“Oh, Kaia. I wish I could help,” he said, almost sounding like he meant it. “Maybe if I spent some more time at home….”
“You really want to help?” Kaia asked, allowing a note of near sincerity to creep into her voice. She’d been waiting for the right moment for this, and there was no time like the present—right? “How about a temporary reprieve,” she suggested. “Winter break’s coming up, and I thought, maybe, just for a couple weeks—”
“You are not going back to the East Coast,” he cut her off. “Not for two weeks, not for two days—you know the terms of our agreement.”
“Agreement, right,” she muttered. “Like I had a choice.”
“What was that?” he snapped.
“I said, if this isn’t a punishment, why do I feel like I’m in prison?” she asked, loud and clear.
“Katherine, that’s quite enough whining for tonight.” His measured tone masked an undercurrent of tightly bottled rage. The famous Keith Sellers temper was famous for a reason.
“It’s Kaia,” she reminded him.
“I named you Katherine,” he countered, rising from the table. “I let you call yourself by that ridiculous name, but you’ll always be Katherine, just like I’ll always be your father, whether you like it or not.”
“Trust me, I know,” Kaia snarled. “If I could change that, along with the name, I would have done it a long time ago.”
By the time he roared at her to go to her room, she was already out of her seat and halfway up the stairs.
Just another warm and fuzzy family dinner at the Sellers house.
Bon appétit.
It was almost midnight before Kaia’s father had gone to sleep and she was able to sneak out of the house. She was still fuming about the way her parents felt they could run her life. They were mistaken. They could ship her across the country and strand her in the desert, but they couldn’t stop her from slipping out of the mansion, driving twenty minutes down the deserted highway, pulling to a stop in front of a squat, nondescript, gray house, and scurrying up the walkway, head down to shield her face from prying eyes. They couldn’t stop her from throwing open the door and falling into her lover’s arms.
Her lover—she liked the sound of that. She’d had her share of guys, but never one she’d call a lover. The term was too adult, too mature for the puny prep school boys she’d toyed with back east—it was reserved for a man. And now she’d found one.
“Je m’oublie quand je suis avec toi,” she murmured into his neck.
I forget myself when I’m with you.
He hated when she spoke French to him; it was too much of a reminder of his day job, and of their roles in the real world, beyond the walls of his cramped apartment, where he was a French teacher, she a student. He didn’t want to remember—and she never wanted to forget.
The delicious scandal, the secrecy—why else was she there? It didn’t hurt that he was sophisticated, worldly, movie-star handsome, that at least when they were alone in bed together, he treated her like a goddess—but really, the thrill of the forbidden had always been, and remained, the biggest draw. He was too shallow, too vain to be anything other than an object of illicit desire. She had no fairy-tale illusions of love—and knew he felt the same.
It’s why they worked so well together.
“What are you thinking?” he asked idly, though she knew he didn’t really care.
“I’m thinking you’re a superficial, conceited, despicable human being, taking advantage of a sweet young girl like me.” To Jack Powell, she could always speak some form of the truth—because the things they said to each other would never matter. Neither of them was in this for good conversation.
“And you’re a callous, duplicitous, licentious girl who’s out only for herself,” he retorted in his clipped British accent, and kissed her roughly “I can’t get enough of you.”
It was a match made in heaven—or somewhere a bit farther south.
chapter
2
“This … isn’t … so … bad …,” Harper lied, panting for breath with every word.
Miranda slammed the big red button on her treadmill and nearly toppled to the ground as the moving track stopped short beneath her feet.
“Are you kidding?” she asked, glaring at Harper. “This has got to be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Harper pushed her sweaty bangs out of her face and grimaced—she would never have suggested scamming Grace’s only gym into giving them a free trial workout if she’d known it would be so much work. After all, working, on the first day of winter vacation? It went against everything she believed in.
But it would be worth it, she reminded herself, and began pedaling the stationary bike even faster. Harper usually steered clear of physical activity (unless you counted the kind that took place behind closed bedroom doors). But she’d always told herself that an aversion to exercise was a choice, not a necessity—if the time ever came that she needed to be in shape, she’d been sure it would be a snap.
The time had come. But the only thing snapping would be her bones, if she managed to fall off the exercise bike one more time.
“Maybe it’s time to throw in the towel,” Miranda suggested. She made a face and gestured toward the soggy towel she’d been using to wipe away her sweat. “Literally.”
“No way.” Harper smiled through gritted teeth. “We’re just getting into the groove.” She looked hatefully at the lithe bodies effortlessly working the machines all around her. Losers, all of them, judging by their baggy T-shirts, saggy shorts, and mis-sized sports bras—and yet none of them were gasping and panting like a wounded animal. Like Harper.
“So what’s with the new work ethic?” Miranda asked, turning the treadmill back on and, with a sigh, continuing her plodding jog to nowhere.
“Hello—school ski trip coming up? Need to get in shape? Remember? Are you burning off calories or brain cells?”
“Funny.” Miranda didn’t show a hint of a smile. “But I don’t buy it. You’ve got us up at the buttcrack of dawn, breaking a sweat. Just to get in shape so you can ski? And you don’t even know how to ski.”
Thanks for rubbing it in.
Harper knew it was ridiculous to want to impress Adam up on the slopes—and though she hated to admit it, she knew a couple hours on a stationary bike and a Skiing for Dummies book wouldn’t help her keep up with someone who’d been on the slopes since he was nine. But it couldn’t hurt to try, right? Adam was such the all-American athlete—skiing, swimming, running, he did it all with an ease that made Harper crazy. And his previous girlfriends had been the same way—even Beth, who’d never played on a team in her life, had a natural athletic grace that made Harper sick to watch.
She just wanted to make sure she measured up. Especially this weekend. This weekend, everything had to be perfect.
“Is this all to impress Adam?” Miranda persisted. Harper winced, hating the way her best friend could read every expression that flickered across her face. “Because you’ve known each other half your lives. Don’t you think it’s probably a little late to impress him? At least, more than you already have?”
Two months of dating—two months of fearing, every moment, that Adam would find out what she’d done to get him, would find out she wasn’t the person he was, she hoped, falling in love with. Harper needed to impress him, all right, every moment. Because if she wasn’t perfect—if they weren’t perfect together—Harper suspected there was an understudy waiting in the wings who’d be only too happy to replace her. Harper wasn’t about to give Beth the chance; but she also wasn’t about to admit any of her pathetic insecurities out loud. She had far too much pride to expose that part of herself—even to Miranda.
“I just want this weekend to be good, all right?” she snapped, staring resolutely at the tiny TV screen hanging on the opposite wall, and pretending to care how Jerry Springer’s latest guest had managed to accidentally sleep with her transsexual cousin.
“What makes this w
eekend any different from … oh!” A triumphant grin blossomed across Miranda’s face. She hopped off the machine and grabbed a handlebar on Harper’s bike, forcing Harper to face her. “Are you telling me that this weekend is …?”
Harper felt a tingling heat spread across her cheeks and jerked her head away. She couldn’t be blushing. She never blushed.
“This is it, isn’t it?” Miranda pressed on eagerly. “WFS. Are you kidding me? After all this time, you haven’t …”
WFS.
Weekend For Sex. Harper and Miranda had coined the term a couple years ago, the first time Harper’s parents had left her alone for the weekend. Justin Diamond, the JV lacrosse captain and her first serious boyfriend, had pulled into the driveway five minutes after her parents had left. (And about five minutes later, he’d been ready to pull out again.)
Harper gave Miranda a curt nod.
“WFS!” Miranda repeated in a hushed and wondrous tone. “I don’t believe it.”
“Rand, can we drop it?” Harper asked irritably, pedaling harder. Miranda was making it sound like she just hopped into bed with anything that moved—as if she had no patience, no discrimination, no self-restraint.
And, okay, it had been a long time since she’d made a guy wait so long. She knew that Beth was still a virgin, knew that sleeping with Adam would probably be the fastest and surest way to win his affection—but she wanted more than that. Adam was worth more than some guy, more than all of them put together.
Feeling like she was about to pass out, Harper sighed and stopped pedaling.
“Oh, thank God,” Miranda breathed, staggering off the treadmill and taking a long gulp from her water bottle. She tossed it over to Harper. “Here—you look even worse than I feel.”
Harper bristled at the suggestion (okay, observation of the obvious) that she was a tiny bit out of shape, but gulped down half the bottle before passing it back. “I didn’t have to stop,” she boasted. “I’ve just got a lot of errands to run before I go to work.”
Work. The word still sounded strange coming out of her mouth.
“Work?” Miranda repeated incredulously. “Work on what? Your nails?”
Harper looked away—she’d held off on telling Miranda about her little problem, but this moment would have had to come, sooner or later. “I got a job,” she mumbled, staring over her shoulder as Jerry’s guest tried to strangle her cousin with the microphone cord.
“A what?”
“A job,” Harper spit out, finally facing her. “I got a job, okay? My stupid parents wouldn’t pay for the ski trip, and I needed to go, so I just—oh, forget it.”
It was so humiliating. She was, after all, Harper Grace—as in, Grace, California. The town had been named for her family’s mining company, and for decades they had ruled like desert royalty. And then, years before Harper had been born—no more copper. No more mines. And just like that—no more money.
At least, if you believed her parents’ endless whining. But they had enough to get by. Enough for “important” things—they just didn’t understand the meaning of the word. And so Harper had to carry on the Grace name, the Grace legacy, all on her own. And if that meant a few weeks of menial labor—she shivered at the thought—so be it.
Miranda frowned, knowing better than to make light of Harper’s situation—not when it involved cash flow, and definitely not when it involved working hard, working for other people, working in public.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, quietly. “Maybe I could have—”
“Don’t even say it,” Harper snapped. Graces didn’t accept handouts. Not from anyone.
“So, where are you working?” Miranda finally asked, after a long and awkward pause.
“It doesn’t matter.” Like she was going to tell Miranda about her humiliating saga, traipsing from one bar to the next, only to be turned away for being too young. Not too young to drink—or too young to flirt with—but that was as far as any of these loser bartenders had been willing to go. She’d tried the Lost and Found, the Cactus Cantina, and then in desperation even Bourquin’s Coffee Shop and the decrepit vintage clothing store, Classic Rags—but in the end, only one place had had any openings. And no wonder—it was the last place any sane person would have chosen to work. Which meant plenty of openings for those poor saps with no choice at all.
She made a show of checking her watch and frowned as if she had somewhere far more important to be.
“I have to get out of here, Rand,” she lied, hurrying toward the locker room as fast as her weary, leaden legs could carry her.
“Is this weekend really worth that much to you?” Miranda called, scurrying to catch up.
Harper just shot her a look—the WFS look—and Miranda nodded. That said it all.
On her walk home, Miranda couldn’t stop thinking about Harper—maybe that’s why she didn’t see him. Her brain was stuck on the fact that her best friend, who usually told her everything—usually more than she wanted to know—had started keeping secrets. There was the job thing. The WFS—did that count as a secret too? Harper had clearly gone out of her way never to mention it—but then, she’d kept unnaturally quiet on almost everything having to do with her relationship with Adam. Oh, she talked about Adam plenty. Adam was, these days, almost all she talked about. How wonderful he was. How happy he made her. How much he loved being with her. And on, and on, until it seemed like their friendship had turned into nothing more than an Adam Morgan love-fest. But they never talked about anything real, like how Harper felt about being in her first serious relationship. Or how Miranda felt like her best friend was slipping away from her. And they never, ever talked about the biggest secret of all: how Harper and Adam had gotten together in the first place.
What had happened that day, when Adam went off to a swim meet, Beth stayed in town, and Harper inexplicably showed up the next morning with Adam hanging on her arm?
To be fair, Miranda had never come right out and asked Harper what had happened—that same night, they’d had a massive fight, and Harper had left Miranda crying and alone in the middle of the woods. Left her there for no good reason—and come home with everything she’d ever wanted, while Miranda had, as always, come home alone.
Harper had never really apologized. Miranda suspected, in fact, that in the warm glow of Adam-inspired happiness, Harper had totally forgotten. Miranda forgave her anyway. Like always. But that didn’t mean things had gone back to normal. Miranda and Harper had always been a twosome—but now, Harper plus Adam made two. And two plus Miranda made a crowd. There was this new part of Harper’s life that Miranda couldn’t have access to, couldn’t really understand. She was too embarrassed to even mention any of this to Harper, didn’t want to be seen as a lonely and pathetic third wheel, someone to be included out of pity. Out of obligation.
So there was another secret.
How many secrets would it take, Miranda wondered, to kill a friendship?
The question kept bouncing around in her head—it was all she could focus on. And that’s why she didn’t see him—not until he was, literally, on top of her.
“Can you watch where you’re going?”
The boy who’d slammed past Miranda turned back at the sound of her angry snarl. He froze in the middle of the sidewalk when he realized whom he’d hit.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” Miranda stammered, backing away. “I didn’t—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he interrupted, with exaggerated solemnity. “I didn’t realize that I’d bumped into the high and mighty Miranda. What a fool I am.”
“Greg …,” she began, then stopped herself. What could she say? Sorry I went on a few dates with you and blew you off? Sony that, even though you’re smart and funny and liked me a lot, it just wasn’t going to work? Or how about, Sorry that you overheard me telling my best friend that I deserve better than you? Miranda didn’t think there was a Miss Manners-prescribed etiquette for the situation, but none of the most obvious options seemed particularly appropriate.
“Sorry I yelled, Greg,” she finally continued. “I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Oh, she remembers my name,” he crowed, not meeting her eyes. “I’m so honored.”
“Greg, can we just—do you have to …”
“Do I have to what?” he asked loudly, drawing curious stares from two women pushing their strollers across the street. “Do I have to stand here and pretend I care what you have to say?” He paused, and pretended to think it over. “Now that you mention it—no, I don’t.”
He brushed past her and strode down the street, pausing a few feet away to shout something back to her.
“I do sincerely apologize for bumping into you—you deserve much better than that.”
If nothing else, the encounter—her first run-in with Greg since the “unfortunate incident”—should have proved to Miranda that her instincts had been right: She was too good for that immature jerk. But telling herself that didn’t help much. She’d been feeling guilty for weeks about the things she’d said about Greg—and the look on his face when he’d overheard.
She had hoped that maybe, since all this time had passed, he’d have cooled down, be willing to forgive her, assure her that she wasn’t such a cold and horrible person. That maybe they could even be friends.
Apparently not.
Harper had lied—not a first. She had hours to go before she officially entered the miserable ranks of the employed. But she’d needed to escape before Miranda pried more information out of her about her job, or her boyfriend. It was exhausting, trying so hard to keep her best friend out of the loop. Sometimes, it was easier to just be alone.
So here she was, hours to kill on Grace’s main drag. As a general rule, the town offered only two leisure options: shopping and boozing. And since she didn’t plan to show up plastered for her first day of work, those options narrowed to one.
Time to pre-spend that first paycheck. (The second one would go to her parents, to pay back the money they’d loaned her—but as far as she was concerned, the first money she’d ever earned for herself was already earmarked for a fabulous new ensemble that would make her shine up on the slopes as much as she shined on the ground.)
Pride Page 2
