Lucian’s backyard looked more like an abandoned lot. The grass was patchy, and there were tufts of knee-high weeds against their side of the fence. A rusty grill was abandoned against the side of the garage. I didn’t mean to judge, of course. Lots of people had better things to do than play in the dirt every weekend.
Though maybe Lucian should think about helping out around the house if his dad wasn’t going to take care of the yard work anymore. There was a push mower next to the grill, for gosh sakes. I didn’t want to have a crush on a lazy, entitled guy.
I willed him to approach the mower.
Instead, Lucian kicked at a rock on a bare patch of lawn and sent it flying. It soared through the air before smacking against our fence with a loud crack.
“Hey!” I yelled.
His gaze instantly came to my window. I flattened myself on the seat cushion and put a pillow over my face.
“Well, that was stupid, dummy. He already saw you,” I said into the pillow. I sat up again. But Lucian was nowhere to be seen.
The cherry tree outside my window shuddered, and I heard a grunt.
“What the—”
There was something in the tree. No. Not something, someone. I blinked several times and wondered if I needed a new glasses prescription, because it looked like Lucian Rollins was climbing my tree. He shimmied up the trunk and gave the branch that skimmed over the porch roof a testing bounce.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. A hot, popular junior had just climbed my tree because I’d yelled at him.
It was with a heady mix of horror and excitement that I watched him scale the branch before nimbly jumping onto the roof.
I slid off the cushion and backed toward the middle of my room as Lucian Rollins threw a leg over my windowsill and climbed inside.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Lucian Rollins was in my bedroom. Shit! Lucian Rollins was in my bedroom!
I glanced around, hoping my room wasn’t totally embarrassing. Thank God Mom had insisted on giving me a room makeover for my twelfth birthday. My doll house and hammock full of stuffed animals had been replaced with floor-to-ceiling bookcases my dad had installed. The pale pink walls had been covered with a moody blue paint.
But I’d just dumped two loads of clean laundry in a haphazard pile on the floor in front of the closet because Mom needed the laundry basket. I’d also emptied the contents of my backpack at the foot of my bed because I couldn’t find my favorite berry-pink highlighter that I reserved for only the most important class notes.
Dear lord. I had a favorite highlighter, and this past fall, Lucian had broken the school’s passing record on the football field.
My uninvited guest said nothing as I panicked silently.
Lucian picked up my book, flipped it over, and read the back. He raised a mocking eyebrow.
I crossed to him and snatched it out of his hand. “Why are you in my room?” I demanded, finally finding my voice.
“Mostly considering apologizing for the rock,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
“Mostly?”
He shrugged and began to wander the room. “I’ve never been inside your house before. I wanted to see what it was like.”
“You could have used the front door,” I pointed out. If I were a cheerleader, I’d know how to flirt. I’d have showered and be wearing matching pajamas and lip gloss. I’d toss my hair without hurting my neck, and he’d feel compelled to kiss me.
But I wasn’t a cheerleader. I was me, and I had no idea how to talk to my hot neighbor crush.
He paused at my desk and flipped through my CDs. His lips curved in a smirk. “Destiny’s Child and Enrique Iglesias.”
“You can’t just break into my house and judge my taste in music.”
“I’m not judging. I’m…intrigued.”
He was even cuter up close.
Wait. No, not cute. Gorgeous.
His hair was thick and dark and curled a little at the ends. He had a straight nose and high cheekbones that were so defined, Mrs. Clawser chose him as the model for portrait drawing in art class. Becky Bunton said Lucian had taken his shirt off and Mrs. Clawser had to stand in front of her hot flash fan for ten straight minutes.
Of course, Becky also claimed that her uncle invented JanSport book bags, so you had to take her claims with a grain of salt.
Lucian was tall with an athletic build that filled out his worn jeans and a long-sleeve Knockemout football shirt in a way that leaned more toward man than boy.
Was it getting hot in here? Did I need a hot flash fan?
I hadn’t had sex yet. I wanted my first time to be with someone who made me feel like a heroine in a book. Someone who could sweep me off my feet and make me feel special and good, not sweaty and awkward in the back seat of an ancient Toyota like Becky’s first time.
Lucian, with his muscly forearms and romantic hair, would make a girl feel that way. Special. Important.
How was I supposed to date boys in my own league when presented with this specimen? My dating options were restricted to the lower tier of high school guys. Like a member of the stage crew or maybe one of the slower boys on the track team.
But none of them measured up to my gorgeous next-door neighbor.
It wasn’t just his looks. Lucian moved through the halls of Knockemout High with a knowing confidence that the crowds would part around him. I, on the other hand, scurried from gap to gap, staring at the backs and shoulders of the entire student body.
Lucian cleared his throat and I blinked.
I’d been staring at him for a very long time. Long enough that he’d taken a seat on the bench at the foot of my bed and was staring back. Expectantly.
“Uh, do you want a soda or something?” I asked, not sure what I’d do if he said yes. My parents were downstairs, and they would be sure to notice me sneaking two root beers upstairs. Unlike the parents on TV, mine didn’t miss a thing.
“No, thanks,” he said, eyeing my trig homework. He picked up the top sheet of paper, the one I’d scrawled “This is stupid. I hate math.” all over.
I snatched it out of his hand and crumpled it behind my back.
I was smart. That was my thing. Put me in an English class or history or science and I was a guaranteed straight A student. But math was a different story.
“I could help you,” he said, reaching behind me and taking the paper back.
“You’re good at math?” I couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of my tone.
“You think just because I play football I can’t be smart too?”
Actually, I’d been thinking that in this scenario, I should be the hot athlete’s tutor who he couldn’t help falling in love with during intimate study sessions. But this could work too.
“Of course not,” I scoffed.
“Then give me a pencil.” He held out a hand, and for a second, I battled the fantasy of simply putting my hand in his…and then jumping into his lap and kissing him.
But I wasn’t confident in my balance. What if I kneed him in the crotch or knocked the wind out of him?
Good sense won out, and I picked up my pink mechanical pencil from the carpet and handed it over.
“Come here,” he said, sliding down to the floor and patting the spot next to him.
I sat obediently.
“You had the first part right,” he said, retracing my steps with the pencil. “But here’s where you went wrong.”