He nods in understanding. “I figured it was something like that, and it might work. Or it might mean she comes at you a different way.”
I lean my head back against the wall. “Please tell me she’s almost eighteen and due to get transferred out?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but she’s already eighteen, and there’s no signs of her going anywhere.”
“Great. Well, my other plan is to lie low, and hopefully, she’ll get bored of coming at me.”
“Yeah, I can’t see that happening. There’s no way the guys will leave you alone. You’re new, and you’re hot, and that’s a winning combo in their minds.”
“And what about your mind?” I tease, trying to look casual and not like I’m enormously pleased at his compliment.
He grins. “Oh, I’m no different than any other horny seventeen-year-old. You’re prime spank bank material, babe. Best get used to it.”
My mouth drops open. “You didnotjust say that to my face!”
“Would you rather I lied to you?”
“Absolutely not,” I splutter, shocked at his bluntness but not in any way unhappy about it.
“Good, because a friendship built on lies is not worth having.”
His good humor disappears, and a muscle clenches in his jaw as he looks away. I’m not sure what memories have returned to haunt him, but I know he’s gone someplace else, and I make it my mission to pull him back. I take a proper look at the glossy black guitar resting on the floor at his side. “What kind of guitar is that?”
His gaze flits to his guitar, and the tense lines on his face relax. “It’s a Fender CD-60S.” He runs his hand lovingly over the body of the guitar. “It’s about the only thing around here that brings me any joy, any peace.” His face is an open book as he looks at me, and I see the truth shining in his eyes. This guitar means everything to him.
“How long have you had it?”
“Since I was a kid. One of my mom’sboyfriendsleft it behind when they broke up, and I hid it before she could sell it. I’ve had it ever since.”
I sense similarities between our mothers, but I don’t quiz him on it. We’re done with the heavy for today. “Sweet.” I run the tips of my fingers over the cool, glossy wood. “She’s a thing of beauty all right.”
“Have you ever played?” he asks, staring straight into my eyes, highlighting how close we are to one another.
His eyes are more of a yellow-green color today but no less mesmerizing. I have to physically tear my gaze from his in order to form a coherent sentence. “No. I always wanted to learn how to play a musical instrument, and my sixth-grade teacher begged my mom to let me take lessons, but we didn’t have the money.” I shrug, like it didn’t almost break my heart. “My teacher said I had a good ear, and I’ve always felt a real connection with music, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“There’s still plenty of time,” he reassures me. “And I could teach you how to play, if you like?”
“In here?” I glance around the room. While most of the other kids are occupied, playing board games, reading, chatting, or watching TV, more than a few heads are observing our interaction. “No thanks. I want to blend into the background, not become the center of attention.”
“Like I already said,” he says, smiling as his gaze darts to my lips. “There isn’t a hope in hell of you fading into the background. You’re way too pretty and far too interesting to go unnoticed.”
“Are you deliberately flirting with me?”
“What would your answer be if I said I was?” He cocks his head to the side, and waves of dirty-blond hair fall into his eyes. I dig my fingers into my thighs to resist the urge to run my fingers through the messy strands.
“That I’m not in the market for a hookup, so if that’s your game plan, you might as well give up now.” It’s my usual mantra when I’m being hit on, and the words leave my mouth before I’ve had time to form a different response, because, in all honestly, I don’t think I’d turn him down if he was flirting with me.
“That’s not my M.O.,” he protests. “I like talking to you, and it’s just so … fucking refreshing to meet a girl with smarts and no hidden agenda.”
“How do you know I don’t have an agenda?” I quirk a brow, trying to ignore the fact that his knee is now brushing against my thigh.
“You’re not the only one with sharp observational skills.”
“Is this the part where you say you see the real me and we share a connection you’ve never shared with anyone before?”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Could I be any more lame?
