Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(22)
“You’re so pathetic,” I whisper, not even bothering to hide my smile.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Shut up, Kendrick.”
“I can already tell you’ll write super-sweet cards on romantic holidays.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Hell, no,” I say. “First of all, nobody would believe I’m your girlfriend.”
“Why not?”
I gesture down at my combat boots, baggy sweats, and skull tank top before putting a hand behind my ear to highlight my multiple piercings.
His smile grows wider, and he gets a calculating look in his eye. “Has the film student not seen any of her precious Pygmalion-themed movies?”
“I have …,” I say warily.
He leans a little closer. “Then you’ll know that one of the hallmarks of such a story is the creation of the new woman. Whether it be from stone to flesh, or Cockney flower girl to lady, or angry goth to debutante …”
I feel a little flash of panic as I begin to understand. “You want to turn me into a socialite?”
He gives me a once-over, his eyes lingering on the important parts, and the temperature spikes about six hundred degrees. “It’s doable.”
Our eyes lock, and for a second I’m wondering if he means it’s doable or I’m doable. His eyes darken, and I suspect he’s at least considering the latter. I really wish I’d thrown a hoodie on over the shirt I’m wearing.
He reaches for his beer, and my eyes ogle his damn arm again. His arm. Suddenly a hoodie’s not going to be good enough. I need a freaking parka.
“Nobody will believe we’re interested in each other,” I say, pouring derision into my voice and hoping he’ll read it correctly as back off.
He doesn’t.
“Kendrick, that’s the easy part.”
“Really?” I say drawling.
“Sure. Watch.”
Before I can register that he’s moved, his hand is around my neck, his fingers playing with the hair that’s escaped my messy ponytail.
“Price, don’t you dare—”
His mouth is on mine in a heartbeat.
My hands immediately go to his chest to push him away—I mean, really—but then his lips move, firm and insistent against mine, and I hesitate.
Which is a big mistake.
He takes advantage of my stillness, and the other hand moves to my cheek so he’s cupping my face. And hell, even a bitter, man-hating rebel can be a sucker for a guy who understands the sexiness in a head-holding kiss.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I let my head tilt just slightly, and my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Ethan takes it as the invitation it is, his lips parting mine as his tongue slips inside my mouth to deepen the kiss.
Eager for more, I kiss him back, and this time our tongues touch and linger. I feel his fingers tighten at the back of my head, pulling me closer. The kiss is long, hot, and hard, and even though I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be happening, I can’t make myself pull away from him.
All thoughts of our school project and my shitty life fade away. There’s only Ethan. Firm hands, warm mouth …
And a really, really loud squeal.
We break apart at the dying-banshee noise coming from the bedroom as Leah and David apparently culminate this evening’s naked activities.
“Is it always like that?” Ethan asks, staring in horror toward the bedroom door.
“They’re usually worse,” I say, trying to keep my voice as nonchalant as his. He sits back in his chair, looking completely unfazed by the kiss, and I feel, well … fazed.
“So, um, what was that?” I ask, gesturing between the two of us.
He gives a sleepy smile. “Proof that chemistry can be faked. A few repeats of that when there’s an audience, and nobody will doubt we’re together.”
I feel a sting of disappointment. Faked. That’s all it was to him—an experiment. Not that I want it to be more, but the guy could at least be out of breath or something.
He’s watching me carefully. “So, you in?”
I grab his beer and take a long swig. “What’s in it for me?”
“How about a gold mine of inspiration for our screenplay? A script based on real life? I’d think you’d be all over that shit.”
Except not all of it would be based on real life. To make this screenplay interesting, these two characters would have to fall for each other. For real.
That bit’s not going to be based on fact.
“This may come as a surprise to you, but there are few things I’d enjoy less than dressing up as your pastel Barbie doll for who knows how long.”
“Just until the end of the class.”
My eyes bug out. “That’s over a month from now.”
His fingers fiddle with the spiral of my notebook. “Right. So just long enough for us to get some good material.”
I narrow my eyes and his guilty expression. “And?”
He smiles sheepishly. “And long enough to get me through a family dinner, my cousin’s wedding, and the annual Hamptons house party my parents throw every year. With you. As my girlfriend.”
“Oh, is that all?” I ask sarcastically.
There’s no way. I don’t care how well he can kiss—there’s nothing on earth that could make me endure the cardigan-wearing set for that long. If I wanted to wear diamonds and heels and play tennis, I would have gone “home” to North Carolina and made nice with my stepmother.