I Bet You(38)

“You’re a person, Margo. I care.”

She shrugs and flips around then takes a seat on one of the couches in the room. I follow her inside and shut the door, taking the seat next to her as I reach over and grab a wad of tissues off the cherry coffee table. I pass them over.

“Is this because I invited Ryker?”

She takes my offered Kleenex and dabs at her hazel eyes, the green in them more prominent when they’re wet.

She tugs her navy cardigan around her shoulders. “You stole him from me.”

I snort. “You embarrassed me in front of our whole sorority. Like you really liked him anyway?”

“God, no.” She holds a hand to her chest as if the idea will give her a heart attack.

I smirk. “Exactly. I know your type. Wasn’t your ex some kind of uppity Mayflower descendent?”

“His name was Kyle. And yes.” She clams up, a stoniness taking over her expression.

I nod, recalling the details. “And you caught him with a Theta. Sasha? She’s their president, right? And you wanted Ryker on your arm so everyone will see him and it will get back to your ex…” My words drift off. “Am I close?”

She wipes her nose. “Guess you really are the genius your dad says you are.” Her words are brittle.

I frown. “You’re jealous of me and my dad?”

She shrugs. “You have everything, Penelope.”

I give her an incredulous look. “My mom is dead. I’m separated from her forever.” My voice grows louder. “Your mom is alive and well—and married to my dad.”

Margo swallows and looks away from me, shaking her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She looks down. “You’re all he talks about, you know. How smart and talented you are.”

I blink. Oh.

She bites her lip. “My dad can barely stand me.”

I shake my head. “Mine is just trying to make up for being shitty before.”

“Well, don’t we make a fine pair then.” She picks at the green fabric on one of the pillows and continues. “Love sucks and doesn’t last. Don’t our parents know that?”

“Maybe when you find the right one, it changes things.”

She tries to tuck her flyaway hairs back into her headband, and I reach over and help her. “I’m sorry…for causing a scene. I got so worked up when I came to the meeting, and it hit home that I don’t have a date.” She chews at her lipstick. “And I’m sorry about embarrassing you. It was a shitty thing to do. I’m not myself since Kyle.”

I nod, accepting her apology.

She blinks away more tears, clearly still thinking about something…

The soft side of me can’t take it. She is my stepsister, and perhaps there’s a thread of something between us that can pull us closer.

“You’re one of the smartest women I know.”

A tiny smile flashes. “You really mean that?”

I adjust my glasses. “You took our academic standing to the top last year, and you weren’t even president. And Kyle is a douche.”

“An asshat with a stupid Rolex,” she says, her voice gathering strength. “And that Porsche he bought—trust me, he is totally compensating.”

I smile. This is the closest we’ve ever come to having a real conversation.

I stand. “We can sit here and cry or…” I nod toward the door. “Suck it up and get to work. Keri looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and odds are she’s planning on making SpongeBob SquarePants the theme of this party.”

Margo’s brows hit the roof. “Indeed.”

Of course, I’m exaggerating, but if that’s what it takes to get her claws back out…

I look at my nails. “Hmmm. Sometimes those pledges need to see who’s boss. This might be one of those times.”

She straightens her shoulders. “They have no idea what kind of hissy fit I can throw.”

Amen, sister.

She stands and we walk out of the room together.

We aren’t exactly friends, but my gut says we definitely aren’t enemies either.





Penelope



The following week, I’m late for the library as usual and practically running as I juggle my backpack and a few extra books. I’ve just turned the corner around a big oak tree when I run into Ryker. We’ve seen each other in class this week, but either Connor has been talking to me or Ryker’s been surrounded by other players or jersey chasers. Sure, I could bust through the crowd and talk to him, but my heart knows the truth: we’re avoiding each other since his visit to my house.

We collide and several of my books fall to the ground.

Great. I inwardly groan at my penchant for always looking my worst—in other words, a shirt that says Mother of Dragons, orange skinny jeans with holes in them, and a pair of leopard flats. At least I have lipstick and mascara on and my hair is down and tame for once.

“Whoa!” he says as we stumble back, and he reaches out to steady me. “Slow down.”

“Sorry,” I murmur as I bend down to pick up the books.

He leans down to help, holding one of them up as he pops an eyebrow at me. “Dark Lover by JR Ward? Now that sounds like a literary gem.” He turns it over and skims the back.