"Willow, one day I said something about my commander in chief, and his response was, ‘I didn't know you were Native American.'"
"No!"
"I've sworn off pretty idiots, but I miss sex."
"My poor, horny Grace."
"That is accurate." I take another long swallow from my drink. I'm not sure if the sugar buzz or the alcohol buzz is going to hit me first. "Actually, ‘horny' is a terrible word. Don't use it to describe me ever again, please."
"No kidding, but there's no good alternative short of calling yourself randy, and that makes me feel like I should be picking up men at the local seniors' club."
I wrinkle my nose. "Randy might be worse than horny. But whatever I am, I blame those books you recommended. Those books made me . . . what about thoughtful? It's the thoughts that get us in trouble, isn't it?"
"I prefer thirsty." She nods, satisfied with her word choice. "You're thirsty, and who could blame you? Maybe your stepbrother has a hot friend you could entertain yourself with this summer."
I drain my glass and close my eyes, imagining bonfires and tattooed country boys with ripped muscles from bailing hay-or whatever they do in Indiana. Surely Dash has some good-looking friends who could entertain me. "God, it's pathetic, but I'm kind of counting on it."
Willow's phone buzzes and she grabs it off the coffee table and grins as she looks at the screen. "It's Robbie. He wants to swing by. Is that okay with you?"
I shrug. I'm all warm and fuzzy from the rum. He could bring a dozen friends with him and I probably wouldn't care. "That's fine with me."
"Are you sure?"
"You guys have two days together before you leave for London. Seriously, live it up. I was thinking about crawling into bed with my book anyway. I want to read the one about the fisherman again."
"You don't need to go to bed. Robbie and I can be together without screwing."
I cock my head and frown at her. "You want to tell me that you're half drunk and your boyfriend's coming over, and you want to sit out here and chat rather than jump his bones?"
She laughs. Willow's laugh has to be one of the best sounds in the world, full, and real, and unapologetic. "You know me too well."
"It's fine," I say. "Seriously. I'll sleep in your sister's room." Her older sister is out of town for the weekend, and I probably would have slept in her room anyway just to have my own bed.
"You're the best."
The doorbell rings, and I stand. "I need to use the restroom. I'll talk to you two lovebirds in the morning."
"Don't feel like you have to turn in right away. I have another pitcher of daiquiris waiting in the freezer and a stack of Christina Lauren novels on the kitchen island. I think the fisherman one is somewhere in there."
"God bless you," I call over my shoulder as I push into the bathroom. I pee forever-I really drank too much of Willow's mostly rum concoction-and wash my hands. I hear laughter, then feet on the stairs, and the thunk of Willow's bedroom door before I leave the bathroom. They're wasting no time getting down to business. Good for them. At least someone's getting lucky.
I planned on going to bed, but I like Willow's suggestion better. Sleep never comes easily for me, so daiquiris and a yummy romance novel sound like the perfect way to pass a couple of hours.
Except there's a broad-shouldered dude sitting on Willow's couch, his head of shaggy hair bowed.
I groan inwardly. Muscle is my kryptonite. I'm seriously tipsy and thirsty, and I don't need to be tempted into bad choices with some jock Robbie dragged with him to his booty call.
"Hey," the guy says. "Sorry to invade your space like this."
"No worries." I say, then he looks up and my breath leaves my lungs in a rush when I see his blue eyes. Damn. It's one thing to be thirsty and have bits and pieces below the belt zipping ideas to my brain. It's quite another thing when my other organs get involved. Like my heart. And maybe my lungs, because breathing isn't coming very naturally right now.
I know this guy. He wasn't around last summer, but we went to the same high school when I was fourteen. Five years ago, before Dad moved us away from Champagne and away from my damaged reputation, and before that night, I knew that face and those stop-a-girl-in-her-tracks sweet blue eyes.
His shaggy hair was shorter then, his shoulders a little less broad, and he had smooth cheeks where tonight they're covered in stubble. But I would know the face of Chris Montgomery anywhere. A girl doesn't forget blue eyes like that, especially when they were the first she ever fell for. Especially when it all ended with a new life and a broken heart.
"Hey there," he says again, looking at me this time. He grins. Holy shit, that smile. Those dimples send me back in time, and all the feelings come back in a rush. The high school crush that I didn't dare speak of. The boy who was so far out of my league I couldn't bring myself to talk to him. The ache I felt in my heart every time he was in the same room as me.
Chris Montgomery is fucking perfect. He's the guy that every girl in high school swooned over. All he had to do was walk by, flash those dimples, and wink, and girls would practically knock each other over for the honor of dropping their panties first.
He's hot. He's smart. He's some sort of football genius-or was back in high school. And he's a fucking gentleman.
He was always so kind to me-genuinely kind, not like other boys who'd tease and flirt but never bother to look me in the eye. When I was surrounded by guys who couldn't keep their eyes off my tits, Chris gave his attention to my face when he talked to me. To be fair, this only happened once, but I was fourteen and the contact required for falling in love was minimal.
I was so pathetic. Still am, apparently, because my cheeks heat and the room spins sideways. I feel like I'm fourteen again, still madly, naively in love with the boy who doesn't know I exist.
Only now I'm not that girl anymore, and we're alone in Willow's living room with a storm rumbling outside.
"Sorry to bother you. I only followed Robbie in so I could grab some paper towels, but the storm's really picked up, and I wanted to let the rain slow down before driving home." He holds up a bloody hand. "Any chance you have a bandage I could put on this?"
I was so busy with my trip down Memory Lane that I didn't even notice his right hand is wrapped in blood-soaked paper towels. "Oh my God! Are you okay?"
"It's not as bad as it looks, but I want to make sure it doesn't get infected." He actually smiles as he says it, as if the injury isn't even painful, despite what the bloody towels would suggest.
"I hope not."
"My coaches are going to kill me. If they had their way, I'd walk around with my hands in a glass case any time I'm not on the field."
"You still play football?" I'm so impressed that the words come out smoothly, without even the faintest hint of a stutter. I credit years of speech therapy. And alcohol. Even when my stutter was at its worst, a good, strong buzz made it all but nonexistent. (Let's file that under: Things You Shouldn't Learn At Fourteen-a pretty thick file in my case.)
"Yeah. I play at Blackhawk Hills University." He narrows his eyes and studies me. My stomach clenches, and I wait for him to recognize me as "Juh-Juh-Gee-Gee," or worse, "Easy Gee-Gee." I wait for his memory of that night to drain all the kindness from his face.
Instead, his grin stays firmly in place, his dimples greeting me without hesitation.
I force a smile, but it costs me. I don't like feeling this vulnerable, this dependent on another human's approval.
"Are you Willow's sister?" he asks.
He doesn't remember me. Maybe I should be offended, but instead I'm just relieved. I guess I should thank my newly dyed black hair for his ignorance.
Yeah, or maybe you were never important enough for him to remember.
He points at me, his brow wrinkling in concentration. "Robbie told me Willow had a sister our age. Mary or-"
"Morgan," I say.
He extends his left hand-the one that isn't wrapped up in blood-soaked paper towels-and I take it, stupidly. "Nice to meet you, Morgan," he says. "I'm Chris. Robbie had too much to drink, so I gave him a lift. I wouldn't have followed him in if I realized he was going to disappear into his girlfriend's room right away."
I might not be the sharpest tool in the box after questionable amounts of rum, but a few things occur to me all at once.