One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(12)

“Okay, I’ve got to go now or I’ll miss my plane,” Kacey says with another tight hug. “Go forth and make thy mistakes.”

“More than last night?”

Kacey winks. “I didn’t see you making any mistakes last night.” Opening the taxi door, she waves at me before climbing in. And she keeps waving from the back window, her chin resting on the headrest, as the taxi disappears around the corner.

CHAPTER FOUR

Regret

I’m sure most girls do everything in their power to stage a run-in with Ashton Henley after getting drunk and making out with him on a random street corner.

But I am not most girls.

And I have every intention of avoiding him for the rest of my Princeton career.

Unfortunately for me, fate has decided that forty-eight hours is all I get.

After standing in line at the bookstore for hours, I’m rushing back to the dorm to unload twenty pounds of textbooks before I can join the late-afternoon campus tour. This 250-odd-year-old campus, with acres of stunning Gothic-style architecture, is rich with history that I want to see in person. I don’t have time for diversions.

Of course, that’s the perfect time for an ambush.

“What do ya got there, Irish?” A hand swoops in and grabs the course registration paper that’s tucked in between my chest and my books. I suck in a breath and shiver as his finger grazes my collarbone.

“Nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t bother with more as there’s no point. He’s already intently reviewing my course list and is chewing a very full bottom lip in thought. So I just sigh and wait silently, taking the opportunity to notice things I couldn’t when I was drunk and it was dark. Or when I was naked and cornered. Like how, in the late-afternoon sunlight, Ashton’s shaggy hair has more brown in it than black. And how his thick brows are neatly groomed. And how his eyes have the tiniest green speckles within the brown. And how his impossibly long, dark lashes curl out at the ends . . .

“Irish?”

“Huh?” I snap out of my thoughts to find him staring down at me with that smirk on his face, implying he said something to me and I missed it because I was too busy gawking.

Which I did. Because I was.

I clear my throat, my ears burning with the rest of my face. I want to ask him why he keeps calling me that, but all I can manage is, “Pardon?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease me. “How’s the tat?” he asks as he slowly slides the paper back to where he got it from, his finger once again grazing my collarbone. My body, once again, shivering and tensing at his touch.

“Oh . . . great.” I swallow, hugging my books closer to my chest as I avert my gaze in the direction of my residence. At the groups of students milling about. Anywhere but at the breathing reminder of my night of scandal.

“Really? Because mine is annoying the hell out of me.”

“It is kind of itchy,” I admit, glancing back to see Ashton’s mouth stretched into a wide grin, displaying dimples that are smack dab in the middle of his cheeks and deeper than Trent’s. Deep enough to make my breath hitch now. Deep enough that I remember admiring them in my drunken stupidity. I’m pretty sure I stuck my finger into one. And possibly my tongue.

“At least your itch is on your back,” he says with a sheepish look. His skin is so tanned that it’s hard to tell, but I’m sure I see a slight flush in his cheeks.

A giggle escapes me before I can hold it back. He joins in with a soft chuckle. And then I’m hit with a flash of us—facing each other and giggling. Only my fingers are entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck and his tongue is flicking one of my earlobes. I abruptly stop giggling and pull my bottom lip in between my teeth.

“Of all the dumb things to do,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “At least it’s small.”

I’m still trying to push the previous image of us out of my head as I hear myself agree with him, not thinking. “Yeah, I could barely read it until I really leaned in—” My stomach hits the ground like a bag of rocks, taking all the blood from my face with it. Did I just say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

By the twinkle in his eyes, I know without a doubt that I did. I think I’m going to be sick. “It . . . I wasn’t . . . I really need to get going.” I start sidestepping around him as a bead of sweat trickles down my back.

Stepping with me and nodding toward my books, he says, “You’re taking a lot of science classes.” Escape plan thwarted. What is he doing? Why is he chatting me up? Is he hoping for a repeat? Would I want one?

My eyes flitter across his appearance. Yes, I’ll admit it. He’s beautiful. As Reagan pointed out, he may well be one of the hottest guys on campus. I’ve been here four days. I have nothing to base it on, and yet I’m confident that it’s true. And I’ve had too many face-flushing memory flashes in the last few days to try and deny that I didn’t enjoy that night.

But . . . no, I don’t want a repeat. I mean, when I look at him, all I see is wrong. He doesn’t even look like a Princeton student. Not that there’s one specific type of person at Princeton; there isn’t. From what I’ve seen, it has a wonderfully diverse student body. Nothing like the sweater-vest-spoiled-brat stereotype portrayed in countless eighties movies.

But Ashton just doesn’t fit in my mental image of Princeton. I don’t know if it’s his faded jeans that hang just slightly too low, or the thin gray shirt with sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, or the tattoo snaking up his inner forearm, or the frayed leather cuff around his wrist . . . I don’t know what it is.