Very Wicked Things (Briarwood Academy 2)

And then in class, he’d sat behind me, using the tip of his pencil to trace little designs on my back. And even though it had sent tingly chills all over me, I’d told him to stop. He did. And perhaps I’d seen a flicker of defeat on his face when I told him, so yeah, now, I wondered what had happened to him.

Turned out a bleached blonde with pink highlights named Bridget happened to him. I passed by them on my way to Geometry, lounging outside in the quad, eating lunch together. I stopped and stared and my heart did a little jerk. What the hell? Already?

He was a quitter. I hated quitters.

He looked up, saw me in the glass door, and waved. Like we were freaking besties. I gritted my teeth, tossed my ponytail, and stormed off. He’d given up. Ha. So much for that connection he kept going on about.

I got to my locker and opened it, not seeing a thing. I stared into it for a good five minutes, trying to rein in my disappointment.

Footsteps sounded behind me and came to a stop. I inhaled and knew it was him. His body hovered just behind mine and warm breath skipped across my nape as he leaned down, pushed my hair out of the way and brushed his lips across my neck. Just barely, but enough to send electric shocks through my entire body.

In a deep voice, he said, “Show me you want me, Dovey. Meet me on the football field. Five o’clock or it’s over.” And then he walked away to class, leaving me as weak and useless as a wet noodle.

Oh, I saw through him alright. Dangling some girl in front of me as if he were tired of chasing me, when in fact, he was manipulating me. Upping the stakes.

He was good. Very good.

And I wanted him with every fiber of my being.

But no way was I meeting him after practice. Never in a gazillion years. NEVER.

And so. At approximately five o’clock when my practice was over, I lingered, dragging out my closing stretches. Mr. Keller and the other dancers eventually left, and I went to the big window that looked out over the football field, but it was bare.

Was he showering off after his workout? And that brought an image to mind.

Next thing I knew, I found myself bolting out the door and straight onto the field, running down the sidelines the entire one hundred yards, all the way to the doors of the athletic center.

I came to a stop when I reached the concession stand, noting how empty the place looked. No one was here. I was too late.

I realized he’d really given up on me.

Feeling dejected, I turned the corner and bam there he was, leaning against the building, still attired in those white football pants I’d dreamed about. I took in the whole picture, not missing how his navy jersey with pads accentuated his already broad chest. With his helmet in one hand, he looked down at his phone, a pensive expression on his face.

He looked delicious.

He looked like trouble.

“Cuba,” I called out, feeling a lot like the heroine in some stupid romantic comedy where the girl finally shows up to claim her guy.

He tucked his cell in his skin-tight, rated R pants. Those should be illegal.

I came to a stop in front of him, panting from my run, but trying to hide it. Not successfully. “Who were you calling?” Me?

“My mom,” he said, his grin warming as he took in my crazy appearance. I smoothed down my ballet skirt. And realized I still had my slippers on. I’m a moron.

He got this pleased expression on his face. “Did you run all the way here?”

I cocked my head. “No.”As if.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, picking his duffle off the ground, then taking mine from my hand. He took off toward the parking lot, and not knowing what else to do, I followed.

“I need my bag.”

He looked back over his shoulder. “You and I have a date. I’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

“And what does that mean?” I said, catching up to him.

“I mean, you’ve been playing hard to get.”

I matched my stride with his. “I thought you liked the chase.”

“Oh, I do, I do. But you wear a boy out, Dovey. If you hadn’t come today—.”

I didn’t let him finish. “I don’t like quitters or manipulators,” I said with a huff. “Give me my bag. Forget you ever spoke to me.”

“Sorry, babe.” He kept marching, a determined look on his face. “And you came. Because you like me too.”

Whoa, all of that blew me away, but I went with, “I’m not your babe. Don’t even try.”

He stopped and grinned. “Fine, you’re not a babe. I can see you’re too good for it. What do you want to be?” He reached out and touched my cheek.

I backed up. “I’m Dovey to you, that’s all.”

He mulled this over. “No one ever call you Happy Feet or Twinkle Toes?”

“Pfft, they’re all dead now ‘cause I killed them.”

We reached his Porsche, and I got sidetracked..

“She’s gorgeous,” I breathed, running my hands across her smooth lines.

“She’s like you in a lot of ways.”

“How?”

“She’s got an aerodynamic body, like you. She’s sexy and hot and I want my hands all over her. I really want to crank her up and ride her, but I think I may have to wait, which is fine. I like delayed gratification.” He arched a brow.

I sputtered. Lost for words was an understatement.

He swung away from me, opened the passenger side, tossed my bag in, and then reached in and grabbed something from the back. He eased out, got down on one knee, and presented me with a lopsided bouquet of red and yellow wildflowers.