Chapter 10

I’m neck deep in construction paper butterflies and pipe cleaner caterpillars when the end-of-day bell rings. The kids drop their scissors and glue sticks to run for their cubbies where their backpacks and coats are kept.

“Not so fast,” I remind them. “Come put your supplies away and hang up your projects to dry.”

“Miss Marsh?” One of the girls taps me on the arm. “I can’t find my shoe.”

She stands forlorn in one purple waterproof boot and one cartoon character sock.

“When’s the last time you had your shoe, Katy?”

She shrugs.

“Did you and Tamara trade shoes again?”

Another shrug. This one with some bottom lip protruding and eyes cast down at her mismatched feet.

I swallow a sigh. “Go find Tamara and see where she left your shoe.”

Katy scurries off. I watch her progress while picking up scraps of paper and pushing desks back into their proper arrangement. With Tamara’s guidance, who herself isn’t wearing any shoes, they find the missing footwear in the reading corner with the costumes Mrs. Gardner uses to have the kids act out characters while they read aloud.

The thing about first graders, they lie as easy as breathing. They’re just not very good at it yet. That, and it’s damn near impossible to keep all their clothes on them. Half my job is just making sure we send them home wearing only what they arrived in. Yup. It is a thankless and unending battle against the Lost & Found box.

“If there was such a thing as foot lice,” Mrs. Gardner says as we see the last stragglers off, “this classroom would be quarantined by the CDC.”

I grin. “At least it’s still cold enough outside that they’re wearing socks. I hate to see what happens when it gets warmer.”

She heaves a defeated breath. “That’s why I keep anti-fungal spray in my desk.”

There’s a lovely thought.

Hastings Elementary is just a ten-minute walk from my three-story apartment building. There aren’t any high-rises in Hastings, only little buildings and shops, and residential streets lined with townhouses or rambling old Victorians. It’s a cute town and everything is in walking distance, which I appreciate because I don’t own a car.

I let myself into my tiny studio and grab a granola bar from the cupboard. As I munch on it, I text Sasha with my free hand.

ME: I don’t need to dress up for dinner or anything, right??

I’ve never actually gone out with Lisa and those girls, so I have no idea what to expect. But we’re only meeting at the diner, so, really, how fancy can it be?

SASHA: Dress up?? I’m not. Jeans + tank + leather jacket + boots = me.

ME: Ok, good. I’m keeping it cas too.

HER: You bringing C? 😛

ME: Why would I be bringing C??

HER: Lisa said bf’s were welcome…

ME: Haha.

Sasha knows damn well that Conor isn’t really my boyfriend, but she’s getting a kick out of teasing me about it. Or maybe she thinks if she refers to him as my boyfriend enough times, then it’ll magically transform from pretend to real. Poor, naïve Sasha. I have no doubt Conor will get bored soon, which means the charade can’t last much longer. A shame, really, because our supposed love affair continues to piss the hell out of Abigail.

Last night at a mandatory house dinner, Abigail’s boyfriend wouldn’t let up on all the “jock cock” I was gobbling while blatantly staring at my tits. During dessert he remarked that I looked like Marilyn Monroe only “extra curvy,” at which point Sasha asked him what it’s like living life with a micropenis. Abigail, meanwhile, kept scratching at the side of her neck every time Conor’s name came up, until her skin was red and raw and flaking off her. Is it possible to contract jealousy hives?

Of course, such pettiness would be entirely beneath me.

Entirely.

ME: You don’t think Lisa invited Abigail, do you?

SASHA: God I hope not. I don’t have the patience for 2 dinners in a row with that witch. If she’s there, we turn around and walk right out, deal?

ME: Deal.

Luckily, when Sasha and I walk into the diner later that night, Abigail and her douchebag boyfriend Kevin are nowhere to be seen. Lisa brought her boyfriend Cory, though, and Robin’s sitting with some guy who introduces himself as “Shep.” Olivia came solo, and I end up seated next to her, with Sasha on my other side.

I get barely a bite into my BLT before the girls start in on me.

“Okay, but, like, how is he in the sack?” Lisa asks, thoroughly ignoring her boyfriend’s uneasy squirm. Clearly he’d rather be anywhere else than smack in the middle of Conor Edwards’ exploits.

You and me both, brother.

“How big is he?” Olivia demands.

“Is he circumcised?”

“Grower or shower?”

“Could we not?” Sasha says, dangling a chicken finger in the air. “I don’t want to hear about dicks while I’m eating.”

“Thank you,” mumbles Cory.

“Fine, but is he a good kisser?” Olivia has her phone out, openly salivating at Conor’s Instagram. The boyfriends have at this point been reduced to chewing their burgers in emasculated silence. “He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Not too much mouth.”

“What does too much mouth even mean?” I ask with a laugh.

“You know, when they’re like trying to swallow your lips. I don’t want to feel any part of the kiss on my chin.” Olivia plants her elbows on the table, a fork in one fist. “Spill it, Taylor. I want filthy details.”

“His kissing is…” A mystery. Unascertained. None of my business. “Apt.”

“Apt, she says.” Sasha shakes her head, smirking. “Only you would call kissing ‘apt.’”

“I don’t know, it’s kissing.” I shrug awkwardly.

How much is there to say on the topic? Nothing, in fact, when I’m working on entirely fabricated experience. Not that the idea doesn’t hold some appeal. Conor is incredibly attractive, and he has really, really nice lips. Full, in a masculine way. He seems like the kind of guy who treats kissing as its own pursuit rather than a means to an end.

To be fair, I haven’t kissed many people—only four, to be exact, and three of those four were terrible experiences. Junior year of high school was my first kiss, and we both sucked at it. Waaaay too much tongue. We made out a few times after that but it didn’t get any better.

Then came freshman year of college, when I was pressured into kissing Rebecca during pledge week, and sophomore year, when I accidentally kissed Abigail’s boyfriend on a dare.

My fourth go at kissing wasn’t awful. Not earth-shattering, either, but at least it didn’t include buckets of saliva or forced contact. I dated a guy named Andrew for four months and he was a decent kisser. We never went further than dry humping, though, which is probably why we broke up. He claimed it was because I couldn’t “open up” to him, and I suppose that played a part in it too, but we both knew the no-sex part wasn’t cutting it for him. I just… I didn’t feel comfortable doing it with him.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever meet a guy who makes me feel secure enough to take all my clothes off in front of him.

“Oh my God.” Olivia all but dives under the table. Beside her, Lisa chokes on her soda and begins hacking up a lung.

I turn around to see what’s got them in such a fit.

Conor Fucking Edwards.

Why am I not surprised? I feel like he’s got Spidey senses that alert him whenever chicks are discussing his penis.

All six feet and two inches of him comes striding through the diner toward our table. He’s in his black-and-silver Briar Hockey jacket and a pair of dark-blue jeans that hug his long legs. Steely gray eyes sparkle with mischief as he combs one hand through his long blond hair. When his gaze lands on me, the excitement in his full, broad smile does a number on my head. And my pulse.

Oh Lord. Men shouldn’t get to be so pretty.

“Babe, I missed you.” Conor snatches me up from my chair and wraps me in his arms.

He smells so good. I don’t know what kind of products he uses, but he always smells vaguely of the ocean. And coconut. I love coconut.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“Having dinner with my girlfriend,” he says with a sly smirk that suggests he’s up to no good. “She tries to keep me locked up in her bedroom all day,” Conor tells the table, “but I thought it’d be fun to meet her friends.”

For one terrifying moment I think he’s leaning in to kiss me and I lick my lips and inhale slowly, my entire body braced and rigid.

Instead, he presses the lightest touch of his lips to the tip of my nose. In the aftermath, I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or relieved.

“So this happened fast.” Olivia makes room for Conor to pull up a chair and sit between me and her. I don’t miss the way her hungry gaze follows his every movement.

“Did you two know each other before the party?” Lisa asks. Her eyes aren’t as ravenous—probably as to not humiliate her boyfriend any further—but she’s as focused on Conor as Olivia is.

“No, we didn’t,” I answer for him. “We met for the first time that night.”

“She blew my mind.” Conor puts his arm around my shoulders, drawing tiny patterns with his fingertips. “Time is relative.”

Just to fuck with him, I place my hand on his thigh and tell the group, “He’s already trying to convince me to let him move in with me.”

But my fuckery attempt backfires. First off, his thigh is rock hard beneath my palm. Second…well, I can’t think of a second thing right now because my hand is on Conor Edwards’ thigh.

Before I can snatch my hand away, Conor covers my knuckles with one big palm, effectively trapping me there. The warmth of his touch has me fighting a hot shiver.

“Obviously my girl thinks it’s too soon,” he says solemnly. “But I disagree. It’s never too soon to show how committed you are, right?” He directs this to the boyfriends, who each blurt out clichés in a mad scramble to avoid winding up in the doghouse.

“Yeah, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” says Cory.

“When you know, you know,” agrees Shep.

Sasha snorts loudly, then takes a sip of her soda.

“Conor loves commitment,” I explain. “He’s been planning his wedding since he was a little boy. Right, babe?”

“Right.” He sharply pinches my thumb, but his expression is all innocence.

“He even has one of those, what do you call it, Con? A love board?”

“It’s just a Pinterest account, babe.” He glances around the table. “How am I gonna know what kind of wedding reception centerpieces I like if I don’t have some options to choose from, amiright?”

Olivia, Lisa and Robin all but rip off their panties and throw them at Conor’s beautiful head. Sasha meanwhile looks like she’s struggling not to laugh.

“You getting married, Con?” a new voice drawls. “What, did my invite get lost in the mail?”

I look over to see a stunning woman in all black sauntering up to the table. She lightly bumps Conor’s shoulder with her hip, a wry smile playing on her full red lips.

This chick is drop-dead gorgeous. Dark hair, dark eyes, those vixen lips. And she’s rocking the kind of perfect body I can only dream of—slender waist, long limbs, and perfectly proportioned breasts.

Immediately I feel self-conscious in my leggings and loose white sweater. I tend to wear oversized shirts that fall off one shoulder, because they hide the curves beneath them but still show off a bit of skin. Bare shoulders are the safe kind of skin. The rest stays hidden.

“Sorry, Bren, you’re not invited,” Conor drawls back. “You’re too much trouble.”

“Mmm-hmmm, sure. I’m the one who’s trouble.” Her gaze flicks down to mine and Conor’s joined hands before locking onto my face. “And you are?”

“Taylor,” Conor answers easily, and I’m glad he does because my vocal cords have frozen.

And who are YOU? I want to demand. I mean, I assume she’s an ex of his—or at the very least a former lover—and the envy that coats my throat makes it difficult to maintain a neutral expression. Of course this is the kind of woman Conor would be attracted to. She’s perfection.

“Babe, this is Brenna,” Conor introduces. “She’s my coach’s daughter.”

Even worse. Now I’ve got porn scenarios about forbidden love flashing through my head. The coach’s daughter and the hunky star player. She blows him in the locker room and then they have sex on Daddy’s desk.

“Wait, I know you. Brenna Jensen. You’re going out with Jake Connelly!” Lisa suddenly blurts out.

The dark-haired goddess narrows her eyes. “Yeah, so?”

“So, that’s…you’re so lucky,” breathes Lisa. “Jake Connelly is…”

“Is what?” her boyfriend Cory demands, his tone revealing he’s officially fed up with the way his girl has been acting all night. “Finish that sentence, Lisa—he’s what?”

I think Lisa knows she’s pushed him too far, because she backpedals as if it’s an Olympic event. “He’s one of the best players in the NHL,” she finishes.

“One of?” Brenna mocks. “No, honey, he’s the best.”

Conor chuckles softly. “Whatcha doing here, B?”

“Picking up dinner for Dad and me. He can’t cook for shit and I’m tired of eating burnt food every time I visit him. Speaking of food…” Her gaze shifts to the counter, where one of the waitresses at the cash is signaling Brenna. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Con. Try not to elope without telling your coach beforehand.”

Everyone watches her go, and this time it’s Cory and Shep whose eyes are glazing over. Brenna is sex personified. She walks with such hip-swaying confidence that I’m once again swimming with envy, even knowing she has a boyfriend and therefore no threat to my fake relationship.

“Hey,” Lisa chides, smacking Cory’s arm.

“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it,” he murmurs, his attention still fixed on Brenna Jensen’s ass.

Sasha grins at our sorority sister. “He’s got you there, Lisa.”

“So, back to Conor’s wedding board on Pinterest,” Olivia announces.

“Nah,” Conor says, “those pics are just for Taylor. Although…we might need to add some dress samples for inspiration, eh, baby?”

I swallow a laugh. “Definitely, baby.”

“Is this…” Olivia’s gaze darts between us, “getting serious?”

Conor looks at me. I expect his usual giddy mischief and mirth, and it’s certainly there—but this time, there’s something else too. A passing intensity in the crease of his forehead and straight line of his lips.

“It’s getting there,” he tells Olivia. But his gaze doesn’t leave mine.