Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(5)

“Yes, you are. And you’re going to kiss someone.” Emerson stood and stared down at me, her hands propped on her slim hips. “Someone hot who knows what he’s doing.”

“What?” I blinked rapidly. “I don’t think kissing some random—”

“Oh, not random. You’ll need a pro.”

My mouth sagged. It took me a moment to recover my voice. “A prostitute?”

Emerson shoved my shoulder. “Oh, be serious, Pepper. No! I’m talking about a guy with a well-earned rep. A good kisser. Someone to, you know . . . teach you foreplay.”

I eyed her uneasily. “Who?”

“Well. I was targeting him myself tonight, but I’ll stand down for a good cause. You can have him.”

“Have who?”

“The bartender at Mulvaney’s. Annie down the hall made out with him last week. Carrie, too. They said he’s wet-your-panties hot.”

Georgia nodded, her eyes earnest with agreement. “I’ve heard some girls in my philosophy class talk about him, too.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to just waltz into Mulvaney’s and approach some man-whore bartender and say, ‘Hey, will you make out with me, please?’”

“No, silly. Just make yourself available. He’s a guy. He’ll rise to the bait.” Emerson waggled her eyebrows. “Pun intended.”

“Stop.” I tossed a pillow at her, laughing miserably. “I can’t do that.”

“Why don’t you just come out with us?” Georgia coaxed. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. No pressure.”

I gawked at Georgia. I almost expected this harebrained scheme from Emerson, but Georgia was the steady one. Practical and conservative.

“But”—Emerson held up one slim finger—“if we scope out this bartender and you like what you see, you can say hello. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

I shrugged uneasily. “Yeah. I guess so.” Staring at my two friends, I felt myself buckle beneath their persuasion. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not promising to hook up with anyone.”

Emerson bounced and clapped her hands. “Great! And just promise to keep an open mind.”

I nodded in agreement. No harm in that. At the very least, I could observe the way everyone interacted. Bars were one giant meat market. Maybe I would learn some dos and don’ts. Observe what it was guys responded to. It couldn’t simply be short skirts and ginormous breasts.

I was a psychology major. Studying human nature was what I did. Tonight I just needed to pretend Mulvaney’s was one giant petri dish. Like scientists before me, I’d observe and learn. And maybe have some fun in the process. After all, who said learning had to be boring?





Chapter 3

There were several things—okay, a lot of things—that remained perpetually unclear to me. The exact location of my mother, whether I preferred Canadian bacon or sausage on my pizza, and what precisely I was going to do after college with a degree in psychology.

But the one point of fact that never wavered in my mind was that I wanted to be part of the Montgomery family. I wanted to marry Hunter Montgomery.

I wanted to belong to the family that had offered me such solace growing up. The Montgomerys were everything that a family should be. Loving. Supportive. They sat down at the table for dinner every night and talked about their day. They played Monopoly together and had pool parties. They shared more than a house. They shared their lives with each other. It was everything I never had.

Before living with Gran, my life had been a series of motel rooms. I vaguely remembered a house with a tire swing in the backyard. When my father was still alive. I remembered him standing over a barbecue pit with lots of people around him. It was the Fourth of July. There were fireworks, and I was sticky with Popsicle juice. But that was all I had. The only memory of a time that wasn’t crowded with the sounds of Mom crying as some guy beat on her, heard through the thin walls of the bathroom or closet where she’d hidden me.

The Montgomerys attended church together. Sent out Christmas cards with all five of them and the dog posing before a huge ten-foot tree. Ever since Lila took me home with her in seventh grade and I was given a glimpse into their life—ever since I met Hunter—I knew I wanted to be one of them.

“You sure you don’t want to go back and change? You can borrow one of my outfits.”

Emerson’s suggestion pulled me from my thoughts. “I couldn’t fit my big toe into your jeans.”

She rolled her eyes at me as we made our way across the gravel lot.

Mulvaney’s was a local institution, catering to townies and college students alike, but that didn’t mean I had ever been there before. Bars . . . the smell of alcohol, loud drunken voices—it reminded me too much of Mom. Emerson and Georgia dragged me to Freemont’s once, but I only went because it was Emerson’s birthday.

There were two entrances. As we entered through the back one, we squeezed past the people in line at the food counter. The aroma of fried food filled my nose.

Emerson pointed to the whiteboard above the counter. “At one in the morning there’s nothing better than the fried macaroni balls. We’ll have to get some to go before we leave.”

I nodded, tempted to ask why we didn’t just do that now, but Georgia gave me a quelling look, warning me not to even suggest it. Linking her arm through mine, she led me up a wood plank ramp that opened into the main room. A long bar stretched against the far left wall. The place was packed. There weren’t near enough tables, so at least a hundred people milled about the room, drinks in hands, their voices a deafening crescendo that rivaled the music blaring from the speakers.