That snaps Ten’s attention off me. For the rest of class, even though he glances my way several times, we don’t speak again. As soon as the bell shrills, I toss my books into my canvas bag and sling it over my shoulder.
Ten’s still looking at me funny.
“If you don’t believe me, ask Rae—”
“So your first time was with a stranger?”
“What?” When it dawns on me he’s referring to the drunken conversation I had with him after the game of “Never Have I Ever,” my body temperature soars. “Not acompletestranger.” The lie sneaks out of my mouth. I should tell him the truth, but what if my lack of experience scares him off? I don’t want to scare Ten off.
“Not a complete stranger, but not a boyfriend?”
I roll my shirtsleeves up to cool my scorching skin. “I thought we weren’t talking about our pasts.”
He nods, but a shadow falls over his face. Does he sense I’m lying, or is he disgusted that I fake-lost my virginity to a sort-of stranger?
Ten hangs his backpack on one shoulder.
“We should never have talked about exes,” I mumble.
“At least it’s out of the way now.” He sighs, then grabs my hand and drags it away from my tote strap.
Relief floods me at the contact, and I curl my fingers over his.
“Can’t wait to see the look on Bolt’s and Archie’s faces when they hear I finally made my move.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“No need for telling when the kissing is so public.”
“Does that bother you?”
I tip up my face and meet his worried gaze. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good. Because I sort of want to do it again.”
He backs me into the cafeteria, which is thankfully empty, pulls me behind a potted palm, and flattens me against the wall. I’ve never been so appreciative of our school’s tropical decor.
Bracketing my head with his forearms, Ten kisses me. Hard. And I feel his kisseverywhere. And even though it’s not a competition, I think this kiss beats all the kisses we shared Saturday night. My arms wrap around his waist and my hands venture up his back, over the knobs of his spine.
Something rings. Probably my heart. Hearts ring when they’re happy, right?
But then Ten is tugging me out of our hiding spot, out of the cafeteria. He releases my hand and starts walking down the hallway toward his next class. Before going inside, he pivots around.
“You’re going to be late,” he says, a brazen lilt to his voice. “You can put the blame on me.”
I most definitely won’t be putting the blame on him, because that would mean explainingwhyTennessee Dylan made me late, and that’s not a conversation I ever plan on having with a teacher.
51
The Fame Game
Even after a couple of days of long make-out sessions—in stairwells, in the parking lot, against the lockers, in his car—dating Ten feels utterly unreal.
