’ve had enough awkward goodbyes to last a lifetime already. My shoes make a weird squeaky slap against the vinyl floor tiles which makes me cringe as I walk away. Flats. Fuck sensible shoes. Fuck the fact he’s getting the full view of my jiggling butt too.
I head right to the back of the library, staring at the local history section even though I’m sure there aren’t any books in my pile from back here. I’m pretending to scour the shelves when I hear footsteps behind me, and my heart is in my throat, because I know Mrs Brigg’s shuffle and this definitely isn’t that.
I smell him as his shadow lands on the shelf next to me. I’m burning up in my prissy floral blouse as his eyes scorch my cheek as he waits. Watches. And I’m a stupid fucking idiot, because I don’t have any book to put in this place. Not a single one.
In a panic I shove a new-adult vampire novel amongst the footpath guidebooks and hope he doesn’t notice.
I take a breath before I face him, smile bright and breezy.
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Emily Foster, it’s been a while,” he says, and he does recognise me. I’m sure I fail miserably to hide my shock, and I’m shocked further when he feels the need to expand. “I’m Kyle Prescott,” he says, “we went to school together. Same year.”
“I know,” I blurt, “I just didn’t think you’d remember. Me, I mean, you’re, um… obviously so busy these days.”
He shrugs. “Not busy enough to forget where I came from. Or the people.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, but he’s smiling. Of course he is. He’s dripping with confidence, his eyebrow quirked at my awkwardness.
“How are you doing?” he asks, and I do that thing I always do. I tell him I’m good. Fine. Can’t complain. He nods. “Still local?”
“For the time being, yeah.”
“Cool,” he says.
“Cool,” I lie. “And how are you… doing..?”
“Can’t complain,” he tells
me and his eyes twinkle. “My folks live out Hereford way these days. I rarely come back through.”
“Oh,” I say, as though I don’t know that already. Everyone knows they live in one of those posh new builds in Tupsley.
He’s waiting for something and I don’t know what. His eyes stay on mine, even though I’m blushing and faffing with my pile of books as the power of polite conversation fails me.
“I’m hanging around for the weekend,” he says finally.
“Nice,” I say, like a moron.
“Maybe we could catch up? I’ve got a family Sunday lunch, but I’m easy around that.”
It takes me a few seconds. Catch up? Catch up, with me? Me?
“Me?” I say aloud, and he nods. “I, um… sure, yeah.”
He tips his head. “You don’t seem sure.” He gestures to the door. “If you’re busy, I can–”
“I’m sure,” I blurt and force some semblance of a natural smile onto my face. “Sorry, I’m just.” I give him a ditzy motion. “Catching up would be cool. I’m free all weekend.”
Smooth, Emily, playing it cool.
“Tonight, then?” he says straight back. “Eight?”
“Sure,” I say again and he nods.
“Where?”
I shrug. “Take your pick.”
“Three Feathers Tavern?”
“Three Feathers works.”
And that’s it. He smiles, and I smile, even though my legs feel like a jellied mess.
“I’ll see you later,” he tells me and heads away with a swagger that’s too sexy to be human.
I nearly drop my pile of books as I wave him goodbye, and I nearly faint as I tell Margaret that Kyle Jordan Prescott – the very picture of masculine perfection – just asked me out for Friday night drinks.
She nearly faints too.
CHAPTER 2
Emily
What does a girl wear for Friday night drinks with Kyle Jordan Prescott?
Nothing in my wardrobe, that’s for sure. My bed is hidden from view underneath a pile of discarded clothes as Mum knocks at my bedroom door and heads on in. She clears a space amongst the fabric and sits herself down.
“What about your old prom dress?” she asks and I sigh.
“Overkill for the Three Feathers, don’t you think?” I take the sparkly plum number from the hanger and hold it up to myself. “Like it would still fit anyway.”
“It might,” she lies, and it makes me laugh. I toss the dress on the pile and take one of my regular blouses from the rail. It’s nice enough. Plain white, with a polka dot pussy bow. It’s preppy and cute, if you like that kind of thing.
I can’t imagine Kyle Prescott likes that kind of thing, but it will have to do. I pull my best pair of black jeans from my chest of drawers and Mum nods.
“It’s good to be yourself,” she says. “If he doesn’t like you as you, he’s not worth your time.”
It amuses me that she could believe for one single second this is anything more than a guy passing a weekend in a sleepy town. This isn’t a date – Kyle must either be reflecting fondly on his school years and giving my memory in them more kudos than I ever had in real life, or he’s bored enough back home to take company wherever he can find it.
Not that he’d struggle for company anywhere. Ever.
I wish my fluttering heart would get the memo that this is nothing more than a one-off social anomaly.
“I’ll drive you down, so you can drink,” Mum offers and it makes me smile. Let’s be honest, nobody really wants to move back into their old bedroom at their parents’ house with their tail between their legs, even if their old collection of Point Horror paperbacks are still on the shelf there, but it really hasn’t been so bad being home.
“Thanks,” I say, “but I can walk. It’s not far.”
“You’ll text me when you want a ride home though? I don’t want you walking back late alone.” She pauses. “If you’re walking back late at all.”
I laugh out loud. “I’ll be heading home, Mum.” I dig a copy of Hotties magazine from a pile of paperwork on top of my dresser and hold it up for her to see. “You have to look like this to score a night in Kyle’s bed. I’m hardly his type.”
She stares at the cover, taking in the image of the perfect blonde draped all over him.
“That’s Photoshopped.”
“Not that Photoshopped.” I put it back on top of the pile. “It’s just an old time catch-up, nothing more. We’ll probably be done in an hour.”
“Even if you are,” she says. “Text me.”
She leaves me alone to get ready, and in the quiet privacy of my bedroom I put on more makeup than I ever remember wearing. I even attempt contouring and stick on a pair of fake lashes someone bought me for an old birthday.
I survey my reflection awhile when I’m done, and I may not be cover girl material, but I’ve polished up alright. My mousy hair has a natural curl from the shower and the colour of my pink streak is still relatively vibrant. My eyeliner is on point, even if it took three attempts to get it that way, and my lipstick makes my lips look full and shiny.
Good enough to kiss.
I grin at myself and shake my head at how ridiculous the thought is.
How ridiculous it’s always been, even when his lips really did press against mine in Laura Whiteley’s walk-in wardrobe at her summer barbeque. I still remember the butterflies.
Butterflies and sheer panic.
I wear a bra that is more about shape than sexiness and a decent pair of knickers with a tummy shaper panel, spritz myself with copious amounts of Dior and fix a cute little bow slide in my hair. Now or never.
Now or never again, more realistically.
I call a quick goodbye to my parents as I leave, walking as quickly as my kitten heels allow as I head from our estate into the centre of town with a tenuous grip on my nerves at best. I loop through every old memory of Kyle back at school, struggling to reaffirm that he’s really just the same guy I grew up with underneath all the glamour. The guy I helped with his English homework a few times in the school library after class. The guy who nodded and said hi at the school gates whenever we crossed paths from then onwards. The guy who drunkenly sought me out at the end of our final year to say thanks for my help with his assignments, dragging me into Laura Whiteley’s bedroom so nobody would hear us talking. Nobody would see us talking, more likely.
The guy who kissed me in the cupboard, too drunk to remember whose body he was groping in the darkness.
I hope he doesn’t remember that.
I take a breath as the Three Feathers comes into view. He’s already waiting out front, leaning against the doorframe with an uber cool retro t-shirt fitting him just right under his leather jacket.
Fuck.
Kyle Prescott isn’t anything like the guy I talked through English essays back when we were kids. Any hint of self-consciousness he had back then has clearly long died a death.
He steps up the road to meet me and I wish he hadn’t. His long legs stride way too fast for my short little pins and unfamiliar heels. I have to dash along beside him because it would be way too embarrassing to lag back, playing it so cool behind my flushed smile as my heartrate kicks up another gear.
“You look great,” he tells me as he holds the pub door open.
I stifle a laugh at his politeness, gesturing up and down the length of him as we arrive at the bar.
“You’re the one who looks great. Mr heart throb model from our sleepy little town.”
He grazes his long fingers across his five o’clock shadow. “Right place, right time. I was lucky to land a good agent, that’s all.”
“Lucky with genetics in the first place, more like it,” I tell him, then order a large glass of white as the barman makes eye contact.
“Some of my genetics,” he says, then orders a beer without elaborating.
I’m well aware of the whispers and the hustling all around us. Tables of people going about their regular Friday night have s
topped their usual chatter to stare in our direction. Kyle doesn’t even seem to notice, just pays the barman before I’ve even had a chance to take my purse from my handbag.
He gestures to a table in the corner, walking behind me as I make my way through the other drinkers, trying not to bump anyone as I slip between their seats. Slip is a graceful way of putting it.
I feel clumsy. Awkward. Out of my depth.
I’m aware people are talking about me, about us. I’m well aware that news of this is already spreading like wildfire and the library will have never seen as many visitors as it will next week.
I wonder how he lives like this – with people watching his every move. I ask him as we take our seats and he shrugs.
“Comes with the job.”
“I guess you get used to it.”
He shrugs again. “I guess.”
I take a hearty swig of my wine as I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to say next.
I’m finding it hard to even make eye contact. My skin feels electrified merely from being in the same vicinity as the guy. There’s a crackle in the air, as though his charisma is some palpable force of nature. The sex factor.
I’m sure he wasn’t ever quite as chiselled as he looks tonight. I’m sure he wasn’t this broad, or this sculpted, and his skin definitely wasn’t emblazoned by the dark ink I see curling out from under his cuffs.
“So, fill me in,” he says. “What’s been happening with you?”
“For the past decade, you mean?”
It makes his lip curl into the most delicious smile that sends hot prickles through my chest. “I guess there’s a lot of ground to catch up on.”
But there isn’t. Not really. Not in my world. Not if you take out all of the things I don’t really want to be catching up on.
“I qualified as a teacher at uni,” I tell him. “I taught in Birmingham for a few years. I’m taking a hiatus until I get a position closer to home.”
“You were always in the library at school,” he comments. “Figures I’d find you in one now.”
So he does remember. The thought gives me shivers. “What about you?” I ask. “Your tales will be considerably more exciting than mine.”
Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection Page 25
