GRAYSON

ALL WAS QUIET IN CASA DEL BARRETT WHEN I GOT home. There was a note on the island.

Grayson

,

Your father has a late showing, and I’m off to my monthly sales meeting

.

Tilapia in the fridge. Take your shot of acai

.

btw–your mother called again. CALL HER. She says it’s urgent. Why aren’t you answering your cell?

Kiss, Kiss–Tiff

I dashed off a mental reply.

Hey, Tiff

,

Tilapia is too fishy and I need a splash of vodka with my acai, but thanks for thinking of me

.

btw . . . I’m avoiding Mom. I DO NOT need reminding that I’ve completely dropped the college ball once again. They don’t let fuckups into Columbia. No matter how many strings her

alumn ASSmunch

alumnus husband can pull

.

Gray

I nuked some pizza rolls, grabbed a Coke, and sat down on the sectional in the dark. It was like a reflex. Dinnertime = FOOD. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I was . . . agitated. Ticked.

Why did I let Wren just walk away?

She was even prettier than I remembered, with her light hair loose around her face. And she’d been anxious, even a little shy at first. The kind of girl I could have eating out of my hand. Instead I’d opened up my mouth and all the old bullshit came tumbling out.

Why? I hadn’t intended to confess anything–all I wanted to do was thank her, give her a ride home and maybe strike up a friendship. Then she mentioned her brother. While I hardly knew Josh Caswell, I’m sure he knew me, or at least about me. Hell, the St. Gabe’s lunch ladies probably knew the sad, strange tale of my term‑paper‑pimp demise. Better that the story come from the source . . . but it was more than that too. There was a genuineness about Wren that made me feel like I didn’t have to put up a front. Like she really saw me . Past the BS, the cool hair, the stupid attempt to draw attention to myself like a silverback gorilla.

I sank deeper into the leather sofa Tiff had picked out to give our great room a more masculine feel. My ass slipped until half my torso was parallel to the floor. The perfect position for how I felt at the moment. Spineless.

Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask for her number? I knew I could get it some other way, but I wanted her to give it to me. That would tell me a lot. Just like not giving it to me said something. She didn’t trust me. And after today, why would she? Smart girl.

My pocket vibrated. I picked up without even checking. Might as well deal with my mother and her college‑application assault.

“Mom.”

“Dude, it’s about time.”

I stiffened.

“Luke,” I said, sitting up. “Should have screened.”

“Harsh, Grayson. So is it true you almost bought it last Friday?”

“Maybe. How’d you find out?”

“The stepmother mafia. This is huge news down the pike. You choked . . . some cocktail waitress saved you. Sounds like a sexy way to go–was she wearing fishnets and a tight skirt?”

An involuntary smile crossed my lips. It pissed me off that he could win me over so easily, but I had to admit: I missed my daily dose of Dobson.

“C’mon, Grayeesun, you know I’m just jabbin’ at ya. Saint Gabe’s is so boring without your ugly mug roaming the halls. How are you dealing with the bottom‑feeders in Bergen Point?”

“What do you want, Luke?”

“Just wondering why you haven’t returned my calls, bro.”

There was a time a call from Luke was a call to the hunt. For parties. For girls. For epic nights I knew would be legend in our high school history. My remember‑the‑time friend. Brother from another mother. When I was drop‑kicked to the curb last spring, my brother, the one who said he’d have my back, disappeared from my life. It was only about a month ago that he tried to make contact. He didn’t even have the decency to apologize.

“No one called me all summer.”

“Grayson, what’s that, three months? Stop acting like a wounded bitch.”

“When I got in trouble, you scattered,” I said.

“That’s not entirely true,” Luke began as if he were leading a Socratic seminar about the topic of my expulsion. “You agreed it was better if we all lie low for a while. And as for the summer, no one got together. Don’t you get it? Seeing you get caught was too close for comfort. But we’ve regrouped. Operation Amsterdam is on again. Andy, Dev, and Logan are completely on board. This, my friend, is your wake‑up call.”

“My wake‑up call? Why do you think I’d want anything to do with that anymore?”

“Stopped by Spiro’s today. He said I just missed you. You were with a preeeeeetty girl,” he said, mimicking Spiro’s accent.

“I’m not allowed to get a cup of coffee?”

“There are lots of places for coffee. Just thought you might be ready to start up again.”

“I’m not,” I said, wondering when Spiro had become a gossip hound. Time to find a new coffee joint.

“Don’t be stupid, Grayson. We need you .”

“That’s too bad, ’cause Ima‑out, my friendah.”

“Barrett, come on,” he said.

I hated when he patronized me. “Luke, you really have no clue. There are worse things than getting expelled.”

All those months of no contact made me realize how lucky we were to not get caught. Selling term papers got me a slap on the wrist, but the Operation Amsterdam stuff? I couldn’t even go there. Luke was silent, but I could practically hear his wheels spinning, charging up his counterargument.

“Grayson, I know you. Yeah, you got a raw deal, but you’ll spin‑doctor it up and turn it to your advantage. So, no pressure. We’re here when you’re ready. Just think about it. Maybe while you’re in Welding,” he answered.

“Bite me,” I said.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, hanging up.

I jumped off the couch, grabbed my dish and soda can, and hurled them into the sink. Coke spilled across the white marble countertop, glugging out of the can like a gushing artery. I watched, transfixed; Tiff would have a cow. My mess. Again. I raked my hands into my hair, tugging at my roots and yowling the mother of all curse words up toward the ceiling.

The drums. An hour on the drums would make me feel better. Luke Dobson could kiss my bottom‑feeding, public‑education ass. Getting away from St. Gabe’s was the best thing that ever happened to me. A detour. That’s all. Luke, Andy, Dev, and Logan could do whatever they wanted with Operation Amsterdam. I was done.

I stormed downstairs to the haven I’d created for myself over the summer. The white, hot fist of anger in my chest finally began to unfurl. I’d blast some punk, pound the drums like an animal until my muscles ached. Exculpation through sweat and music.

I’d done my time, hadn’t I? The course of my life had changed because I wouldn’t rat out others like me. There was something noble in that, right?

Ah, and there he was: Grayson, the spin doctor.

What would Wren think if she saw me now? This unhinged? Would she back away like she did at the park? How strange but sexy it felt arguing with her. It was the first honest interaction I’d had with a girl in . . . well, years. And it felt good. Just listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice as she spoke my name after I asked her if she regretted saving me.

God, Grayson, no, I’m not thinking that at all , she’d said.

The way we met, at this point in my life, had to mean something.

I needed to see her again.

FIVE

WREN

THANKSGIVING MORNING I HID FROM THE WORLD, safe in the sweet spot of my mattress where all the lingering worries of school, future plans, and foxy term‑paper pimps melted away. Not going to the Turkey Day game with Dad and Josh for the first time in six years felt a bit blasphemous, and when my father yelled up the stairs that the Caswell bus was leaving in ten, I resisted the tiniest urge to yell, Wait for me! Instead I rolled over and burrowed deeper under my comforter. Daring to change up tradition. Content to keep the world at bay for at least another hour.

Yeah, right.

The biggest reason I was wimping out was because I didn’t want to run into Trevor. And I would have; it was inevitable. I’d overheard Josh on the phone with him finalizing plans to meet up near the concession stand. What if he had a college girl with him? Or worse–what if he didn’t and wanted to hook up? I didn’t want to stutter out small talk or worry if I had snot running down my face or pretend everything was just fine and that we could be friends for my brother’s sake.

It might have been worth the risk though, for the off chance to bump into Grayson. Who did he hang out with? What team would he root for? Did he even go to the game? I tried to put him out of my mind. He was a walking, talking DANGER flag. Cheater. Liar. Secretive. Hawt . Ugh. It was maddening. Any time I checked off the reasons to avoid him, I’d picture him in front of school, leaning against his faded car. Hands in pockets, swoon‑worthy grin, deep brown eyes full of the promise of amazing. And I felt myself getting sucked in by the desire to wrap my arms around him in a different way than the Heimlich.

The slow creak of my bedroom door pulled me back to the present. I kept my eyes shut, feigning sleep as I heard muted tiptoeing on the carpet. One side of my comforter lifted, and the mattress gave way to the pressure of someone climbing in.

“Wrennie, wake up,” my sister cooed, scratching my back.

“Five more minutes,” I protested.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in, like, forever. The least you can do is have some cinnamon rolls with me before we become Camelot slaves,” she said. Football and freezing were my mother’s least favorite things, so her own Turkey Day tradition involved scratch‑made cinnamon rolls and the televised Macy’s parade before the frenzy of the Camelot buffet. Getting first dibs on breakfast made missing the game even better. Brooke dug more urgently into my sides until I had to give in and giggle.

“Okay, stop, Brooke. I’m up, I’m up,” I said, batting her ice‑cold hands away.

I rolled over to face her. Her cheeks glowed, the tip of her nose red. Cold seemed to emanate off her skin, but her eyes were playful. Beautiful Brooke .

“When did you get in?”

“Only about ten minutes ago. Can’t you feel it?” she asked, putting her hands under the back of my pajama top by my neck. I squealed and shot up out of the bed; the comforter fell to the floor.

“Nice,” I said.

“Had to get you up somehow. Why’d you bail on the game?”

“Do you have to ask?” Brooke had been my breakup guru in the wake of the hump‑and‑dump. She’d snap me out of crying jags with spontaneous Rollerblading or splurges at Sephora. Telling me over and over again that Trevor, or any guy, was just not worth falling apart over.

“Meh, you should have worn your cutest outfit and shown him how much better off you are being free,” she said, leaning back on her elbows.

“I have no cute subdegree clothes,” I said, shrugging on my fuzzy blue robe.

“His loss, our gain: The Caswell chicks have the house to themselves,” she said, sitting up. “Might not be that way much longer.”

Our house, which had always bustled with noise and friends, had been quiet with my sibs away at school. My parents and I had fallen into a predictable daily rhythm of dinner, then heading to our various personal spaces to do whatever. I wasn’t complaining, but it was odd being an only child for weeks at a time. Calm. Empty. Lonely. I knew the change was inevitable, could hear it in my father’s joking as he talked about downsizing and moving to Key West when he and Mom retired and we were all out of the house, but I held on to these moments when Brooke was home, or Josh was back upstairs pounding around and listening to his music too loud. Even if only for a little while, the house felt full and lived‑in again.

“We have a good three hours before Josh and Dad get back,” I said, crouching on the floor to see if my slippers were under the bed.

Brooke shimmied her way to the edge of the mattress, toes grazing the floor.

“I’m not talking about the game.”

“Is Pete coming over?” I asked, standing up from my fruitless search.

“Not exactly.” Her lips curled into a sly grin, eyebrow cocked in a perfect seductive C curve. Whenever I tried to pull this Brooke face move, I came off like a weathered pirate.

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“You noticed?”

I had no clue why she was being so cryptic and was not in the mood to coax her out of it, especially with the delicious scent of my mother’s cinnamon rolls wafting up from the kitchen. I scanned the floor again. Success. My slippers sat askew by my closet. I padded over to get them, and shoved my frozen feet into the warm fleece. Brooke just sat there, the same expression on her face, like she was waiting for me to say more.

“Spill, Brooke.”

“I’m pregnant,” she said, slow, the words rising and lingering like helium balloons above my head.

“What?”

She put her finger to her lips and motioned with her eyes toward my open door. I clicked the door shut and perched on the bed next to her, keeping my distance, as if her pregnancy were contagious.

“You’re the first person I’ve told–well, besides Pete,” she said, letting out a deep breath. “So what do you think?”

Brooke had a plan: living in DC. Law school. Midsize firm. Fighting for the rights of the little people. Baby was not supposed to happen until after thirty. And not until she and Peter Hutchins the Third got married in grand style sometime in the fall. Far away from the Camelot. By a lake. With the trees a riot of autumn colors. Me in a champagne‑colored, strapless bridesmaid gown. Honeymoon in Bora‑Bora in one of those little huts over the water. Yes. “The plan” was that detailed.

My hand still covered my mouth in shock. What did I think? Holy effing shit! is what I thought, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Brooke, who suddenly looked so emotionally naked in front of me, I knew anything other than enthusiasm would knock her down.

“Congrats?” I said.

“You don’t sound happy for me,” she said, pouting.

“Okay, rewind. . . . That’s incredible news! Pete must be over the moon.”

Her face brightened at the mention of Pete.

“I know it sounds crazy, but he is over the moon. We both are. It’s not ideal, I know, but whenever I worry about how things will go, I realize there’s this little piece of us growing inside me, and it’s just so . . .” She fell back on the bed, golden hair splayed out behind her, and finished with a breathy sigh. “. . . sexy.”

“Sexy?” I asked, leaning back on my elbows. “I don’t think you should mention that when you break the news.”

She traced small circles on her belly with the tips of her fingers. “How do you think Ruth and Jimmy are going to react?”

I wanted to say the magic words my sister longed to hear, but really? How was I supposed to know how our parents would react? Brooke was twenty‑one, living with Pete, and almost finished with her first semester at Georgetown Law; my father was thrilled at the thought of another lawyer in the family. Whenever he spoke to anyone about Brooke upholding the tradition, he all but gushed. Knocked up and in her first semester might not be gushworthy, but I think she already knew that.

“Fly off the handle? Shit a two‑ton brick? What other cliché can we come up with for a nuclear meltdown? When do you plan on telling them?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t want to spring this on them with all that’s going on with the Camelot, but I’ll be showing by Christmas, and I think that would be sort of worse, don’t you?”

“What’s going on with the Camelot?”

Her eyebrows drew together as she rolled onto her side to face me. “You can’t tell me you don’t know. Business is down, and that’s a prime piece of real estate. Mom has been fielding offers for years, but I think now she might be listening.”

I hadn’t thought it was possible to be more shocked after my sister’s announcement.

“But . . . we’re busy.”

“Not really, Wrennie. When I worked, there were back‑to‑back weddings every weekend. Now there’s one or two at the most, right? And what about today? One sitting for the buffet. Last year there were three.”

“Did Mom tell you this?” I asked.

“No one has to tell me anything. The writing’s on the wall. Don’t get so upset. Your weekends can be your own again. No more white, starched shirts with grease stains, no more obnoxious guests, no more having to jump in and save people from choking,” she said, tugging a strand of my hair.

And just like that, Grayson in all his term‑paper‑pimp glory exploded back into my thoughts, practically sitting on the edge of my bed behind Brooke, his dark eyes saying, Tell her about me . I bit my lip.

“That was pretty amazing, squirt.”

I met the guy, Brooke. He’s charming and scary and so freakin’ hot, I can’t stop thinking about him and the sexy way the top button of his Henley tee was undone .

“What can I say? All in a day’s work,” I answered with a shrug.

“Just think, next Thanksgiving can be normal . . . at home, like in all those holiday songs. Not eating buffet leftovers after serving all day.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad, Brooke. I kind of like it. You know, I was even thinking maybe one day . . .” I paused. This would be the first time I said it out loud to a member of my family, and while it seemed like a small announcement compared to bringing a new life into the world, well, it was mine . “I could run it. Maybe go to school for business or hospitality or something like that.”

Brooke sat up so quickly, I thought she might slide off the bed.

“Oh, God, no. You don’t want that.”

“Maybe I do,” I answered, slightly put off by her quick and emphatic rejection.

She shook her head. “The best thing you could do is get away from here. Sure, go study business, or hospitality, or whatever you want, but do not plan on staying to run the Camelot. It’s a sinking ship, Wren.”

All I’d wanted was a little spark of support. A Hey, that’s not a bad idea, Wren! Now the thought seemed ridiculous.

“Yeah, because getting away from here has worked so well for you,” I said, patting her tummy.

She put her hand over mine, her eyes serious again.

“So you’ll support me on this? I just need to know you have my back, in case, well, in case it all goes really bad.”

Brooke had never spoken to me quite like this. And I’d never seen her this unsure. I was usually the one going to her for help or just basking in her enchanting Brookeness.

“How is it going to go bad? It’s not like they can ground you,” I said. “And they love Pete.”

“I know, I just . . . their support means a lot. Yours too, squirt,” she said, tucking my hair behind my ear. She sniffed, pressed my hand to her belly again.

“So this means you’re gonna get fat,” I said, pulling my hand away.

“Gee, Wren, thanks!” Her eyes grew round as she gave my arm a pinch. “You know that only means one thing.”

“What?”

She got up to leave and reached for the door. “I’m picking the biggest, gooiest cinnamon roll.”

I shot up. “Um, no you’re not!”

“Catch me,” she said, disappearing before I could even make it to the doorway.

The Camelot Thanksgiving buffet ran smoothly. I kept looking for warning signs of Brooke’s ominous words that it was a sinking ship . All I saw was the Caswell clan working together–well, I was working; Brooke spent a lot of time reconnecting with Eben and Josh, still green from his Thanksgiving Eve bender with his home‑from‑college buds, trying his best not to puke in the mashed potatoes. Everyone, even my dad, who rolled up his Brooks Brothers sleeves to help plate the sides for the buffet table, was happy, buzzing, joking. No doom and gloom. Nothing out of place to make me think we were in any sort of trouble. Brooke had to be wrong.

Being busy made the afternoon go quickly, and soon enough, the five of us were alone and gathered around a table in the empty banquet hall, a little tired but full of the meal Chef Hank had prepared for us.

My mother raised her glass of sauv blanc. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to see you all together.”

“Aw, shucks, Mom, any time you want me to quit school and be your permanent child, say the word, I’m all over it,” Josh said, grinning.

“Please no, I’m finally getting some much‑needed peace,” my father kidded.

“What, Wrennie doesn’t throw any wild parties?”

“Hey, look what the wind blew in,” my mother said, raising her glass toward the door.

I turned to see a rather disheveled Pete, as if he’d literally been windblown, walking toward our table. Brooke got up and threw her arms around him. My stomach lurched.

Pete shrugged off his coat and hooked it over a chair at the adjacent table. “Hey, Wren,” he said, smoothing down his hair and taking the seat across from me.

With his dark, unruly curls and green eyes, Pete was exceptionally handsome, but he was so goofy once you got to know him that his good looks became less intimidating. I wondered if he knew that I knew he’d knocked up my sister. One thing was for sure: Between Brooke and Pete, this kid was going to be drop‑dead gorgeous.

“How was your Thanksgiving? Your parents must have been thrilled you made it home,” my mother said, beaming.

Pete chuckled, but it was guarded. He folded his hands and glanced at Brooke. And then the world moved frame by frame.

I could feel the tremor of what was about to happen but was powerless to act on it. Please, please, Brooke, not now.

A waiter came by and dropped off a carafe of coffee for my father. Mom sat in suspended animation, waiting to hear about Pete’s Thanksgiving. Josh had nodded off, a shock of dirty blond hair partially hiding his eyes. I pinched his leg, and he jerked awake.

“What?”

“We’re pregnant!” Brooke blurted out, grabbing Pete’s hand.

Silence shrouded the table. The only sound was the slow trickle of my father pouring coffee into his cup. That cup became the collective focus of the table–as if we knew that, once it was full, something disastrous would happen. My father put down the carafe more firmly than necessary, then turned his attention to Brooke and Pete, waiting for more. Brooke’s eyes locked on mine–my cue to have her back.

“Holy shit!” “What awesome news!” Josh and I said at the same time.

My mother was momentarily stunned, mouth open, eyes darting between Brooke and Pete. My father spoke.

“What does this mean?”

Brooke launched into what must have been a rehearsed speech, taking turns with Pete who chimed in as he stroked her hand. My heart cringed a bit, watching them both become so squirmy and awkward. Brooke was holding it together as best as she could. Pete looked like he’d rather be hiding under the table, out of my father’s line of vision.

There was a new plan. They were going to get married during winter break. The baby was due in the late spring, so they could both finish their course work. Brooke had already found day care close to campus for the fall. She and Pete would coordinate their classes as much as they could, and while money would be tight, they were sure they could handle it. This was only a blip in their lives. They loved each other, had planned on getting married and having a family anyway. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but that’s how life goes.

Halfway through, my father began kneading his forehead. My mother’s face was a mask, the giddiness from moments ago evaporated.

“Josh, you and Wren should go,” she said, picking at a thread on the tablecloth.

“Mom, we can handle it. It’s not like we don’t know where babies come from.”

Her eyes cut through me. Josh was on his feet, tugging me to get up.

“C’mon, squirt, let’s fly.”

Once we reached home, Josh retreated to his attic room, and I took solace in a hot shower. I knew I should feel lucky that Mom dismissed us–who would want to be in the middle of that conversation? But being sent away made me feel weird, like an outsider.

I dressed in sweats and ventured out to see if anyone had come home. The house was silent, except for strains of Blink‑182 coming from Josh’s room. I smiled and opened the door a crack. His lights were on, so I made my way up the creaky, carpeted steps into his lair.

He was busy typing away on his computer. I knocked on the newel post so I wouldn’t startle him. Next to him, on his desk, was an open bottle of beer. Considering his condition, I thought he’d want to lay off the stuff at least for a night. I raised my eyebrows.

“Hair of the dog, Wrennie, best hangover remedy,” he said. “Want one?”

“Drinking . . . here? Don’t you think Mom and Dad–”

“Wren, Golden Girl has screwed up. The parental units are officially checked out for the moment. I could be hosting an orgy up here, and no one would know. Come on, live a little, have a brewski with your big bro,” he said, reaching into the small fridge by his desk, cracking open a bottle, and offering it to me.

I took the beer and leaned against the edge of his desk. “What do you think is going to happen with Brooke and Pete?”

“I thought you learned all that in health class,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Duh, I just meant . . . it’ll be strange, them being married . . . a baby . . . you’ll be an uncle.”

He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Wow, Josh is not an uncle name. Aunt Wren . Sounds like a lady with cankles who bakes great pies.”

“Thanks for that mental picture,” I said, grabbing his senior yearbook. My heart raced. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Grayson might be in there . I plopped myself down on Josh’s very unkempt bed. He’d been back for less than twenty‑four hours, and his room–littered with dirty clothing, empty cups, and a plate with a half‑eaten sandwich–was as though he’d never left. I punched up the pillows and sat back, trying to sound casual. “Do you know a guy named Grayson Barrett? He went to Saint Gabe’s?”

He clicked at his keyboard feverishly before answering me.

“Got kicked out . . . that Grayson Barrett? I know who he is, but I don’t know him. A bit of a douche nozzle around his lax bros, if I remember correctly.”

“Don’t call him that,” I said, grimacing and casually leafing through the yearbook. The end covers were full of signatures and notes to Josh, reminding him to Stay cool, bro! and Party hard!

“What? Douche nozzle or lax bro? They’re interchangeable,” he said, pivoting in his computer chair with a smirk on his face.

“Josh, stop.”

“Ah, so someone is currr‑aaaaving a little boo‑tay.”

“It’s not like that!”

“So what’s it like, then?” he asked, getting serious.

I ran my finger along a sweat drizzle on my beer label.

“He’s the one I saved from choking.”

Josh’s eyes registered surprise. “Damn, you should have let him choke.”

“How can you say that?”

“Wren, I’m not serious. Well, maybe a little,” he said, chuckling as he checked his IMs again. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re quite the hero. Doesn’t Barrett, like, owe you his life now or something?”

“Hardly.”

“C’mon, why the interest?”

“We hung out the other day. He seemed kinda cool, I guess. What?”

“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like that.”

“A guy like what? I thought you said you didn’t know him. You know, just forget it,” I said, leaning back onto his pillows and focusing on the yearbook again. I already had my own opinion of Grayson, and I didn’t need Josh reaching into his bag of slang to pull out something more colorful than douche nozzle . That was descriptive enough.

“Well, considered yourself warned.”

“I’m ignoring you, just in case you haven’t noticed.”

I thumbed through the yearbook, went directly to the juniors, to the Bs, scanned down the rows of boys, and found . . . nothing. At the end of the junior section, it read . . . Absent photo day: Grayson Barrett, Liam McNaught, John Skora.

Drat .

I flipped to the sports‑and‑activities section of the yearbook.

Pay dirt.

There was a full‑size picture of Grayson, his face ruddy with exertion. He had his lacrosse helmet under one arm and was pouring water into his partially open mouth with the other. His dark eyes were trained on something. He was leaner, sharper, serious. If I had any doubt whether I was still attracted to him or not, my body answered with an instant hormonal rush that left everything buzzing. He was, in a word, smoking hot. Okay. Two words.

I took another sip of beer and sank deeper into Josh’s bed. The open book fell flat against my chest as I stared at the ceiling, confused. This was crazy. I couldn’t feel this way about someone I’d just met. Especially someone who thought selling term papers was just outsourcing. Business . Was that what he’d been talking about at the deli?

I mouthed his name.

Grayson .

Enjoying the way my tongue hit the roof of my mouth on the last syllable.

Would I ever run into him again?

SIX

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 582