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As much as I despise the idea, my feet carry me forward before my brain can come up with a suitable argument. Before I know it, I’m staring at my stupefied reflection in the tiny mirror. Apart from the red hair and the pink sweater, I look nothing like Molly Ringwald, yet I have a feeling I’ll never shake the comparison as long as I live.
With one last steadying breath, I step through the door, straight into my worst nightmare. Todd and Kelly work like sadistic elves, positioning the others with unsuppressed glee until I’m the only missing piece of their performance art. And smack in the middle of their modern Breakfast Club is Jordan—glowing neon fishtail lining his scalp and my face on the stupid Kennedy merch T-shirt plastered across his chest.
“Come on, Kennedy.” Kelly claps her hands, like a dog trainer calling me to my mark. “You’re the star of Kennedy’s Breakfast-in-Bed Club.”
One of the guys groans, and I’m pretty sure I can hear Jordan’s blood pressure spike as his heavily lined eyes stare a hole through me.
The word scholarship loops through my head until my brain threatens to explode. Hold it together just a little bit longer. As soon as this humiliating photo shoot is over, I take the reins.
If I survive that long.
28
“How exciting!” Mom swipes the iPad display, scrolling through the behind-the-scenes photos Eve’s Orchid forwarded me from Saturday’s photo shoot.
According to the email, they’re counting down every day leading to the formal with new photos and exciting trivia. And immediately after I announce the winner, the feature—including my interview—goes live.
“I can’t wait to see the ones they’re using for the feature.” Mom zooms in on Caleb’s crotch. “Think we can get a sneak peek?”
I swipe the image from the screen. “Mom, this is the sneak peek. You’ll have to wait until after the formal like everyone else.”
“Oh, pshh, that’s not fair. What if you’re not happy with those pictures?”
I shrug. The truth is I have no idea what happens if I don’t like the photos. Apparently, I signed a waiver when Nicole was in charge of everything. Now that I’ve taken back the reins, I guess I’m stuck with her decisions—good or bad.
“These are amazing. Look how handsome Elijah and Caleb are. And who’s this in the black sweater?”
“Grant.”
“He’s cute, too. And the other boy?” She cocks her head and glances at me. “What’s his name?”
“Jordan.” My pulse quickens.
A slow smile spreads across Mom’s face.
“I had no idea you liked bad boys.” She hums her approval. “He looks familiar.”
“He does?” I lean over her shoulder, poring over Jordan’s stunning presence.
“It’s hard to tell under the makeup but . . .” She squints, zooming in for a closer look. “Yes, I’m sure of it. He’s the one who delivered the cinnamon rolls on Valentine’s Day!”
My phone slips from my fingers and bounces under the coffee table. The mysterious cinnamon roll delivery completely slipped my mind. I can’t believe I never suspected Jordan. “Are you sure?”
“He didn’t have a mohawk, and he wasn’t wearing eyeliner, but I recognize those dark broody eyes. Good lord, it’s as if he’s staring holes into the camera, isn’t it? And he never told you . . . about Valentine’s Day?”
I gape down at the photo. Mom’s right. I hate to admit it, but The Breakfast Club photos turned out pretty good. Even as irritated as Jordan was, he looked damn good.
Mom nudges me.
“No,” I mutter. “Never.”
“Interesting.” She taps the touchscreen until Jordan’s face fills the frame. “Your father would hate him. The makeup. The green hair. The piercings.”
“He doesn’t always wear makeup . . . or style his hair like that.” I’m quick to defend him, though he doesn’t need defending. “Eve’s people laid it on thick for the shoot.”
“Hmm.” She zooms in until only his body fills the screen and trains her eyes on his unlaced combat boots. “Look at the size of his feet! You know what they say about—”
“Oh my God, stop!” I choke out a laugh. “Please don’t go there.”
