Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

Everyone is gearing up for prom and some big swim meet going down next week. Finals loom in the air. The chatter around me regarding everyone’s summer plans borders on unreal. Vacations to Spain, studies abroad, volunteer programs in South America, internships at Fortune 500 companies…

I shake my head as I make another circle on the map.

There’s a knock on the door—two loud, quick raps—before Sebastian waltzes through it, tossing his bag on the floor.

I watch over my shoulder as he kicks off his shoes. “Someone could have been naked in here, you know.”

He glances up at me, mouth slanted into a wry smirk. “Baby, I live in hope.”

“Don’t call me baby.” I use my pen to point at the bed next to mine. “Georgia lives here, too.”

“I just saw her in the quad.” He shrugs, landing obnoxiously on the bed at my side, stomach-down, just like me. It makes the map crinkle and tear at the corner, and I shoot him a glare. He ignores it, inspecting the marks we’ve been making for the past week. “Huh. You added another one.”

Defensively, I say, “Yes,” and tug the map closer. He’s always got something snarky to say about my itinerary choices.

“Are you for real?” he groans, realizing what I’ve circled. “Four Corners? That’s the most touristy shit ever.”

Hotly, I argue. “It’s neat. Who doesn’t want to stand in four places at once?”

He slides his eyes to me. “Are we taking fanny packs, too?”

“It’s on the way to the Grand Canyon.”

He flops onto his side, face pained. “I was really convinced you were cooler than this.”

I jab him with an elbow. “Stuff it, or I’m putting the Sea Glass Museum back on the list.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

I nod. “Ditto.”

Despite all that, his hand comes out to rest on my lower back, sweeping beneath my shirt. “Got the last one today.” I look at him, noticing now that he looks tired. “Brown.”

I instantly sit up, stomach swooping. “Really?”

He rolls onto his back, pulling an envelope from seemingly out of nowhere. “Came this morning.”

We made a deal to discard the email acceptances, dumping them the instant they hit. Instead, going old school so we could assess it all together. I take the envelope from him. Although I know letter thickness doesn’t mean anything, I still weigh it in my hand. “So, I’m just waiting for Chicago now.”

“Yep.” His eyes follow as I stand to tuck the letter away in my drawer, next to my letter from Rhode Island. His Chicago pick—or maybe more accurately, his father’s—is Northwestern. The envelope for that one is already right there, all snugged up between Emory and SCAD. Our two Yale letters are at the bottom. “We could just open them now.”

I slam the drawer shut. “No!”

He thrusts out a hand. “Come on! We’ve got seven of eight.”

“You’re worse than a kid sniffing out Christmas presents,” I snipe back, folding up the map and stowing it away beneath the bed. “It’ll be better once they’re all here. That way, we can make a choice.”

He makes a low, frustrated sound, because he’s an impatient fuck. “Maybe we can open two per day. It’ll be here by then, won’t it?”

But I stand firm, kneeing up onto the bed. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Virtue can suck my dick.”

“You’re tired,” I say as I snuggle up to his side. I’ve learned that Bass can get on a serious tear about some things, but that he’s also easily distracted. “How’d your test go?”

He grunts, arms coming around my shoulders to press me close. “Fine, probably. I never have a bad test.” I know he’s not lying. He might have issues with behavior and actual, like, attendance. But school comes easier to Bass than it does to me.

I settle my cheek against his shoulder, suddenly feeling tired myself. “Nap.”