Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

Nate passed it over. "Why? What are you going to do?"

I smirked. "You'll see." I drew a tiny sailboat next to my name and the date then slapped the pencil against Nate's palm.

His gaze slid from the sailboat to me. "I like it."

"Thank you. Dad promised I could have a sailboat tattoo when I turn sixteen."

"Cool." Nate assumed a somber expression at odds with his wild hair and mischief filled eyes. "Within these walls, you can only speak the truth."

I glanced past him. "And read comics."

His eyes glittered. "Well, yeah."

"Haylee?" Nate's voice brought me back to the present.

"Sorry. I was just thinking about what a smooth operator you must have been, luring your se

cret crush to your castle." I tried to picture the other girls who had been at the party, but all I could remember was the secret room and the sound of Nate's mother calling his name.

"I wasn't that smooth," Nate confessed. "I sat behind her in school. Her blonde surfer hair reminded me of a mermaid. I drove her crazy tugging on it." His eyebrows flicked up. "At least she noticed me."

My heart tightened like wire rope on a winch. I gathered up the ends of my dyed hair and dropped them behind my shoulders. Hopefully, Nate didn't notice my fingers trembling.

"Now you know my deep, dark secret. What's yours?"

A fresh blush fast-tracked up my throat and blazed toward my eyes. Blinking away tears, I collected my messenger bag and stood.

Nate scrambled to his feet and clasped my wrist. "Sail--Haylee, I'm sorry. I've been away for years. This is my first day back, and I saw you, and ..." He released my wrist.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and fled.

I hate you, Nate.

ALL NIGHT, OLD NEWSPAPER headlines had rippled through my nightmares like yellow and black contagion flags.

"Saint James Abandons Plan to Build 50 Luxury Homes."

"Tradesmen Hit Hard by Saint James Pullout."

The words remained imprinted on my mind while I made my way to my first period class. Had our financial decline started four-and-a-half years ago? My shoulders ached from being buffeted by the throng. I recoiled from the onslaught. Shoulders hunched, my torso angled sideways, I threaded through the pushing, cacophonous crowd. Were all public high schools like this, funneling hundreds of students into narrow hallways and stairwells? My old school resembled a low-key village. Right now, my friends would be sauntering across tamped earth paths as they headed toward clustered freestanding classrooms. "Hi, Sailor!" kids from all grades would call out. I'd wave and say, "Hey!"

Not here. And I'm not Sailor Saint James anymore. Well, technically I am, but only because Mom won't let me legally change my name. "Give it a year, Sailor, then see how you feel." She did agree to a temporary modification. Luckily, Mom and the principal had been sorority sisters in college. They must have taken a blood oath to aid each other because Ms. Miller got all the teachers to agree to call me Haylee Birch.

Finally crossing the threshold to Spanish, I checked my cellphone. My chest constricted. Still no texts from my so-called friends asking me where I had moved to or wishing me good luck. Maybe they had forgotten me. Or, maybe they believed the tabloid reports that Dad had been bankrupt and had deliberately sunk the yacht--and killed himself--so Mom and I would get the insurance money. Only the insurance company was holding up our claim pending their investigation. Standard procedure, we were told, when no body had been found and the payout would be in the millions. Meanwhile, the legal costs of fighting them were burying us deeper and deeper.

Dad would never have done that to us. Not on purpose. Never.

The school bell bellowed at about two hundred decibels. Startled, I dropped my phone. Nate, who had sidled up to me unnoticed, dove and caught it.

"Here you go." His long fingers grazed my skin as he handed me the phone. The contact fluttered my stomach. Nate Sheehan was a pest, I reminded myself. Yes, he had grown and thinned out. And yesterday after school, I might have fantasized about tracing the fine line of his jaw from his ear all the way to the soft flesh of his lips. But Nate could blow my cover any second. So, no way was I going there.

"Thanks." My fingers closed around the phone.

"My pleasure." Those pale sage eyes sucked me in. Students shuffled past us. Chairs scraped. Conversations died down. "About yesterday--"

"Please take your seat, Mr. Sheehan," Senora Mendoza commanded.

Nate grimaced. "Si, Senora." A strawberry blush bloomed across his freckles. He pivoted like a menswear model during Fashion Week and strode with haughty grace across the classroom.