Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)(18)

I rack my ravaged brain for a safe topic. "So,Weston. How did the scrimmage go today?"

There. Safe enough.

His eyebrows shoot up. "You weren't there?" he says and stops chewing. Obviously he's surprised - I can tell by the look on his face.

On second thought, maybe not such a safe topic...

"I was working. But... I usually don't go to the games, no." I can see by his confused expression that this is a foreign concept. He tips his head to the side, like a cocker spaniel. A girl not following his every move? Shocking! "Why do you seem so surprised?"

"Why not?" he asks. His plate is completely empty so he picks up his glass of water, picks out the straw and, tipping his head back, chugs it downs.

I can't help but admire the muscles of his collar bone, and the smooth area of skin just visible above the 'V' neck of the raggedy tee shirt.

He sets his glass down with a loud 'thunk' and the abrupt sound snaps me out of my perusal.

"Why not what?" Earth to Molly.

"Why do you usually not come to the games?"

I shrug. "I just... don't. I just don't think they're that big a deal."

Weston's dark eyes bore into me like I've just delivered an insult. I can tell he's fighting back a sarcastic remark because the muscles in his clenched jaw tick. "Not a big deal?"

I study him for a moment. His nostrils flare.

Testosterone much?

"You want the truth? Here it is: I prefer watching the NHL."

Weston snorts his obvious skepticism with a laugh.

Setting my napkin on the table, I lean forward with my elbows on the table and point to his mouth. I'm about to go in for the kill. "So....did you get that gash in your lip from a high stick, or... did some left wing run interference when you tried to light the lamp?"

Causally, I lean back and wait (and for you non hockey lovers, I just asked him if he got nailed by someone's stick while trying to score a goal).

Weston blinks.

Then he blinks again.

Okay, at this point you're probably thinking to yourself, 'what's he gonna say, what's he gonna do!?' And you wouldn't be alone, because I'm wondering too. But here's the thing: I don't stick around to find out.

***

An old actress from the 1900's named Mae West once said, "When a girl goes bad, men go right after her." I read that quote once in Cosmo magazine and loved it so much I tore the page out, pinning it to the only space in my room where I'm allowed to hang things: a large bulletin board next to my desk.

On the weekends when Jenna and Tasha (or any of our other friends) aren't with their boyfriends, one thing we've always loved to do is sit and read old back issues of magazines. In fact, we've been doing this for so many years I happen keep a laundry basket of old magazines in the back of my closet (which my mom has tried to throw out on numerous occasions). You know how it is: you tear out the pages with great quotes and cute guys...

To be honest, most times I read Cosmo (or any other magazine targeted towards, let's face it, woman in their 20's) very little applies to me. For example:

1. I don't need 50 sex tips to drive a man wild, because, well, I'm not having it.

2. I don't need to know how to wear hair extensions without looking like I have Barbie Doll hair.

3. And I certainly don't need the boyfriend quizzes because as we all know, I don't have one.

Anyways, the Mae West quote has been hanging on my pin board for months and months now, and sometimes when I'm doing my homework, I'll glance up and read it. There have even been times it's inspired me to go after things I want. Not necessarily guys, but other things too, like class officer (I'm vice-president). Basically that short, sassy sentence has taught me not to be such a wimp.

So here I am, halfway to my car in the parking lot of Kyoto Grill, when Weston McGrath - the boy everyone claims is such a hard ass he won't even date - comes chasing out after me.

Just like I suspected he would.

Like I hoped he would.

"Molly, stop! Where are you going?" he catches up and steps into stride beside me. I continue walking, my car just a few yards away.

I let out the breath I've been holding. "Look, I didn't mean to insult you back there. I'm sorry."

"Is that what this is all about?"

Um, no actually, I got up purposely to see if you'd follow me.

And you did.

It's gotten dark out, and the parking lot lamps are glowing above us. Only several vehicles are present, one of them a lime green Kawasaki crotch rocket. "That must be yours, huh? I wouldn't have taken you for a green guy - blue seems to be more your color."

"Yeah, well, I let my little sister pick out the color. I'm always getting a rash of shit about it from the guys, so. Yeah." He runs his tan fingers through his hair. All at once I'm aware of Weston in a completely different way: as a sensitive older brother.

"How old is she?"

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

I laugh. "Yes. Are you going to let me?" Since I have no idea what to say, I start digging for my keys as we approach my Jeep. Weston walks over and leans his shoulder against it, watching me with his arms crossed. Glancing up, I wonder if he owns any shirts with sleeves. Under the lamp light, the contours of his jaw and the angles of his arms are more defined, and his eyes look black.