All the Sweet Move (All The Right Moves 1)

I clutch the wheel out of frustration.

“Yeah, I think she felt bad for me more than anything,” Molly says, a wide grin illuminating her face. “That sister of yours is a little stinker.”

“You think? Dude, you have no idea how many times that kid has embarrassed the shit out of me. She’s a beast.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

I cock my head in thought, trying to come up with a really good Kendall story. “Ah, I’ve got one. For starters, last year my parents dropped me off at a hockey clinic in Cleveland—are you picturing this? When we got to the ice rink, there were all these coaches standing around outside the locker room. Instead of keeping her mouth shut like a normal ten-year-old, Kendall walks up to Jeremy Hartman from Philly and says in this snotty voice, ‘Just so you know, my brother here says you suck and he’s going to totally whoop your guys’ butts.’ If my mom hadn’t grabbed her and clamped her hand over Kendall’s mouth, she would have kept talking. That was the world’s shittiest week. I got checked into the boards every time someone from Philly skated by. Bruised for weeks afterward.”

“No!” Molly gasps.

“Yeah. And don’t think for one second that kid didn’t know those guys were going to be after me. She isn’t an idiot.”

“Maybe she’s around too many hockey players.” Molly laughs, resting her damp hair against the back of the seat, her neck thrown back and exposed. Like a moth to a flame, I look and have the urge to pull the Jeep over just so I can run my fingers across the smooth skin of her cheek. Instead, I clear my throat and focus on the road.

I’m not even going to try examining my feelings for her right now.

Too complicated.

CHAPTER 25

MOLLY

“It just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

– Jenna

As hard as I tried, last night I could not lose the image of Weston’s dad in my head—the image of him leaning forward to glare at me like I was the devil’s spawn out to corrupt his son.

His golden child.

For the first time in a few weeks, I’m very confused. Instead of the fluttery butterflies that once resided in my stomach, I’ve had a knot transplanted there.

I can see Jenna in the lunch line, bouncing on her heels as she retells a story—or at least, I’m going to assume that’s what she’s doing—to Olivia Wilder. I’m not alone at our lunch table, but I definitely feel like an island with so much weight on my shoulders.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, I chant inside my head.

Ugh, so much to tell her, and she’s either going to freak out on me or have a good dose of advice. I’m hoping it’s the latter.

Eventually, Jenna weaves her way through the crowded cafeteria and plops down next to me, the light, fluttery breeze kicking up the soft smell of her flowery perfume. I take a little whiff and lean over. “You smell good,” I say, giving her a little wink and nudging her with my leg. “What’s the occasion?”

“Always look and smell your best, that’s my motto,” she jokes, grabbing a petite carrot off her tray and popping it into her mouth with a crunch. “So, since you never called me last night, I’m going to assume the absolute best case scenario—that you were ravished in the back of your car and no longer have to live with the memory of giving your V-card to some drunk college dude. Please, dear god, tell me that’s what happened.”

This loud declaration earns me a few stares from our other friends at the table, and I kick Jenna under the table. Why is she always—and I do mean always—so damn obnoxious?

“Okay, loud mouth, first of all, he was not drunk,” I hiss, even though I’m lying, but Jenna holds her hand up to silence me.

“Can we skip all the idle chit-chat and get to the good stuff? According to my Swatch watch, we have thirty-two minutes. Time is of the essence. Just tell me this: Did. He. Touch.Your. Boobs?” Crunch crunch go more carrots, which, now that I’m looking at her, match the chevron shirt she’s got on. She looks adorable today with her hair in a messy bun and large hoop earrings swaying from her ears.

Damn her for being so perky and cute.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to sit here and not smack you?” Now, only a few people are staring, so I give my best fake smile, let out a low fake laugh, and mutter through clenched teeth, “If you don’t knock it off, I’m not telling you a damn thing. Do you think I want Stacy to hear all my personal business?”

Stacy Bingham is my only frienemy. She always sits at our table, and although I have no real reason to dislike her, we have just never gotten along like good friends do. There’s always just been something about her I don’t trust…and now she’s watching me over her brown paper lunch sack, keenly aware something is going on at the other side of the table.