“Yes, you get around,” said a lanky red-haired guy in over-sized boardshorts carrying a skateboard.
He sauntered up behind the girls with two other guys, jocks by the size of them. One was bulky, ruddy-cheeked, his hair like dry straw. But my gaze snagged on the second guy and became stuck there. On him.
He wasn’t stylish in the slightest or even interesting-looking. Merely classically, epically handsome. All-American. Superman in a T-shirt and jeans. His face was a straightforward arrangement of perfect features—thick, dark brows over blue eyes fringed with long lashes. A strong nose over a luscious mouth and a cleft in his chin even more impressive than mine.
He spared a smile for Violet, then turned his gaze my direction. A lock of his dark hair fell over his brow, daring someone—me—to reach over and brush it away.
“I was just inviting our new friend to your party, Chance,” Evelyn said to the blond. “Guys, this is Holden.”
The pale slab of beef was Chance, but no one had told me Superman’s name, probably because he usually needed no introduction. It was obvious this guy was a football god, Prom King—the Jake Ryan of Santa Cruz.
“Good to meet you, man.” He offered his hand.
“Likewise,” I said, keeping mine to myself.
Mr. Perfect might’ve had the rest of the school swooning, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. But once our gazes found each other, I fell into the surprising depth of him. There was weight behind his eyes, and his casual smile looked like his own brand of armor.
The guy quickly withdrew his hand and laughed it off. “Okay, whatever.”
“Holden is from Seattle. Isn’t that right…?”
I didn’t stick around to hear Evelyn recite the rest of my bio. I rolled my shoulders around the pole and walked away from the small group. First rule of showbiz: always leave them wanting more. Better to leave the hot—and painfully straight—jock with the deep eyes far in my rearview.
Yet it bothered the piss outta me that I didn’t know his name.
Why? So what? Who cares?
All valid questions.
Near the edge of the quad, I pulled aside a pretty girl.
“See that guy in the white T-shirt back there? Dark hair? Looks like he stepped out of a Hollister ad?”
The girl gave me a funny look. “Um, yeah?”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s River Whitmore. Senior. Quarterback and captain of the football team.”
“Much obliged.”
I started to go but the girl touched my arm, her eyes raking me up and down unapologetically. “Hey, hold up. You’re new, right? I’m Leah. Do you want to—?”
“Nope, I’m gay, thanks.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that…?”
“I said, I’m good, thanks. Appreciate the help.”
“Oh. Okay.”
River Whitmore, I told myself, heading to my locker. There. You know his name. Happy now?
Happy wasn’t on my horizon and knowing River’s name didn’t assuage my curiosity. Just the opposite—my cracked mind seized on it, tasted it, turned it over and over. Whitmore did nothing for me, but River would sound sexy as fuck whispered right before a kiss…
“Nope. We’re done here.”
I deposited my uneaten lunch in my locker and slammed the door. Slammed it on Beatriz’s sack lunch and River’s sad eyes and on the weak flickering spark in my chest that wanted to make something out of both.
Chapter Three
The new guy sauntered away, releasing me from his piercing gaze.
Good.
I wasn’t supposed to be noticing things like the intensity of his eyes or how they were the purest green. Clear and hard, like peridot.
I wasn’t supposed to notice that under all that expensive clothing, his body was built. Not as big as me but lean muscle on a tall frame.
I wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to how fucking perfect this guy’s face was, angular and sharp, as if he were sculpted out of ice. Icy hair, icy attitude but with a fire burning underneath…
“He’s dressed like it’s winter,” muttered Frankie Dowd, the skater punk who tagged along with my crowd, mostly because we’d all gone to school together since kindergarten. “What a fucking weirdo.”
Inexplicably, my hackles went up; I had to clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him to shut his damn mouth.
“Do you ever stop being a jackass?” Violet demanded.
Against my will, my gaze lingered where Holden had gone, the scents of clove cigarettes and expensive cologne trailing after him. I inhaled deep, catching a few remnants. They went straight through me like an illicit drug, making my skin shiver.
What the hell…?
Frankie said something dickish to Violet and I whirled on him. “Get lost, asshole.”
“Touchy, touchy, Whitmore. Later, my dudes,” he said and slunk away.
“You’re coming to the party, right, Vi?” I asked.
Violet looked lost in her own thoughts for a moment before shaking her head. “Uh yes, I’ll be there.”
“Great. I’ll see you then,” I said and turned away without another word.
Because I’m the coward…
I could see it unfold so clearly. At the party, I’d ask her to Homecoming. We’d date and I’d make it through the year without having to confront any feelings I didn’t feel like confronting. Violet was an overachiever like me. We wouldn’t have time to get serious. I wouldn’t break her heart. She couldn’t touch mine. It was perfect.
Bitterness flooded my mouth.
“Hey, man. Wait up,” Chance called. The beefy linebacker lumbered after me. “You’re going to come over early on Saturday for party prep, right?”
“I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Good, since Evelyn’s invited half the school. Including weird rich fuckers who smoke on campus, apparently.”
My teeth clenched. I felt Chance watching me as we strode across the quad, his wide face scrunched up in confusion.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said
