Geekerella (Starfield #1)(42)

“Hmph.” He sniffs, eyeing me one more time—the muscular slab of meat that I am—and turns promptly on his heels, presumably back to his sewing desk where he’ll fix my busted coat. I pull on my civilian uniform—gym shorts, a LOOK. AIM. IGNITE. T-shirt, hoodie—and leave before he notices the muddied hem at the bottom of my pants leg.

Outside, the girls call my name again, but I flip up my hoodie and head toward the front gate, where a small gathering of fans still loiters with posters and T-shirts with I HEART DARIEN on their boobs.

As I wait for Lonny to pick me up, I take my phone out of my gym shorts pocket. Elle’s messages illuminate the night around me. Her last message was sent three hours ago. She must be absolutely mortified. I pull up the keyboard and try to come up with something witty to say.

Think of me in the shower a lot, do you?

No, can’t say that. I hit backspace.

I assure you, Carmindor would be jealous of ME in the shower.

Ugh, definitely not. My thumb jabs on the backspace button as I head to the edge of the lot. A few other responses flit through my head—some of them involving her in the shower. Which is silly because I don’t have the slightest clue what she looks like, or how old she is, or where she’s from. I don’t even know how to picture her. I guess I’ve always just thought of Princess Amara.

Finally, by the time I reach the gate, my brain throws together some words and I manage to type something that I won’t regret in the morning.


11:13 PM

—I’m flattered that you think of me.

It’s lame and boring, but it’s something. And perfect timing too, because as soon as I look up, Lonny’s tank-sized SUV is looming outside the gates.

“Boss,” he says with a nod as I slide in.

“Hey,” I reply. It’s quiet except for the soft murmuring of an NPR show. No sooner have I shoved my phone into my gym shorts than the soft sound of Elle’s reply dings above the murmur of the radio. She’s still awake?

“Girlfriend?”

I look up, surprised. Lonny’s face is unreadable as always, like he’s been specifically trained to avoid emoting. I don’t really know what to say, so I pull my phone out, its screen illuminating my face.


Elle 11:13 PM

—I think of you a lot, actually

I click the phone locked again. I must look embarrassed or flustered or something, because in the rearview mirror Lonny’s eyebrow raises.

“Thought so.” He straightens in the driver’s seat. “She the real deal?”

For some reason I can’t lie to him. “Yeah. She is.”

He nods. “Don’t worry, boss. Secret’s safe.”

We lumber off into the night and I read Elle’s text a second time. A cold shower might not be such a bad idea.





OVER THE PAST SEVEN DAYS, I’VE gotten extremely good at sneaking back into the house. Tonight, it’s close to nine—cutting it close to curfew, but sewing the shoulder seams is tricky, and Sage kept making me try on the jacket so she could pin and repin and get the curves to lie right. Plus, okay, we might have gotten a little distracted watching Starfield. But we still have a week—if I don’t get in any more trouble, anyway.

Catherine shoots me a look from the couch as soon as I slip in the door, and her dark eyes follow me the length of the hallway as I head for the stairs. Vogue Weddings is splayed out on her lap, a glass of wine in her hand.

“Where have you been?” comes her cool voice, just as I’m almost across the hall. “I had the girls clean the attic because you were gone.”

“I was washing out the truck, like yesterday.” I glance up the stairs. Just get to my room. That’s all I have to do.

“Still?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re going to need to do more tomorrow.” I pile on lies like a buffet. “You know, to keep everything sanitary.”

She sips her wine. “I told you the truck was a horrible place to work. At the country club, you wouldn’t have to do those nasty things.”

I pull a fake smile across my lips. “I don’t mind.” I hurry up the stairs.

As I pass the twins’ closed door, it opens.

“Hey, weirdo, can we use your help for a minute?”

It’s Chloe, smiling ever so pleasantly. Like how a cat would smile at a canary.

“No, we’re fine!” Cal shouts from somewhere in their room. She sounds strange. “We don’t need help!”

“Shut it,” Chloe snaps at her sister, then turns back to me. “Because you didn’t do it, I thought we’d never get done cleaning the attic, but it turned out to be so worth it. And now we finally have something for that stupid contest.”

My eyebrows crinkle. “You’re going to enter?” I try not to laugh, I really do. “Come on, Chloe. You don’t even watch Starfield!”

She smirks. “Which is why we want your opinion on our costume.”

Oh this should be good. Catherine couldn’t have given them the money for a well-made costume from Etsy—she hates Starfield, there’s no way she would. So I have to see what nylon-spandex hybrid monstrosity they bought. The sooner I do this, the sooner I can write about that idiot Darien Freeman getting himself trapped on a roof.

“All right,” I say. “What are you cosplaying—”