One Tiny Lie

  Subjects like philosophy, and history, and the English lit class that I’m about to begin, though . . . they just don’t make sense to me. If there’s a formula to find a right answer, I can nail it. But in classes like these, all I see are degrees of rightness and wrongness, and I’ve had to work hard to uncover those. In the end, I always get my A—I’ve never received anything but an A in anything, including gym—but those grades certainly never fell into my lap.

  The door to the side of the chalkboard opens and a graying man in a black turtleneck and wire-rimmed glasses enters, carrying a stack of books and papers to the desk at the front. I smile. Finally, one thing that’s consistent with how I always pictured Princeton to be.

  “Hey, Irish.”

  The Ivy League’s walking contradiction takes the seat right next to me. His tall frame fills out his space and encroaches on some of mine.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss, turning to see Ashton in dark jeans and a sky blue shirt. I’m starting to recognize it as his typical style—flawless but careless. And he can pull it off, too, because he has a body that would make leopard-print tights look hot.

  Sitting up straight in his chair, he looks around the room. “This is Professor Dalton’s English lit class, right?”

  “I know what class this is!” I bark, and then temper my tone, catching the professor’s eyes flicker up at us from his podium. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m a student and I’m here to take his class,” he answers slowly, his expression somber. “Some of us are here for a serious education, Irish. Not just to party.”

  I glare at him, fighting the urge to punch him in the face again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, which is quickly followed by the crooked smile I’ve come to know as Ashton’s trademark flirt move. One that obviously worked on me when I was drunk but will definitely not work on me when I’m sober and annoyed.

  “You’re a senior.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me, Irish.”

  Gritting my teeth, I simply stare at him, waiting for his answer. Finally he shrugs, making a display of opening up his notebook and clicking his pen a few times. “Had a course to burn and this one was open.”

  “Bullshit!” The word bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it. This time the professor looks up from his notes to stare at us directly, and I feel my cheeks burn under the scrutiny. When he looks down, I turn back to Ashton.

  “Relax, Irish. At least you know one person in the room now.”

  He has a point, I think, as I look around at a sea of unfamiliar faces. “And I suppose you’re going to sit beside me every single class?”

  “I don’t know. You seem like an angry student. I’m not sure I want the prof associating me with you.”

  I shift away from him intentionally, earning a derisive snort. “So the fact that you saw my schedule has nothing to do with picking this course?” I ask.

  “What? You think I’m taking this just because you’re in it? Why would I do that?” There’s a playful quirk in his brow.

  Good question. But I still know it plain in my gut: he’s here because I am. I just don’t know why. “How’d you get in, anyway? I thought there was a wait list for this.”

  I see his fingers running back and forth over that worn leather band around his wrist. “I know one of the ladies in the registrar’s office.”

  “Perhaps the one you had over on Saturday night?” I blurt out, the image of that stupid red sock still burning in my mind, reconfirming how wrong he is.

  He pauses and then turns to look at me, cocking his head. “Are you jealous, Irish?”

  “Of what? That you’re such a douche bag that you drop off your girlfriend and have another woman in your bed within hours?”

  “I didn’t have anyone in my bed,” he says defensively, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip slowly. I fight the urge to look down at it.

  “You didn’t?” I sigh with relief. And then I realize that I just sighed with relief. Why am I sighing with relief?

  He shakes his head, clicking his pen a few more times. “Up against the wall . . . in the shower . . .”

  I start gathering my books in order to change seats before the professor begins, but Ashton’s hand lands on top of mine, holding it in place. “What does it matter? You were with Connor in his room anyway, weren’t you?”

  “No, I . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “We were just talking.” I shake my head. I don’t know why it matters, really. What he does behind his girlfriend’s back is sleazy, but he’s right—it’s none of my business. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. “It doesn’t matter, Ashton. I just thought you regretted messing around on your girlfriend.”

  “I never said that,” he answers softly, releasing his grip of my hand and shifting in his seat as the professor affixes a microphone to his collar, ready to begin the lecture. “I said I regretted messing around with you.”

  My jaw clenches as my pride takes another hit. “That makes two of us,” I mutter, hoping that came out convincing, knowing that it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “Nice skirt, Irish,” he murmurs, his eyes now very obviously on my thighs. I instinctively smooth the simple black skirt, wishing it were longer.

  I struggle to keep focus for the next hour, Ashton’s words weighing on me. I grab onto bits and pieces of what Professor Dalton says, sometimes even an entire point. And then a brush against my knee or my elbow makes me jump. I adjust in my seat. I squirm. Several times I glare at him, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. And he doesn’t take notes, I notice. I see him scribble a few lines on a page, but I doubt they have anything to do with this lesson.

  By the time the class wraps up, I’m ready to run up the stairs. Or stab him in the leg with my pen.

  As the professor writes our first assignment on the board, I hear Ashton mumble, “Now I remember why I never wanted to take this class.”

  “There’s still time to drop it,” I snap back.

  Mock horror twists Ashton’s distractingly beautiful face. “And not enjoy your pleasant company twice a week for an entire semester? Heavens, no!”

  I shake my head with resignation. “Okay, seriously, Ashton. Back off.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or . . . I’m going to tell Connor.”

  “No, you won’t,” he says softly.

  “Why? Because you think he won’t want me after? I have a feeling you’re wrong.” I don’t have that feeling at all. In fact, I have the feeling that Ashton is right. But I also have the urge to have the upper hand on him. For once, dammit!

  Leaning to the side until his shoulder presses against mine, he murmurs, “No . . . because you’re in love with me.”

  A strangle gurgling sound escapes my throat.

  Upper hand gone.

  My heart hammers in my throat. I’m really not sure how to respond to that but my gut says that I have to, partly to defend myself, partly because I know he likes embarrassing me. It takes a few swallows to form words. “If loving you means wanting to rip your balls off, then . . .” I turn to lay what I hope is a steely gaze on him. His face is inches away from mine but I don’t back off. “Yes. I’m madly in love with you.”

  Kacey would be so proud.

  I’m not sure what I expected in response. I’ve never threatened anyone like that before. Maybe a flinch, maybe a shift away from this crazy girl who talks of maiming his genitals? Definitely not that damn smirk again. And I think he may have leaned in even closer. “I love getting you all riled up, Irish.” He grabs one of my books and scribbles something on the inside cover, and then tucks in a folded piece of paper. “I just remembered . . . I already took this course three years ago. I aced it. Call me if you need help with your papers.” With that, he scoops his notebook up. I turn in my seat and watch as he bounds up the stairs before the prof offic
ially releases us, earning glances from pretty much every female and a few guys in the class.

  I shake my head as I flip open the book to read “Irish loves Ashton” with a big heart and a phone number scrawled across the inside of the front cover. “Dammit,” I mumble. He just defaced a two-hundred-dollar textbook with this nickname I still haven’t asked about. On the plus side, he’s no longer in the class.

  Curious to see what the note says, I unfold it.

  The only thing I regret is that it ever ended. And I’m the one who’s jealous. Insanely so.

  My heart rate skyrockets.

  “Nice skirt,” he says as his hands slide up my bare thighs, sending fire shooting upward. I’m standing in front of him as he sits on the edge of his bed. And I’m shaking. Strong fingers curl around the backs of my thighs and squeeze, dangerously close to where I’ve never been touched before. My body’s reacting to him, though. My heart rate is racing, my breathing quickening, and I feel myself getting wet. Sliding his hands up, he hooks his thumbs under the band in my panties. He pulls them down until they fall to the ground on their own. I step out of them.

  “Come here.” He gestures to his lap and I comply, letting him guide my one knee to one side of him and the other to the other side of him so that I’m straddling him, my hands gripping his shoulders, marveling at their strength. He pushes my skirt up to pool around my waist and I’m instantly self-conscious. “Look at me,” he orders and I do, watching his dark eyes bore into mine, holding them there. Never shifting. I hold that stare as he reaches around to settle one hand on the small of my back. I hold that stare as his other hand moves up my inner thigh. My breath hitches as he touches me. “Don’t look away from me, Irish,” he whispers as his fingers push inside, first one, then another . . .

  I wake with a gasp, the textbook lying across my stomach sliding off and making a loud noise as it hits the ground. Ohmigod. What the hell was that? That was a dream. I just had an afternoon nap with a dirty dream about Ashton. Ohmigod. I sit up in bed and look around. I’m alone. Thank God I’m alone! A strange discomfort stirs between my thighs. It feels . . . frustrating? Is this what Storm and Kacey are always talking about?

  I wish I had time to sort this out. But someone is knocking on my door. That must be what woke me up in the first place. If the dream hadn’t been interrupted, would I have had dream sex with Ashton? No . . . my brain doesn’t even know how to conjure that up.

  Maybe if I weren’t so frazzled, I would have looked in the mirror. That would have been smart. But Ashton and apparently anything to do with Ashton turns me into a primate.

  And so I simply throw open the door.

  “Connor!” I exclaim with way too much enthusiasm, my eyes widening in surprise.

  I see his eyes shift down and I follow them to appraise my pair of ratty Lululemons and my dad’s old Princeton sweatshirt—three sizes too big for me. “What are you doing here?” I stealthily drag my fingers through my hair. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that it’s a wild mess.

  He steps in with an easy smile, one hand coming from around his back to reveal a large pot of green leaves. “Here.”

  I tilt my head and frown as I examine it. “Clover?”

  “To remind you of me while you’re in here, being a good student.”

  “Wow.” I swallow as my cheeks burn. Yes, that’s what I was doing in here. Being a good student. “Thank you.” I try to slow my breathing and act normally.

  “How are classes so far?”

  “Busy. I’m already swamped with English lit.”

  “Are you liking it?”

  “It’s . . . interesting.” A hand unconsciously brushes against the folded note in my pocket. The one permanently creased from all the times I’ve folded and unfolded it, running my fingers along the edges, trying to puzzle it out. Trying to make sense of my reaction to it and why it’s made me so giddy when it should make me angry. It’s as though Ashton telling me that he doesn’t regret what happened has now given my brain license to flash inappropriate memories from that one night at an alarmingly more frequent rate, leaving me flushed and scattered and unable to focus. Even Reagan has noticed.

  “I won’t keep you, then.” I squeal as, grabbing my waist, Connor lifts me up onto the top bunk. Considering I’m about 125 pounds, that’s not easy. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised, I realize, noting the definition of his arms in that gray-striped shirt he’s wearing today. He’s not quite as tall or broad as Ashton, but he’s built almost as well as him.

  Ashton . . . my thoughts always veer back to Ashton.

  Sliding his hands from my waist, Connor rests them on my knees. “We’re going out tomorrow to Shawshanks. It’s a local bar. Do you want to come?”

  “Sure.” I smile and nod.

  “Are you really sure? I mean, Ty’s going to be there.”

  “In his kilt?”

  “Nah, they won’t let him through the door in that,” Connor chuckles, shaking his head as if remembering something. “Well, not again, anyway.”

  “Well, I can handle Ty.”

  “Yeah? And what about Ashton?”

  My stomach does a flip. What does he mean? What does Connor know? What—

  “I know you don’t think too highly of him after last Saturday night. I saw the look on your face. You know, after he dropped Dana off . . .” His words drift off like he doesn’t want to come right out and say it.

  “You mean when he was being a philandering pig?” I don’t know why I said it. Maybe saying something so mean out loud will remind me of why Ashton is all wrong and I should burn up that damn piece of paper and threaten my subconscious with a lobotomy. I bite the inside of my lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Exactly.”

  Connor gives my knee an affectionate squeeze. “Well, I’m happy that you don’t find him as appealing as every other female on this planet seems to find him. But he’s not that bad. He just doesn’t think with his brain most of the time.” Stepping up onto the ladder rungs until he’s level with my face, he leans in to kiss me. This time I feel his tongue slide over my bottom lip, gently finding its way in to curl around mine. Never forceful, never insistent. Just . . . nice. “See you tomorrow, Livie,” he murmurs. Then, hopping off and shooting me a broad smile and a wink, he leaves my dorm room.

  I flop back on my bed, holding my clover, closing my eyes as I think about Connor. Yeah, I know my parents would love him, Dr. Stayner. I’m not oblivious. I know they’d pick him out of a hundred-man lineup just because of his smile. That’s okay. He’s the guy they’d want. He’s the kind of guy every girl wants.

  I hear a beep and a click and, a second later, Reagan walking in, out of breath from her jog. “I just passed Connor. He was looking happy. Was that one of your rampant sex sessions?” she jokes between pants, gripping her side like she’s in pain.

  “He’s really sweet, Reagan.” I roll onto my stomach, resting my chin on my arms. “Did you know how sweet he is?”

  “I did. I’ve heard he treats his girlfriends really well.”

  Huh . . . I don’t know why but, for some stupid reason, I haven’t even pictured Connor with anyone else. I’ve pictured Ashton with everyone else and it’s made me nauseous. But Connor’s a gorgeous, smart senior. He’s obviously had girlfriends. And, let’s be smart about this, Connor has also had sex. Probably a lot. I wonder how slow he’s willing to go with me. “How many girlfriends do you think he’s had?”

  “Two or three since being here.” Reagan kicks off her shoes. “He was single all of first year. God, did I ever have a massive crush on him back then!” She makes a face. “I also had braces and a fat ass. That’s what you get for being short and curvy. If I don’t keep jogging . . . look out!” She pulls her T-shirt over her head and throws it onto the heap on the floor with her other clothes. Reagan isn’t the neatest person in the world. I don’t mind, though. It suits her wild de
meanor. “You know, you should start jogging with me!”

  “I’m not the most coordinated person,” I warn with a grimace. “I’m liable to take you out.”

  She shrugs. “That’s okay, I know how to tuck and roll.”

  “Maybe. One day.” Maybe I’ll like jogging. I won’t know unless I try.

  Until then, I can work on calming the butterflies that are swarming inside my stomach, now that I know I’m seeing Ashton tomorrow night.

  No, Connor, I don’t find your best friend appealing. Not at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jealousy

  Everyone knows Connor. At least it seems that way as we follow the server through the pub. To my left, a guy waves. To my right, another guy fist-pumps. We pass by a table with four young women. “Hey, Connor!” one calls out. He flashes them a smile and a polite nod and continues on. That’s when all four sets of eyes settle on me and I morph into that frog in my tenth-grade science class. The unfortunate one beneath my scalpel. I shift discreetly to avoid their gazes and end up bumping into Connor. “Sorry,” I murmur. But he just displays those perfect white teeth to me. He doesn’t seem bothered that I’m on his heels. He’s never bothered.

  The attractive fortyish server shows us to a table for six and takes a handmade Reserved sign off it. “Thanks, Cheryl,” Connor says.

  She pats him on the shoulder. “What can I get you two?”

  “A Corona for me and a Jack and Coke for Livie. Right, Livie?”

  I just bob my head, clenching my teeth and fighting the urge to announce publicly that I’m only eighteen and this establishment should know better than to serve me alcohol. I have the fake ID my sister gave me but I’m terrified to use it. I think I may pass out if she asks me to pull it out of my wallet.

  Cheryl doesn’t card me, though. She simply nods and walks away, her eyes dropping to get a good look at Connor’s butt as she passes.

  “Tonight should be a good night. We’ve got front-row seats for the band,” Connor says, gesturing to the stage directly in front of us.