details to everything they’re seeing on the news, but I’ve remained silent. Another buzz, and I’m plain annoyed at the spamming. Though the urge is to throw something, instead I set my computer gently on the ground, and I swipe my cell:
Henry: You okay?
Henry: Answer.
Henry: Answer now.
Henry: Answer now or I’ll call your dad again and tell him you snuck out four months ago to go on a date.
Henry: I’m dialing.
And I’m texting, quickly, because I need more drama like I need a hole in my head.
Me: I’m okay and it wasn’t a date. It was a group of guys and a group of girls. That’s it.
Henry: There were boys, correct?
Me: Yes.
Henry: It was a date.
Did I wish it was a date? Yes. Was it a date? I sure as hell hope not. Some boy who spent most of the evening looking at my breasts and who kept trying to touch me instead of talking to me isn’t what I want a date to be.
Me: I hate you.
Henry: I can live with that. I saw the news. Who was the asshole you were with?
Me: There were two guys harassing me. I don’t know who they are.
Henry: Them I’ll figure out. I’m talking about the guy there’s a picture of you looking all googly-eyed at. You’re too young to look at anyone like that.
I groan. It’s long, it’s painful and the back of my head hits my fluffy bed. The media is having a field day with a picture of me and Drix. No wonder all my friends are demanding details. I go to an all-girls school, and besides the times I’ve snuck out with friends to go to parties where there were boys, I don’t date. I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to date. It’s not that I’ve been told that as much as there’s been this unspoken agreement. Boys are a complication.
Me: At least you agree with Mom and Dad on something.
I stare at my cell, waiting for his response, and my lips lift because I shut him down. Then I frown as another message appears.
Henry: Were you on a date with this Pierce guy?
Me: I really did just meet him. And I wasn’t looking googly-eyed at him.
Henry: Do we have to have the sex talk now? If so, here it is—you’re becoming a nun.
Neanderthal.
Me: I’m not Catholic.
Henry: Semantics.
The last thing I want to do is talk boys with Henry, and I silently thank the doorbell gods above when the loud chime rings through the house.
Henry: Can you come down to Grandma’s today?
I’ll probably never be let out of the house again. Me: I’ll try for tomorrow. Doorbell. Gotta go.
Barefoot, I pad along the plush carpet of the hallway, down the curved stairs, then cross the hardwood of the foyer.
I open the door and the late spring heat creeps in. When I lift my head with my practiced smile to greet whichever member of Dad’s staff has been summoned, my eyes widen and sweet nervous adrenaline floods my veins. The type that tickles and makes me feel like I’m floating.
It’s not Dad’s staff. It’s dirty blond hair sticking up in a sexy way, defined arms, broad shoulders and dark, beautiful eyes. My mouth drops open to speak, but absolutely no words are formed. There’s no way this is real. I want it to be real, but my mind can’t seem to find a reason why this is at all logical. Standing on my doorstep is the main lead of last night’s dreams. It’s Drix.
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