I sat next to him and watched his big hand move the pink pencil over the sheet. Leave it to Lucian Rollins to make math sexy.
“Wow. You really are smart,” I said when he circled the answer.
His mouth curved ever so slightly at the corners. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I promised.
“Your turn,” he said, handing me the pencil.
He smelled good. Which made me paranoid that he could smell me.
It took me three tries and an infinite amount of patience from Lucian, but I finally got it. I got the next problem on the second try. And when I nailed the right answer on the third problem in one take, I jumped up and spiked the pencil like it was a football in the end zone.
“Yes! Bite me, math!”
I was halfway through my victory dance when I remembered that I had a hot junior audience and sweaty armpits.
Lucian leaned back on his elbows on the carpet, watching in amusement. There was an actual smile on his face. One I’d put there. Something warm bloomed inside me. I was pretty sure it was a hot flash.
I tucked my hair behind both ears and sank back down to the floor. “Um, so thank you for that. I don’t usually get that excited over math homework.”
The smile was still there, and it was turning my insides to mush.
“I take it you’re more into reading than trig?” He nodded toward my bookcases.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I like books. A lot.”
“Are you going to write them?”
I shook my head. “Nah. Reading is just a hobby. I’m going to get a softball scholarship and go into sports medicine.” I had it all figured out. I was what my coach called an “aggressively enthusiastic pitcher.”
“Really?” he asked.
“You don’t think I can do it?”
“It just must be nice to know what you want to do.”
“You’re almost a senior,” I pointed out. “Where are you going to college? What are you going to major in?”
He shrugged, then winced and rubbed absently at his arm. “I don’t know yet.”
I frowned. “Well, what do you want to be?”
“Rich.”
He sounded like he meant it. And not in a flippant teenage boy tired of Aunt Alice asking him what he wanted to be when he grew up way.
“Uh, okay. And how are you going to do that?” I asked.
“I’ll find a way.”
I was disappointed. A guy like Lucian should have big, specific dreams. He should want to innovate hearing aids for babies or maybe run a cool dental practice like my mom. Hell, even aiming for professional football player would be better than nothing.
“Sloane! Dinner,” my mother called from downstairs.
Crappity crap crap.
“Uh, okay!” I yelled back.
“I guess I should go,” Lucian said.
I didn’t want him to go. But I also didn’t want my parents to know a really hot football player had shimmied up a tree into my bedroom. In case he did it again and I was showered and wearing matching pj’s and lip gloss when he did.
“Ask the boy who climbed through your window if he wants to stay for dinner. We’re having meat loaf,” Mom shouted the invitation.
“Oh my God,” I muttered into my hands, mortified.
I glanced up at Lucian, and he grinned. A full-on, knee-dissolving, stomach-swooping grin.
“Thanks, Mrs. Walton, but I need to get home,” he called back.
“You’re welcome to use the front door,” Mom shouted.
I winced. “You probably should. Otherwise, they’ll just come up here.”
“Okay,” he said, not seeming too concerned with my humiliation.
Squaring my shoulders, I marched us out of my bedroom and down the stairs, unsure of what reaction I was about to face. Standing up for women’s rights was one thing in my parents’ eyes. Sneaking boys into my room was an entirely different kind of rebellion.
My parents met us at the foot of the steps in the kitchen. Dad was in a frumpy beige sweater that matched his khakis too closely. Mom was still in her work scrubs. Both had glasses of wine.
“Mom, Dad, this is Lucian. He, uh, helped me with my trig homework,” I said, awkwardly making the introductions.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Walton,” Lucian said, shaking hands like he was an adult. I had a vision of him in a fancy suit presiding over meetings with his serious face and strong handshake. Maybe “rich” wasn’t such a lame goal after all.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Lucian,” Mom said, shooting me a we’ll-discuss-this-later look.
“You’re always welcome here, especially if it keeps Sloane from hurling her math books across the room,” Dad said.
My toes curled in embarrassment. “Dad,” I hissed.
He reached out and ruffled my hair. I continued to die of the fatal, incurable condition of embarrassment.
“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?” Mom offered.
Lucian hesitated for just the barest second, and my parents were on him like pugs on peanut butter.
“Join us,” Dad insisted. “Karen makes a mean meat loaf, and I made the baked potatoes with horseradish sour cream.”
Lucian glanced at me, then at his feet before nodding. “Uh, if you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Mom insisted, steering us toward the kitchen island where the plates were stacked.
Oh my God. I was going to have dinner with Lucian Rollins. Yay!
And my parents. Boo!
It definitely wasn’t a date if chaperones were present. At least not in this century.
“Come on, you two,” Mom said, leading the way. “You can set the table.”
“Your parents are nice,” Lucian said as I shut the front door behind us. The scent of cherry blossoms was light on the crisp evening air.
“And embarrassing,” I said, cringing at some of the topics of conversation. “You really don’t have to help my dad get the summer decorations down from the garage rafters this weekend.”
My ladder-fearing, five-foot-seven father was thrilled by Lucian’s height. My mother was thrilled with his apparent inability to say no.
“I don’t mind,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Don’t let them hear you say that, or else Mom will have you moving file boxes at her office and Dad will enlist you to trim the taller branches in the backyard.”
“Your house is great,” Lucian said. It sounded almost like an accusation.
“I’d say thanks, but I didn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Mine sucks,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the small, beige two-story next door. I noticed that Lucian’s father still hadn’t returned.
“Maybe you would think it was nicer if you mowed the lawn?” I suggested helpfully.
He looked down at me, amused again. “I doubt that would make things better.”
I crossed my arms over my chest to ward off the chill. “You never know. Sometimes making things nice on the outside makes them better all the way through.”
It was like when I woke up early enough to slap on some mascara and lipstick before school. A bold lip and long lashes made me feel like a prettier, more put-together version of myself.