Isn't She Lovely Read online

  But the smell is painfully familiar. Booze, sweat, too much cologne.

  I take a deep breath through my mouth and try to block out the memories. You can do this.

  Jordan is immediately mobbed by a pack of squealing girls who largely ignore me, despite the fact that Jordan’s still holding my hand. It’s cool. I don’t belong. I get it.

  I pull my hand away gently and she gives me a questioning look, which I return with a quick smile: I’m good.

  And I am. Because I’ve totally figured out how these parties work. Avoid the keg cups, and you’re good. Pick the wrong keg cup, and your life is turned upside down.

  I walk past a handful of couples making out and ignore the way a group of guys in the corner ogle my boobs. The kitchen’s even worse. It’s a shit show of bottles, kegs, and pitchers of some neon liquid.

  I move on. Although I don’t know what I’m looking for, really. A quiet corner to stand in, I guess. A tall redheaded girl who looks sort of familiar spots me and gives me a wide smile. “Hey, Steffie! Can I get you a drink?”

  Steffie. I hate that name. I only allow Jordan to call me that for old times’ sake, but apparently some of her friends have picked it up, and I can’t think of a way to correct this girl without sounding like a total bitch. And at least this one acknowledges me.

  “I’m good,” I say, giving what I hope is a friendly smile as I move on.

  I mentally scold myself as I walk away. That could have been the opening I needed to start a conversation and maybe see if she knows somebody who knows somebody who’s looking for a roommate for the summer. But my knack for small talk evaporated a long time ago, and now nobody is even looking at me, much less talking to me.

  I have to turn sideways to slide along the crowded hall leading to what I hope’s a living room, or maybe a side door or even just a giant hole in the ground that will swallow me up and get me the hell out of here.

  I’m almost through the hallway when one of the meatheaded dudes in front of me stops suddenly and lifts his hand to give his friend a high five. He inadvertently catches my chin with his elbow as it goes up.

  “Shit!” he says, looking down at me. “Shit, my bad—”

  His voice breaks off, and I forget all about the fact that my teeth are still rattling. It’s him.

  “Ethan Price,” I say, gingerly rubbing at my jaw. “How is it that I’ve made it through three years as an undergrad without seeing you, and now I can’t even go a week?”

  I wait expectantly for one of those glib comebacks that seem to roll off his tongue like witty diarrhea, but all I get is an awkward silence.

  I look at him more closely, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize that this isn’t the same too-charming guy who crashed my film class and bought me coffee.

  It’s still Ethan Price, but he’s … different. This version is closed off. His jaw is tight and his brown eyes are wary. His walls are up for some reason.

  He’s still gorgeous, though, even though he’s glaring at me. Hell, maybe he’s more gorgeous because he’s glaring at me. The Ethan I met earlier in the week put me on edge with his cutesy comebacks and easy grin. This version is more like me. Guarded. Maybe a little bit angry.

  Oddly, I find I want to know why.

  I see him scan the crowded hallway nervously, and suddenly it clicks. This Ethan is painfully aware of his image, and a girl like me is not going to help his manly rep. It was okay to talk to a weirdo like me when he was amid a bunch of other weirdos. But these beefy jocks and skinny sorority girls are his people. In his world, people like him don’t talk to people like me. And we both know it.

  Whatever.

  It’s not like I care. Not really.

  But still, I want to snub him before he snubs me, so I start to shoulder past.

  His fingers find my arm before I can move; it’s a little more caveman than I would expect from someone who probably gets manicures.

  “You okay, Goth?” he asks gruffly, his dark eyes searching mine.

  For a second my stomach flips at his question. When was the last time somebody asked me if I’m okay?

  Then reality sets in, and I realize he’s not asking if I, Stephanie Kendrick the person, am okay. He’s simply making sure I didn’t lose a tooth when he elbowed me in the face. Probably making sure I won’t take revenge with some sort of voodoo trick.

  I’m startled by my own disappointment.

  “Sure, I’m good,” I say in response. And I really am. Now that my teeth have stopped rattling, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

  Then it happens.

  Someone jostles me from behind, pushing me into Ethan so I’m pressed up against this macho jock, my boobs landing softly against his chest and my hands finding his shoulders.

  Shit. Awkward.

  Move, Stephanie

  But I don’t.

  He feels safe somehow, which doesn’t make sense.

  My nose barely reaches the middle of his chest, and I try to order my hands to push against him so I can regain my balance. I tell myself that I am not registering how firm his broad chest is beneath my palms. But I’m a liar, because I definitely notice.

  My shirt’s ridden up a bit, and when he puts his arm around me to help steady me, his hand finds the bare skin of my lower back and we both suck in a breath at the contact.

  Suddenly I’m way too hot, and it has nothing to do with the stifling hallway we’re standing in. It’s him.

  What the hell is going on here? Just three days ago I was cursing his very existence, wondering if there was a subtle way to poison his coffee. I don’t even like this guy. I didn’t like the snarky smart-ass version, and I certainly don’t like this macho, sulky version.

  But I don’t move.

  Neither does he.

  Ethan gives a quick glance over his shoulder before his free hand moves, and he’s hooking a finger beneath my jaw and tilting my face upward.

  His hand is warm, his fingers gentle, and for some stupid reason my breath catches. He scans my face and gives a quick nod—I guess to reassure himself that I’m not oozing blood all over the ground.

  Okay, then. Time to back away.

  His hand shifts again. Barely. Just enough to run a finger along my jaw, and although I’m pretty sure he’s just making sure he didn’t do any serious harm, the sensation feels oddly like a caress.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Goth?” His voice is quiet. Annoyed.

  Our eyes meet, and I’m dying to see the same sort of confused attraction on his own face, but he’s totally unreadable. He’s completely unlike the guy who teased me and bought me coffee and crashed my film class. Although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the real Ethan Price either.

  I’m dying to know which version is the real one. I suspect it’s neither.

  A huge black-haired guy appears next to us. “Dude. Price. What the fuck are you doing?”

  Ethan jerks his arm back so fast, he almost elbows another girl, and I want to ask if he’ll go caress her face too, except I don’t really want to know the answer.

  I tear my eyes away from his and start to move away, even as I hear his friend make some lame joke about how I look like an extra from The Crucible. I’d bet that uncultured jackass has never even seen The Crucible.

  I lift a hand to my jaw, not because it hurts … but because it tingles with awareness.

  An awareness I haven’t felt in so long.

  Unable to help myself, I give a quick glance backward, only to find a pair of sulky dark eyes watching me.

  He looks away the second my eyes find his, and I’m oddly gratified that he was watching me against his will. Or at least I would be gratified, if only I knew what the hell just happened.

  Chapter Four

  Ethan

  What the hell is she doing here?

  The odd little munchkin from that godforsaken film class is skulking around my house’s end-of-the-year party, and it’s bugging the shit out of me.

  She doesn’t belong
here.

  After the hallway groping, I saw her seek out Jordan Crawford, which is weird. Jordan is one of those cute, smiley blondes whom everybody likes. Pretty much the opposite of the edgy, dark brunette who’s skulking in corners, not drinking so much as a soda.

  But her presence isn’t what bothers me. Everyone else is too drunk to care whether or not she’s Greek, and we let friends of friends into parties all the time.

  What’s bothering me is that my eyes won’t stop seeking her out. Every time I move to a new room or go for another drink, she’s there. Standing in the corner, mostly. Her posture is nonchalant, as though she doesn’t notice the occasional second glances she’s getting. Like she doesn’t care that she stands out.

  But I’ve seen those wide blue eyes up close. Seen them go wary. She cares more than she lets on.

  I’ve also seen those blue eyes go hot and smoky.

  Fuck.

  What the hell was I thinking, touching her like that? I’ve had a few beers, but I’m not damned near drunk enough to be attracted to a tiny, angry brunette.

  But for a second there, I felt something. A little zip of awareness when she pushed against me. The same awareness I felt when she rammed into me that day in the hallway.

  It doesn’t make sense. Between the piercings and the biker-chick makeup, she’s pretty much Olivia’s exact opposite.

  Maybe that’s why I like her.

  Except I don’t like her. Not really. She’s irritable, skittish, and a little weird. But hot. Definitely hot.

  I hear an enormous beer belch to my left and don’t have to turn to know it’s Cody Wagner, better known as Wag. He’s a big blob of a guy who’s somehow gotten it in his head that chicks find these nasty beer burps sexy.

  Wag is perpetually single.

  “Where’s Liv?” he says, taking an enormous swallow from his keg cup.

  I tear my eyes away from Stephanie Kendrick’s cleavage and take a sip of my own beer, even though it’s lukewarm and tastes like piss.

  Wag sways slightly, but he’s still looking at me as though waiting for an answer. Obviously he didn’t get the memo that Olivia and I are no longer together.

  Not surprising. I certainly haven’t been advertising the fact.

  “Not here,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

  He nods, as though it’s totally normal that I’m attending a party without my long-term girlfriend. It’s not. Olivia and I weren’t joined at the hip or anything like that, but her sorority girls were tight with my frat guys, so we almost always ended up attending these things together. Hell, half the time we ended up planning them, like some sort of king and queen of the Greeks.

  For the first time I realize that if I’m not Olivia’s boyfriend, maybe it means I won’t have to play that role anymore. The thought is oddly freeing.

  “Mike here?” Wag says, looking behind me as though I’ve been hiding my best friend.

  Former best friend.

  This time I don’t bother responding at all, but Wag is finishing his beer and doesn’t notice.

  He belches again as he scans the room. “Tits in the corner,” he says, his eyes doing a slow once-over of some poor girl who’s probably about to be subjected to Wag’s legendarily bad come-on techniques. Hope she likes beer breath.

  “There are tits all over the place,” I mutter, feeling bored with this whole scene.

  “Not like these,” he says, all but salivating.

  Being human—no, being a guy—I of course have to turn and look. Ah, shit.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised to see that it’s Stephanie who’s caught Wag’s horny interest. Wasn’t I ogling that very same chest just a few minutes ago? Seriously, those little tank tops of hers are sexy as hell. They manage to be revealing without trying too hard. Unlike all those plunging V-necks or perfectly tailored designer tops that the other girls are wearing, Stephanie’s simple black tank seems to scream, Hey, I just threw on the first thing I found in my closet, and I have no idea that I fill it out so completely.

  I can’t blame Wag for noticing, but at the same time I kind of hate that he does. There’s something fragile about the way she tries so hard to be fierce. And as mean as her glares are, I’d expect her to have scales or spikes or something, but her skin is ridiculously soft.

  Which I shouldn’t know. I mean, accidentally elbowing a girl in the face is not grounds for fondling her at a crowded party. I still don’t know what made me do it. I’d like to think I did it just to get under her skin and piss her off because she clearly loathed the very sight of me. But for a few minutes in the hallway it didn’t feel like she hated me. Not when her breath hitched the moment I touched her.

  Not when mine hitched as she fell against me, all soft curves and smelling of soap.

  “Leave her alone,” I hear myself grumble to Wag.

  He gives me a surprised look. “You know her?”

  “Taking a summer class together,” I say, finally giving up on my beer and setting it on a side table already teeming with keg cups and abandoned bottles.

  Wag’s not so drunk that he doesn’t raise his eyebrows at that. “What the fuck is the almighty Price doing taking a summer class? You flunk Macro or something?”

  I’ve never flunked a class in my life. Never gotten lower than a B. But there’s no way I’m going to explain myself to a guy who thinks burping’s a hobby. I don’t even know what I’d say. Nah, I’m taking some stupid class about movies just so I don’t have to spend the summer in the office with my dad.

  No way.

  “Just leave the girl alone, ’kay?” I shoot a quick glance toward Stephanie, but she’s disappeared. I should be relieved for her sake, since it means she won’t be subject to Wag’s special brand of ass-pinching seduction.

  Instead I just feel grumpy.

  “What’s with you tonight, man?” Wag says, giving me an exasperated look.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Normally you’re the life of these things. The first to tap the next keg, but also the first to throw out anyone who gets too shit-faced. Tonight you’ve had like half a beer and get pissed at anyone who tries to talk to you.”

  It’s true. I’m not acting like myself.

  But normally Michael and Olivia are by my side. Without them I feel … off.

  And the feeling is fucking annoying. I’ve never thought of myself as the type who couldn’t cope without my best friend and my girlfriend, but I guess I’ve taken for granted that they’re always there. Until they were gone I never really noticed that when I was tired or introspective, one of them would be there to soften my edges.

  Just like I never noticed that when I was in what Michael called “Price Charming mode”—which was most of the time—they always stepped back and let me shine.

  I certainly don’t feel charming tonight.

  Someone calls my name, and I see my usual group of guys gesturing me over to the keg, all of them too wasted to see that I’m clearly not interested.

  I give them a sort of vague gesture as though to indicate that I’ll be there in a minute, and with a muttered bye to Wag, I head in the direction of the bathroom. Not because I have to piss, but because I need a minute alone. But there’s a line a mile long, made up mostly of scantily dressed girls. A tall, skinny blonde grabs my hand as I walk by, and I don’t miss the way her fingers graze my palm in a totally unnecessary gesture.

  “Hey, Sarah,” I say, giving her a brief jerk of my chin as I start to move away.

  “I hear you’re all alone tonight,” she says, not letting go of my hand.

  I’m not surprised that she knows. Sarah is one of Olivia’s best friends. But I am surprised by the suggestive undertone in her voice because she’s one of Olivia’s best friends.

  “Yup, and I plan to stay that way,” I say, refusing to give her supermodel body a once-over. Sarah’s pretty, but there’s no way I’d hook up with one of my ex’s friends. I may be pissed at Liv, but I’m not total trash.

  “Ah,
come on, Eth,” she says, trying to tug me closer as she leans forward slightly. “I can make you feel better.”

  The blatant invitation to her best friend’s recent ex is a turnoff, so I merely give her a quick half smile and pull away. I make it about five steps toward the back door before another girl whose name I can never remember locks her arms around my neck, pushing herself against me like a kitten who accidentally drank too much vodka. She’s talking at me, and I catch the word dick and suck and drunk, but she’s slurring too much to make a full sentence, and instead of being turned on, I feel tired.

  When did this whole scene start to feel so fucking trashy?

  I foist the drunk girl onto one of my frat brothers and head out the back door. It’s not any cooler out here than it was in there, but other than a few couples making out, it’s relatively quiet.

  I sit on a crumbling brick wall, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here. Normally my night would be just beginning, but now all I can think about is getting back to my air-conditioned apartment, where I don’t have to talk to anyone.

  Then again, being alone means more time thinking, and I’m not sure I want to do that either.

  I run a hand over the back of my neck, rolling my head on my shoulders, when I see her. She’s only a couple of feet away, but with the black shirt, pants, and boots, she blends into the night.

  “Kendrick,” I say, tilting my head up toward the sky so I don’t stare at her boobs.

  “Price,” she says in the same bored voice.

  Neither of us says anything for several minutes, and it’s kind of nice to be around someone who doesn’t expect me to perform.

  “For the record, I like this version best,” she says after several moments of silence.

  “Huh?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lift a shoulder. “Your personas. There’s that nauseatingly charming one I met the first day. There’s the sulky one in the hallway just now. And then there’s this one. Quiet and a little sad. I like him best.”

  I turn my head to stare at her. “You like me sad? You really are a ghoul.”

  She looks totally unperturbed by this as she fiddles with one of her earrings. “Well, I don’t want you suicidal or anything. I just like that you’re not trying so hard.”