Player(19)

“So, what’s Val short for?” he asked once we passed the turnstiles.

“Valentina.”

“Exotic. Makes me imagine you as a flamenco dancer.”

I laughed. “Not far off. My grandparents emigrated from Spain. My abuelita danced flamenco. Abuelo plays guitar. It was love at first braceo.” I held my arms up like a dancer and snapped my fingers to illustrate.

“No wonder you look so good in red.”

I shook my head at him, amused as we stepped onto the train. “How about you? Somehow I get the feeling you’re not a Samuel.”

“Samhir. My parents moved here from Lebanon in the eighties. Got their doctorates from Columbia and never looked back.”

Sadness slipped over me. “Do you ever see your extended family?”

He shook his head, his face closed. “I’ve never met my grandparents.”

“I…I’m sorry. Or wait, should I not be sorry?”

He chuckled. “It’s okay. They weren’t thrilled with my parents embracing the west so completely.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Nope, just me. They’re too busy for more. Dad’s a surgeon, and Mom’s a psychiatrist.”

He’d said it like there was more to the story, but I didn’t press him.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a family so small. I have four older brothers, and my grandparents lived with us growing up. We’re a mix of Spanish and Irish.”

“That explains the freckles.”

“Our house is always loud. Either someone is debating something irrelevant, getting in trouble, laughing too loud, or telling somebody what to do. It’s literally never quiet. My brothers talk in their sleep.”

His smile quirked. “Do you?”

“They say I do, but I don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I have three roommates, and none of them have told me I do. Thus…” I shrugged.

Sam laughed.

The conversation ebbed, and as I took a breath, I summoned the courage to bring us back to the heart of things, the only reason he was hanging out with me in the first place. “So, what’s our first lesson?”

“Flirting. It’s the basis for everything—pick-ups, conversation, wooing in general.”

I giggled at his casual use of the word wooing. “All right. I’ll bring my A game. Dust off the old tricks.” I buffed my nails off on my shoulder.

One of his dark brows rose, that notched one I found I loved so much. “Should I be concerned about protecting my virtue?”

“Oh, you definitely should. I know I play it all awkward and weird, but I’m a regular jezebel.”

The smile he flashed was almost blinding. “In that case, I think you’ll be a natural.”

The train stopped, and we exited, heading out to the street where we paused, face-to-face. He was heading south. I was heading north.

“Well,” he said, offering me my instrument, “see you, Valentina.”

I took it, slinging the strap over my shoulder with a smile that fluttered at the prospect of seeing him again. “Make sure you prepare yourself for all my moves.” I did an awkward karate chop, which earned me a laugh.

“I’ll try to brace myself.” He turned and walked away, glancing back over his shoulder with a half-smile that hit me in the chest.

With a sigh, I waved and headed home, reminding myself that I knew what I was getting into. That we were friends, nothing more. And I ignored the quiet whisper in the back of my mind that reminded me what a fool I was.





8





Model Student





Sam

“Is there a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants.”

A laugh burst out of me as I swung Val around the dance floor to the beat of a slow song a couple nights later, her body flush against mine. Her smile was so pleased, and I found myself pleased too, pulling her a little closer.

“Seriously, I wish I were cross-eyed so I could see you twice.”

I spun her out, laughing again. I couldn’t help it. She wore red again—a tailored short-sleeved shirt with puffed sleeves and a black high-waisted circle skirt. When the hem rose, I caught a flash of red hot pants that set my blood simmering.

I pulled her back into my arms.

“Come on, Sam—level with me. I keep wondering if your middle name’s Google because you’re everything I’m searching for.” Her cheeks were high. I couldn’t stop laughing. “No? Maybe it’s Wi-Fi because I’m really feeling our connection. Or maybe you don’t have a name, and I can call you mine.”

I shook my head. My face actually ached from smiling. “Is this honestly how you think people flirt?”

She shrugged, innocently batting her lashes. “Is it not working?”

Better than you know.

“The art of flirting is the nuance. Some things are simple, intuitive. Like making eye contact and holding it,” I said, illustrating by holding her gaze. Her eyes were velvety brown, her long lashes casting shadows on her irises. I didn’t miss her pupils dilate. “Touch him. Not in a weird way, but his forearm or shoulder.” I squeezed her waist with one hand, running my thumb on the back of her palm with the other. “Smile,” I commanded.