To be honest, most times I read Cosmo—or any other magazine targeted toward, let’s face it, woman in their twenties—very little applies to me. For example:
1. I don’t need fifty sex tips to drive a man wild, because, well, I’m not having any.
2. I don’t need to know how to wear hair extensions without looking like I have Barbie Doll hair.
3. And I certainly don’t need the boyfriend quizzes, because as we all know, I don’t have one.
Anyway, the Mae West quote has been hanging on my pin board for months and months now, and sometimes when I’m doing my homework, I’ll glance up and read it. There have even been times it’s inspired me to go after things I want—not necessarily guys, but other things too, like class officer (I’m vice president). Basically that short, sassy sentence has taught me not to be such a wimp.
So here I am, halfway to my car in the parking lot of Kyoto Grill, when Weston McGrath—the boy everyone claims is such a hard-ass he won’t even date—comes chasing out after me.
Just like I suspected he would.
Like I hoped he would.
“Molly, stop! Where are you going?” He catches up and steps into stride beside me. I continue walking, my car just a few yards away.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Look, I didn’t mean to insult you back there. I’m sorry.”
“Is that what this is all about?”
Um, no actually, I got up purposely to see if you’d follow me.
And you did.
It’s gotten dark out, and the parking lot lamps are glowing above us. There are only a few vehicles present, one of them a lime green Kawasaki crotch rocket. “That must be yours, huh? I wouldn’t have taken you for a green guy—blue seems to be more your color.”
“Yeah, well, I let my little sister pick out the color. I’m always getting a rash of shit about it from the guys, so…yeah.” He runs his tan fingers through his hair. All at once I’m aware of Weston in a completely different way—as a sensitive older brother.
“How old is she?”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
I laugh. “Yes. Are you going to let me?” Since I have no idea what to say, I start digging for my keys as we approach my Jeep. Weston walks over and leans his shoulder against it, watching me with his arms crossed. Glancing up, I wonder if he owns any shirts with sleeves. Under the lamp light, the contours of his jaw and the angles of his arms are more defined, and his eyes look black.
Ugh, Weston is so handsome my heart beats fast within my chest.
Only the sound of cars driving by fills the air. Then, finally, those noises are joined by the jingle of my car keys.
“My sister’s name is Kendall. She’s eleven.”
“Has she ever been on that thing?”
“Hell no, I’d never take her on it—not that my parents would actually let me. Once she begged me to drive her around the cul-de-sac in our subdivision, but…” He shrugs. “Besides, I’d feel horrible if anything ever happened while she was on the back of it.”
“I don’t blame you. Those things can be scary.” And sexy as hell.
“Yeah, they can be if the driver isn’t careful. My parents made me take a few extra safety classes, so…” He shrugs again.
“So you’re a safe driver?”
“More like a responsible driver. I’ve never had a passenger, and I’m not like some of those assholes who rev their engines. Bikes don’t have to be so damn loud, you know.” He pauses. “So you know, I’m dying to ask…” Weston’s sentence trails off, the low timbre of his voice filling the air.
I suppose I could pretend not to know what he’s talking about—after all, feigning ignorance happens to be a talent of mine, a craft honed through years of lying for my idiot brother. Yes, Matthew paid me; I consider lying for him one of my first paying jobs. Weston wants to know where all that hockey jargon came from, and if I actually know what any of it means.
Can’t say I blame him.
“You know, I kind of want to hear you ask…” I tease. Because the sound of your voice is giving me goose bumps and makes me tingle.
I enjoy teasing him, and truthfully, I could very well stand and literally listen to him talk all night. Here in this dimly lit parking lot, it feels like we are the only two people around. Maybe it’s just me, but the air has a…crackle, and it definitely feels intimate, almost like there’s tangible anticipation stirring the air around us.
I rest my back against the door of the Jeep so we’re leaning side by side, and I gaze up at the pitch-black sky, watching for a shooting star. River Glen is mostly rural—the town isn’t even considered a suburb of Chicago, which is over an hour away—so on a clear night like tonight, the sky is crystal clear and perfect for stargazing, no smog from the city to block the view.