Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

I woke up from my nap refreshed and a little excited to be here. I’m forcing myself to think of this summer as an adventure. The people here don’t know me. They don’t have a clue that I was the overlooked and bullied girl in Colorado. I can be anyone I want to be, and even though I don’t know exactly who that is, I know it’s not the girl who hides in fear of being mistreated by people who don’t know a single thing about her.

“So,” I begin, “Ezekiel works here?”

I don’t know how else to start the conversation, but I hope Nan doesn’t think I’m being too forward asking about him.

“His father, Daniel, runs the show, and Ezekiel has been helping him now for years.”

“I don’t know a thing about farms,” I remind her.

“It’s a ranch,” a husky voice says from the other side of the room. Just the gravel in his voice makes my skin tingle with anticipation.

My pulse races when I turn around and see the boy, make that man, standing in the kitchen doorway.

The sneer that was on his face when he looked up at me in the window is now gone, replaced with a sweet smile that transforms his face from a vicious villain to one more reminiscent of a choir boy. I stare at him, unmoving, refusing to be fooled. I’ve seen it before. Just recently one of the guys from the junior class tricked my friend into believing he liked her, only to turn around and embarrass her at the party we went to a few days ago. Guilt swims in my gut when I think about Vaughn and the way he treated Piper. We’ve been the brunt of many pranks, but his actions were an all-time low.

“Excuse me?” I finally manage, realizing he must be waiting for me to answer. Did he ask a question?

“It’s a ranch, not a farm. We raise cattle. We don’t grow crops.” His smile is warm, and the dimples indenting both of his cheeks are almost enough to make me forget the hateful way he looked at me earlier. “I’m Ezekiel Benson. My friends call me Zeke.”

He takes a few steps in my direction, his hand extended to shake mine.

I dart my eyes toward Nan, wondering just how rude it would be to refuse to touch him. She’s watching us like we’re meant to fall in love, and even though it goes against my better judgment, I hold my hand out to shake his, only he doesn’t shake it. He claps my fingers and brings my hand to his mouth, brushing warm lips over the top.

The rough calluses on his palm scrape against the soft, tender flesh of my own hand, and it sends my mind reeling. My throat threatens to close as my mouth instantly dries.

“Frances Young,” I croak. “I mean Frankie. C-call me Fr-Frankie.”

Goosebumps race from his point of contact all the way up my arm. His hazel eyes sparkle, light glinting off the amber flecks near his pupils, making the outer greenish ring even more mesmerizing.

Dang, he’s even better looking up close.

“Always a gentleman,” Nan says as she watches Ezekiel release my hand.

Was the sun shining in his eyes when he looked up at the window? That would explain the change in demeanor from then to now. But the look on his face earlier was easy to read. I refuse to give him the benefit of the doubt. That will only make it easier for him to be mean to me later.

With his penetrating gaze on mine, I rub my palm down the front of my shorts. The action doesn’t seem to bother him. If anything, his smirk deepens, drawing more attention to the two tiny dips in his cheeks.

He’s pretending. He’s acting kind in front of Nan because she’s his boss, and he has a job to keep. That’s all.

The back of my hand where his lips met it burns the entire time I’m setting the table. Ezekiel helps, knowing the layout of the kitchen better than I do. Every time I look at him, he’s smiling at me. Not once while we’re putting the finishing touches on supper, do I catch him with a malicious look on his handsome face.

Then, instead of sitting on the same side as Nan, he takes the chair right beside me, after helping me scoot my chair under the table. I’ve seen it a million times in romantic movies, but we’re not in some fancy restaurant. We’re in the middle of Nan’s farmhouse, and I don’t miss the wink she tosses him as he settles into his own chair. His thigh brushes mine, and as I move a few inches away from him, I notice that his sweet smile still never falters.

“How’s your mother, Ezekiel?” Nan asks as she passes the basket of homemade biscuits across the table to him.