Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(24)

“That didn’t annoy you? I thought big brothers tortured their younger brothers?”

“Not so much. We got on pretty well. Still do.”

“You’re lucky,” I murmured, trying not to let the envy creep in. But then who knew what would have happened if I’d had a brother or sister? They might not have survived my mother. I barely did.

He angled his head. “Let me guess. You and your sister are still bitter rivals?”

“No. Only child.”

“Oh.” The teasing tone left his voice. He studied me again. I sank back into my chair and toyed with my food like I was still going to eat it. I stabbed at a meatball beneath his close scrutiny. “Never would have guessed it. You’re a natural with kids. Just a born mother, I guess.” The way he uttered that, I didn’t feel complimented. It was almost like the observation disappointed him.

“Thanks.” I supposed someone raised in a retirement village (not that he knew that about me) wouldn’t necessarily be adept at interacting with children. But I understood children like I understood the elderly. Both were usually overlooked. They lacked control in their worlds. I understood what they needed. I gave them attention. Kindness. Respect.

“I think I want to work with kids,” I volunteered, and then wondered why I said anything. He wasn’t interested in what I wanted to do when I graduated. He was a bartender. He wasn’t Emerson or Georgia. Or even Hunter. Especially not Hunter.

The silence stretched between us, and his lack of comment only proved he could care less about my ambitions. Giving up on my plate, I used a napkin and started to clean up the spilled food on the table surrounding the girls’ bowls. Good excuse to avoid his gaze.

Suddenly, he murmured, “You mean you’re going to Dartford and you’re not going to be a surgeon or some executive type?”

I shot him a glance. “Are you stereotyping me?”

He shrugged unapologetically.

I had no right to be offended. Not when I’d singled him out because of the category I thought he fell into. I gravitated toward him because all rumors indicated he was an unparalleled player.

“Thanks for letting me stay for dinner.”

Now I shrugged. “Of course. You did fix their garbage disposal. I’m sure they would have invited you themselves.”

Nice. It was like I didn’t want him to think I was interested in him—when I clearly was. Only further evidence of how unskilled a flirt I was.

A loud crash followed by a squeal drifted from upstairs. I shook off the spaghetti and crumbs I’d gathered into Sheridan’s empty bowl. “I better get them settled before someone loses a limb.”

His mouth twitched. “Sure.”

I exited the kitchen, the back of my neck tingling. I knew without looking that he was watching me walk away, considering me. If I were Emerson, I’d probably do that thing with her hips that she does. But I wasn’t Em. I was just me.

Thirty minutes and three bedtime stories later, I returned to find him gone. I pulled up hard and looked around the quiet kitchen for him. As though he lurked in some corner. He’d cleared the table, rinsed and stacked the dishes beside the sink, but he was gone.

Yeah. I was just me. Hopeless me.





Chapter       9

Why am I      doing this again?” I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Tinfoil sheets      covered the top of my head. Emerson sat next to me, similar sheets arranged in      her much shorter hair. Only where mine were highlights of various shades of gold      and copper, hers were chunky magenta streaks.

She sipped from her iced coffee as we waited for      our stylists to return and remove the foil from our hair. Hopefully the results      wouldn’t make me want to wear a hat for the rest of the semester.

Emerson lowered her drink and met my gaze      thoughtfully in the mirror. “This will seal the deal.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well. Hottie bartender kissed you—”

“Reece,” I supplied, flipping the page of a      magazine I wasn’t really interested in. “And let’s not forget he bailed on me      the other night without even a good-bye. So kiss aside, I wouldn’t say I’m close      to sealing the deal with him.”

She waved a hand, continuing. “He’s still into you.      He stayed and ate dinner with you and the girls, didn’t he? Trust me. He wants      you.”

“He was probably just hungry,” I grumbled under my      breath.

“More importantly, Hunter is starting to finally      come around—”

“I never said Hunter was—”

“Pepper, sweetheart, he’s interested. He wouldn’t      offer to drive home with you for Thanksgiving if he wasn’t potentially even one      teeny tiny bit”—she held up her fingers in the barest pinch—“interested in a       you and him. A guy      wouldn’t suffer a four-hour car drive otherwise.”