You could teach an AP course on making me bleed.
I knot the bottom of my shirt up around my navel to get relief from the heat. “She can’t handle anyone having anything that could be hers—including the stage.”
“The spotlight’s not all its cracked up to be. Fans don’t want you, they want what they think you possess. And the more you possess, the more people feel entitled to take.”
The edge in his words catches me off guard.
I work a coiled elastic off my wrist, twisting my long hair up in a messy knot and fanning my sweat-damp neck. “Careful, Tyler. Someone might think being Prince of Oakwood is getting old.”
Tyler shifts to stand in front of me in a heartbeat.
He’s in my space, tall and built and intent, the weight of his attention moving from the car to me. The crisp white shirt, rolled at the sleeves, makes him look gorgeous and a little reckless, like some pirate on a mission to charm and destroy.
But it’s the expression on his face, that knowing smirk, that pins me in place. It’s as if he just caught me doing something filthy.
“Careful, Annie. Someone might think you give a shit.”
Once, I held his hand and told his fortune.
Never again.
He betrayed me. Hurt me more than Carly’s teasing and pranks ever could.
I want him to back the fuck up, but I can’t speak. Right now, all I can do is take in Tyler’s light cedar scent, his half-lowered lashes, his voice a soft murmur on my skin.
I clear my throat, arch a brow. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Finally, he moves.
Down my body.
My breath hitches as his face is level with my chest, my waist.
I press my thighs together when his face passes my bare legs.
The heart is supposed to propel blood to your vital organs.
Mine’s a traitor. It doesn’t give a fuck if I live or die.
When he’s this close, it beats for him.
He drops his wrench in the toolkit at my feet, and I shut my eyes in humiliated relief.
Get a grip.
If he ever finds out how I feel, the last of my pride and self-respect will go up in flames.
“What’s this? Don’t tell me you cheated on our English test.” Tyler lifts the edge of my skirt, and I smack his hand away.
“What’s under my skirt is none of your business.”
He huffs out a breath as he straightens and returns to work.
“There it is,” he murmurs moments later under the hood. “They yanked the coupling for your… never mind,” he says at my blank expression. “Carly’s better at politics than cars.”
He lowers the hood, wiping the rolled-up arm of his dress shirt on his forehead. “You should be fine. If it gives you any grief, let me know.”
“Thanks.” The word sticks in my throat, and he holds my gaze for a beat, two.
I hurry to slide in through the driver’s door. When I hit the start button, the engine roars to life.
Relief washes over me as I stuff my blazer in the back seat and unbutton my shirt another button while the A/C kicks in. Sweat beads on my chest, and I’m fastening my seatbelt when Tyler leans his muscled forearms on the driver’s door.
“You get slapped with community service?” He nods toward the black garbage bag on top of my books.
I shift my sunglasses up on my head. “Oh, I led the litter pickup for Young Environmentalists at the park last week, but no, that’s my practice costume for the musical. It has a hole in the bottom so I can walk.”
“I see. You’ll have trouble evading horny sailors.”
“Yeah, well, Hans Christian Anderson was pre-MeToo.”
This time, Tyler’s smile is genuine. I can tell because it lands in the center of my chest like a blow.
I wish I could lick my suddenly dry lips without him taking credit for it.
He reaches into the car, and my breath hitches as he lifts his tie from around my neck, drawing it out in a long ribbon.
The silk strokes my neck for what feels like minutes, and I force my gaze away when he finally pockets the tie.
My attention lands on the lone motorcycle across the parking lot. “Next time Carly gets creative with my car, I’m borrowing your ride.”
“No, you’re not.” He straightens, shoving a hand through his messy-is-sexy hair. “Jax Jamieson would destroy me for letting his baby girl near it.”
There it is. The reason I can’t avoid Tyler completely, even I want nothing more than to cut him out of my life.
Oakwood’s rebel prince doesn’t live in a brick mansion with a closet full of V-necks and two Ivy-League-educated parents.
He lives in our pool house, thirty feet from my bedroom.
2
“Sorry I’m late. Car trouble.” I trip into the café, and Pen looks up from her table. “I did bring you presents, though. Check your e-reader.”
My friend grabs her tablet from her bag. “Ooh! How many books did you get me?”
“Ten? Twelve?” I laugh. “You’re going away. You’ll need some new material.”
“You’re the best,” she informs me when I finish telling her about the mix of fiction and nonfiction I picked out.
We go to the counter, and I order a peppermint tea.
“How was rehearsal?” Pen asks while we wait.
I fill my friend in on what happened with Carly, and her eyes widen.
“The bitches tried to stop me driving away from the crime scene,” I finish.
“Sabotaging your ride is a new low. She’s escalating.”
I roll my eyes. “Carly can’t stand people taking things she wants.”
“It’s more than that. You’re a traitor to an income bracket,” Pen says, mock chastising. “Writing essays about how her dad and a bunch of others’ are destroying the middle class through their greedy empires and campaigning with the administration to spend our community involvement hours with actual disadvantaged people instead of working with fancy ad agencies on shiny posters for environmental groups.”
Her smile fades. “For real, though. Why is this High School Musical fantasy so important to you? In a year, we’ll both be at Columbia, and this will all be behind us.”
My tea is set in front of me, and I reach for it. “She doesn’t get to decide who has a voice, on stage or anywhere else.”
Pen follows me back to our table. “So, how’d you get here if they fucked up your ride?”
“Tyler fixed it.” I glance at her empty mug. “Do you want another Americano to get through calc?”
Hands grip my arms, and in a second, I’m looking straight into my friend’s dark, dancing eyes. “No, I do not want another Americano. I want to know in what world Tyler Adams was elbow deep in your business.”
Penelope’s smart. Like, next level. She’s the head of debate team and the newspaper, she’s taking all AP courses, and she doesn’t miss a beat.
Her dad moved here from Shanghai and met her mom at UCLA before they came to Texas. Mr. Wang knows my stepmom because Haley’s in software too.
“When was the last time you and Mr. Pool House talked about something other than who ate the last Cheerios?” she presses.