He sauntered up behind the girls with two other guys, jocks by the size of them. One was bulky, ruddy-cheeked, his hair like dry straw. But my gaze snagged on the second guy and became stuck there. On him.
He wasn’t stylish in the slightest or even interesting-looking. Merely classically, epically handsome. All-American. Superman in a T-shirt and jeans. His face was a straightforward arrangement of perfect features—thick, dark brows over blue eyes fringed with long lashes. A strong nose over a luscious mouth and a cleft in his chin even more impressive than mine.
He spared a smile for Violet, then turned his gaze my direction. A lock of his dark hair fell over his brow, daring someone—me—to reach over and brush it away.
“I was just inviting our new friend to your party, Chance,” Evelyn said to the blond. “Guys, this is Holden.”
The pale slab of beef was Chance, but no one had told me Superman’s name, probably because he usually needed no introduction. It was obvious this guy was a football god, Prom King—the Jake Ryan of Santa Cruz.
“Good to meet you, man.” He offered his hand.
“Likewise,” I said, keeping mine to myself.
Mr. Perfect might’ve had the rest of the school swooning, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. But once our gazes found each other, I fell into the surprising depth of him. There was weight behind his eyes, and his casual smile looked like his own brand of armor.
The guy quickly withdrew his hand and laughed it off. “Okay, whatever.”
“Holden is from Seattle. Isn’t that right…?”
I didn’t stick around to hear Evelyn recite the rest of my bio. I rolled my shoulders around the pole and walked away from the small group. First rule of showbiz: always leave them wanting more. Better to leave the hot—and painfully straight—jock with the deep eyes far in my rearview.
Yet it bothered the piss outta me that I didn’t know his name.
Why? So what? Who cares?
All valid questions.
Near the edge of the quad, I pulled aside a pretty girl.
“See that guy in the white T-shirt back there? Dark hair? Looks like he stepped out of a Hollister ad?”
The girl gave me a funny look. “Um, yeah?”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s River Whitmore. Senior. Quarterback and captain of the football team.”
“Much obliged.”
I started to go but the girl touched my arm, her eyes raking me up and down unapologetically. “Hey, hold up. You’re new, right? I’m Leah. Do you want to—?”
“Nope, I’m gay, thanks.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that…?”
“I said, I’m good, thanks. Appreciate the help.”
“Oh. Okay.”
River Whitmore, I told myself, heading to my locker. There. You know his name. Happy now?
Happy wasn’t on my horizon and knowing River’s name didn’t assuage my curiosity. Just the opposite—my cracked mind seized on it, tasted it, turned it over and over. Whitmore did nothing for me, but River would sound sexy as fuck whispered right before a kiss…
“Nope. We’re done here.”
I deposited my uneaten lunch in my locker and slammed the door. Slammed it on Beatriz’s sack lunch and River’s sad eyes and on the weak flickering spark in my chest that wanted to make something out of both.
Chapter Three