Page 95 of Sinister

The food almost catches in my throat at the last sentence, and I cough for a few seconds. “No, it’s fine. I’m good,” I say when Sin looks alarmed.

Why would he just say something like that? Now he wants me to meet his parents?

Well, you are the mother of their grandchild, so it’s not that off base. My annoying inner voice never takes a day off, so my anxiety surges back and perhaps shows on my face, because Sin hurries to add, “Because you’re so well read and clever. They love meeting my friends.”

“Sure, that sounds . . . nice,” I reply with a reassuring smile.

A cozy silence ensues. Only a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even imagined that such a scene would be possible between me and Sin, but here we are. And he’s been such a gentleman, almost too much of a gentleman.

Perhaps this is how a body changes while growing another, smaller one inside it. Perhaps my hormones were such a raging mess that every now and then, I catch myself wishing Sin would just . . . lean in and kiss me. And maybe do more than that.

There’s an undeniable tension building between us. But he hasn’t made a move since that night.

And now I’m more charmed by him, and even hornier.

Sigh.

“All right,” Sin says loudly, jolting me from my daydream. “Next question: Who painted The Starry Night?”

“Vincent van Gogh. That’s like, the easiest one!” I chime back.

“Fair enough,” he concedes with a chuckle. “You’re getting too good at this.”

“And you’re not working hard enough!” I offer a delighted smile. “Come on, Arnoult, hit me with your best shot.”

“Fine, how about this: Petra Valentine, will you go to the fall ball with me?” he asks with all the somber anticipation of a guy proposing marriage.

But here’s the catch: Sin’s been asking me to the fall ball for weeks now. And every time, I have refused.

“Oh my God, you’re like a dog with a bone!” I toss a grape at him, and he smoothly catches it with his mouth. The sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the fruit sends a tingle down my spine. “Seriously, what is with you and this fall ball?”

“It’s not just another school dance, Petra. It’s an exclusive St. Anselm Hall tradition. And the food at these things is to die for, trust me.”

I roll my eyes playfully and shake my head.

He adds, “Besides, I want to hold you in my arms and dance to a nice song.”

The way his voice cracks over the last words affects me more than the words themselves and their yearning for intimacy. I blush and laugh softly.

“You’re really not going to give up, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he says, sitting back with a coy grin. “So what’s your answer?”

His persistence is obviously very endearing, and I find myself considering the offer more seriously than ever before. Honestly, I don’t mind getting dolled up and dancing the night away. God knows I need to let down my hair.

But something else is nagging at the back of my mind: a reminder of another guy who had asked me to the ball.

Just last Friday, Harry had shuffled up to me in the library: incidentally, in the art history section where we had first met.

“How’s the project going, Petra?” he’d asked, looking over the books I had in my hand with genuine interest.

“Hey, Harry, it’s going good!” I had brightly replied. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Classwork and homework and all the many hours of leisure in between,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“Of course! How can I forget all this free time we get?” I joked back before realizing that Harry had a sheepish look on his face. “What is it? Something wrong?” I had asked.

“Nothing’s wrong . . . I-I was wondering if you’d come to the fall ball with me?” He had sprinted through the words so fast that for a moment, I was confused.