I tuck my hands in my pockets and dip my head so he can’t see how much his words hurt. I know I strip, no one has to remind me, but in prep school, I was the goody-two shoes who never wavered. I had to keep my grades up to keep my scholarship—not that I was ever invited to parties. I wrote poetry. I drew. I daydreamed about him. “Do I look like an addict?”
His golden eyes roam over me. Assessing. “Maybe.”
My throat tingles with words I want to say but know I shouldn’t.
The less he knows, the better.
His nose flares. “I’m trying to help you and you’re giving me the cold shoulder. What’s wrong with you?”
I swallow thickly as I gaze at him. “Eric. Please. Being around me will only smear your good name—”
“Stop,” he calls out, then rubs his face, his anger seeming to deflate like a popped tire. “Don’t put yourself down like that. You’re a person, Julia. One that people care about.”
And I want to protect those people.
I chew on my bottom lip. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”
He lets out a long sigh, gives me a searching look, goes to leave, then stops. He reaches into his pocket and holds something up. “This is yours, I assume.”
I stare at the ring, my lips parting. “How did you . . .?”
But he’s already out the door.
I turn to find Poppy and Taylor with their faces pressed against the glass, clearly eavesdropping. Taylor has his robe on, a flowy orange and pink kimono silk with cherry blossoms on it. He’s tall with silky dark hair, brown skin, and a lilting British accent. Lash extensions adorn his warm eyes.
“What was that about?” he asks as I come back into the den. “You’ve been keeping secrets?”
I grunt.
“I didn’t realize you guys were hanging out.” He follows me in the kitchen.
“We’re not.”
I think back to freshman year at HU, the first time I’d seen him since prep school.
It was about a month in and I got the nerve up to attend a frat party. Just as promised, the brothers at Kappa were hot. I dressed up, wore tons of makeup, and made my way to Frat Row.
I thought it would be hard to mingle. It wasn’t after a few drinks. I was approached on all sides, guys asking me questions in rapid succession. And who do we have here? What are you studying? Where are you from? Are you in a sorority?
Then I saw Eric and all my happiness crashed.
I knew he was playing hockey at Hawthorne, but I wasn’t prepared to run into him.
That night, the first thing I noticed was that he was under a light bulb, and he was so tall that it cast a supernatural aura over the hard lines of his face. The only thing on him that didn’t scream man was his lips, full and lush with an indentation line that went down the center of the lower one. Back then, he only had a field of stubble, a shade darker than the hair on his head.
My breath hitched, those old insecurities rising up as he brought harsh reality back into focus.
I’ll never be able to escape the girl from prep school who wanted the unattainable hockey star.
Then, I realized there was something different about him.
The Golden Boy looked . . . troubled. Was that even possible?
I nudged off the other guys, craning my neck to see him as he stared at a blank wall.
He looked almost sad.
And with liquid courage coursing through my veins, I decided I’d let bygones be bygones. This was the new me; it might be the new him. We could start fresh.
I stalked up to him, formulating some line in my head, but another Kappa guy stepped between us and asked if I wanted a beer but I shook my head, craning to look over his shoulder.
“I was just trying to see . . .”
He followed my line of vision and laughed. “Oh, forget the pledge. He’s in one of his moods.”
Since when did our prep school star have moods? “What do you mean?”
He grinned. “Look. I’ll show you.”
He snapped his finger in Eric’s face, and Eric blinked, his eyebrows furrowing in annoyance as he caught sight of me. His gaze was hot, a punch to the gut.
Arcs of electricity raced between us.
For about two seconds.
His upper lip curled in a snarl. “Fuck off,” he growled and stalked away.
I was sucked back to prep school, to the day when he told me he didn’t stick around for seconds.
Eric Hansen wasn’t different; he was the same privileged jock.
I shake off the past as I face Taylor. “In British words, Eric Hansen is a bloody wanker.”
Still . . .
He thought he was helping me last night. I can’t be angry at that.
“I take it you declined his marriage proposal?” Taylor asks.