Beck scoops up my skirt and tosses it to me. “You should probably head out.”
He’s right, but I’m reluctant to leave. If I walk away, this will end up being nothing more than a dream. And I’m scared of that happening.
“Okay.” I yank the skirt up my thighs and over my hips until it settles at my waist.
Awkwardness descends. There is so much I want to say, but I have no idea how to express my thoughts. Instead of taking that leap and putting myself out there, I turn away and start for the gate. With every step, doubt and fear rains down on me.
“Mia?”
I swing around, unsure what I’ll find.
“I meant what I said about wanting to take you out.”
A burst of giddiness chases away the misgivings that creep in at the edges.
Uncertainty flickers in his eyes. “You want that too, right?”
“I do.” More than I’m willing to admit because as much as I want to believe in Beck, I need him to prove me wrong.
“Talk soon?”
“Yeah.”
A hint of a smile curves his lips and touches his eyes, softening the hardness filling them.
When he remains silent, I raise my hand in a wave and return home. My head spins as I relive everything that has transpired in the last twelve hours.
I’m no longer a virgin.
Beck and I are going on a date.
Alyssa will shit her pants when I tell her what happened.
It’s enough to bring a gurgle of laughter to my lips.
Chapter Four
Beck
Once Mia disappears from sight, everything in me uncoils. Reluctantly, I glance toward the house, well aware I’m about to get my ass chewed out for the impromptu party. Although I can’t bring myself to regret it. If I hadn’t thrown the bash, I wouldn’t have hooked up with Mia.
Fuck, I shouldn’t even call it that. What happened between us is way more than a fuck and flee situation. I’ve had plenty of those in the past, and they’ve never meant a damn thing.
This feels nothing like that.
It blows me away that Mia allowed me to take her virginity. Even the thought of being buried deep inside her body is enough to have my cock rising to attention. Instead of giving in to the urge to follow Mia to her house, I yank on my athletic shorts and T-shirt.
Guess it’s time to face the firing squad. Best to get it over with and move on with my day.
Silence greets me as I walk through the first floor. This place is monstrous. I have no idea why we need all this space except that Dad likes to showcase our wealth since it’s a direct translation to his professional accomplishments. Over the last twenty years, he’s built a successful law practice from the ground up. Now he has four partners and fifty associates. His plan is to expand and open a couple of practices in major cities across the United States.
That’s where my brother comes in.
Archibald the second—or Ari as everyone calls him—will be starting his senior year of college at Wesley. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll attend Stanford Law School like the old man. Ari has a four-point GPA and scored a one seventy on the LSAT, so getting accepted shouldn’t be a problem. He’s one smart motherfucker. My parents couldn’t be prouder of him.
Me, on the other hand?
Not so much.
I know Dad had hoped I would follow in his illustrious footsteps, but that’s not going to happen. Unlike my older brother, I had a tougher time in school. Concentration has never been my friend. It’s not that the work was too hard, just freaking boring. My mind wanders. I get antsy. When I was in elementary school, I’d stare out the window while the teacher droned on. All I could focus on was getting outside and throwing the football around with my friends. I lived for recess.
It wasn’t until second grade, after a shit ton of calls and notes from the teacher and principal, that I was taken to a psychologist, tested, diagnosed with ADHD, and promptly put on medication. It helped to settle my ass down, but school has always been fucking torture. I force myself to do it since it’s the only way I’ll make it to the NFL.
It’s no secret that my father is disappointed in how I’ve turned out and the issues I struggle with. Has he come out and said it?
No, but there have been enough sly comments and little digs over the years to let me know how he truly feels. Maybe he thinks I’m an idiot, too stupid to pick up on what he’s laying down. Just because I have trouble focusing, doesn’t mean I’m a dipshit.
My father prizes intelligence over athletic ability. He might boast to anyone who will listen that his son is a talented enough football player to be scouted by the pros, but that’s still second best in his book.