“Glad we’ve cleared that up.”
“Yup.” Feeling strange, I spin on my heel and start to leave, but his voice wraps around my body and stops me.
“I’ll see you at the party.”
I turn around. “Tomorrow night? You’re going?”
“Of course.”
“You hate parties.”
“So do you.”
My lips part in shock. There’s no way he could know that. No way he could see through me so easily. “Everyone likes parties. Well, everyone but you.”
“Not you. Not me.” He takes a step closer until we’re inches apart, and I try not to sway toward him. “I know you better than you think.” His voice lowers. “I know what you like.”
Tingles spread through my body as I once again recall my favorite fantasy late at night, of his hands on my skin. “And what do I like, Easton?”
He leans a little closer—so close his body heat envelops me. Runs his tongue across his bottom lip, and his breath, it tickles my ear. My heartbeat dips between my thighs, and I’m so hot I don’t know what I’d do if he actually touched me right now. Probably go up in flames.
“Orange juice.”
I’m doused with cold water, and my eyes snap to his. “Orange juice?”
He quirks an eyebrow and steps back. “Expecting something else?”
“I ...” I start, flustered. “No. I don’t know. Whodoesn’tlike orange juice?”
“Right, orange juice and parties. You really know how to blend in.”
I laugh but immediately swallow it back. This is weird, and maybe the longest conversation we’ve ever had. I feel ... nervous. Edgy. Giddy. As if tiny birds are diving in my stomach. “You’re awfully sure of yourself today.”
“I’m always sure of myself.” The seriousness of his voice takes me aback. He squints and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s you I’m still trying to figure out.”
I lift my chin. “I thought you knew me.”
“Better than you think. Still not enough.”
Uncertainty hums in the air. I stare at him for a moment, and he stares back. His hair is getting long, brushing the tips of his ears. I want to run my fingers through it. I want to pretend I can. We’re siblings—blood or not. Easton’s pure, and I’m a girl paranoid of a scratched-up Mercedes.
But for a moment, I let myself pretend.
I bite my lower lip like a normal teenage girl with a crush and say, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to keep trying.”
Whirling around, I walk confidently away and check that no one is looking.
Then I do it.
I smile.
Eva
(Fourteen years old)
“Oh my god. Is she crying?” Beverly laughs. “Are you crying, little girl? Do you need your mommy?”
I sniff, my cheeks flaming. “Just give it back. I earned every penny.”
