Rachel frowns, studying him closely for a hint of deceit. Finding none, surprisingly enough, she steps aside and allows him to pass.
“Where are you going?”
“You ask way too many questions,” he calls back. Cam raises his fist and punches the air, like some heartthrob in a 1980s teen movie.
He’s so weird.
The bell rings and the classes file out into the hallway, allowing Cam to disappear within the throngs of kids. Rachel inhales deeply and shakes her head. She turns in place and spots Greg in the main corridor. Determined to get the answers she so desperately needs to put this Miser Fae out of business, Rachel marches down the crowded hallway. Her peers give her a wide berth, parting like the Red Sea, their whispers reach her ears. She can’t care less what they think about her anymore. Not now, when any one of them could be next.
Ahead, she sees Greg turning down the hallway, another girl hanging on his arm.
Rachel picks up speed to catch up to him, turns the corner, and grabs Greg by his shoulders before he can get out of her reach. As he spins around, she slams him back into the lockers lining the wall. Pressing her forearm against his chest to keep him in place, she glares up at him.
Greg stares back, a sheepish grin playing in the corner of his mouth.
“Get off him! Let g—” Greg’s companion shrieks, making the scene much more interesting than Rachel had intended. The school bell rings, signaling the start of the next class, and saving them from curious onlookers.
“Get to class, Carla,” Greg says in a calm, diplomatic tone that doesn’t betray the mischief twinkling in his gray eyes.
“But, but, but—”
He forces his gaze away from Rachel to the short girl standing behind her. His expression hardens. “Rachel and I have private matters to discuss.”
Carla huffs. “I so didn’t sign up for this kind of humiliation.”
From the corner of Rachel’s eye, she spies the girl stalk off, while the rest of the crowd disperses. Classroom doors shut, the hallway grows silent.
He turns his attention back to Rachel, the mischief returning. “I never can tell if you want to kill me or kiss me.”
“I don’t have time to play your twisted games, Pearson,” Rachel hisses. “But I do need your help.” She reluctantly releases her hold on him.
The playfulness dissipates. “What’s up?”
She looks over her shoulder to the janitor’s closet, and motions for him to follow her inside. Once they’re there, he closes the door behind him, shutting them in darkness. A breath later, there’s a click, and the hanging bulb drenches them in artificial light. Every wall in the small closet is lined with shelves, some full of cleaning chemicals, others are left bare.
“I need access to the town council’s archi—”
“No,” he interrupts her before she can finish her sentence, let alone try to explain why she needs his help. “Last time, I almost got grounded just for showing you that stuff. If I sneak you in there, and word gets back to my dad, he’ll probably kill me.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. Your dad won’t kill you,” Rachel says, crossing her arms. “Maim you, maybe, but he definitely won’t kill you. Someone needs to inherit the great Pearson fortune.”
“Hilarious,” Greg replies in monotone. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have to study for the English test later on.”
“Screw the test,” Rachel retorts. “Mrs. Crenshaw is in the hospital, Dougal is in no condition to help, and my mom ran off to Bangor again. I need to get inside that archive right now before people end up dead.”
His jawline tenses as he bites back a response.
Rachel considers closing the distance between them. She deliberates standing on the tips of her toes, caressing his cheek ever so gently, before she presses her lips against his. It’s what Greg’s counting on, too. She can actually see him fantasizing about this exact scenario. He wants to go back to what they had shared this past summer.
It’d been good. They spent every available moment together over the summer, holding hands, kissing in public, covering all the metaphorical bases. There were also interesting discussions, things they both enjoyed reading about but never had anyone to talk with before—scientific discoveries they’ve read about, conspiracy theories they couldn’t rationalize, historical facts that seemed so unreal but weren’t. The fling was fun, memorable even, but that’s all it would ever be—a fling.
She hates herself for even contemplating using his feelings to get what she wants, and she hates him for wanting whatever little piece of herself she’s willing to give, when he knows they aren’t compatible.
He’s a Pearson, for heaven’s sake.
Being a Pearson means your life isn’t just yours. It belongs to your family, the community, and the town council. A Pearson is expected to study at an Ivy League college, graduate at the top of the class, and go into the family business. Somewhere in between all of those tasks, they’ll have to find someone nice to marry—preferably someone who also comes from money—and have some kids. Usually, the significant other won’t need any training in being the epitome of elegance, but if they do, the new Pearson will embrace their role without hemming or hawing.
And while most people probably believe love can conquer all, Rachel isn’t that naïve. Fairy tale endings don’t exist for girls like her, even when there’s a starry-eyed Prince Charming involved.
Still, if his feelings were all she has to bargain with—
Rachel unfolds her arms. “I can’t do this,” she whispers, her courage fading. “I’m sorry, Greg, I just can’t do this.”
Had it been anyone other than Greg, she’d have thought nothing of using their weaknesses for personal gain. It would’ve been meaningless, easily forgotten. But this is Greg. They share a lifetime’s worth of history. They share Luke—Greg’s deceased twin brother and Rachel’s best friend. Whatever happens between them won’t be meaningless, won’t be forgotten. It would set the tone between them for
