the sidewalk…”
Right. Pahia. Me molesting her on the street. As her voice trails off and her cheeks flush, I jump in to save her. “Sorry about that. Don’t know what came over me. Things are strained with Lacey and me, which isn’t an excuse, but, yeah, she’s my girlfriend. And anyway, I blame the bikini.”
That gets her smiling, and she tilts her head. “Do you have a picture?”
“Picture of what?”
“This girlfriend of yours.”
Fuck. “Sure,” I say quickly. I fish my phone from my back pocket and thumb through my photos. It’s not hard to find one of Lacey. Half the images are of us. I settle on one of her long blond hair spilling over my shoulder as she kisses my cheek.
We’d just opened our acceptance letters, both of us getting into Florida State University. It doesn’t hurt to look at our happy faces. Never did, really. Not even after she dumped my ass. I knew Lacey and I were convenient: the football jock and the cheerleader, prom king and queen. I loved her—at least I think I did—but I knew it wasn’t a deep love like my folks had. It was fun, light. A love based on who we thought we should be and who I was at the time. Come to think of it, the courses I was taking and the direction my life was headed, that stuff belonged to another dude, too. It’s like I woke up in that hospital a different guy.
Looking at us now on the screen is no different than seeing those smiling couples in store-bought picture frames. Strangers. No part of me would ever hook back up with Lacey. When it got hard, when it mattered, she walked out of my life.
I tilt the screen toward Nina, and she nods to herself as if I’ve confirmed something she’d been thinking. “She’s beautiful. That’s a great shot.” Her voice is soft, and she looks away.
I die a little inside at her expression: flat. Withdrawn. Her disappointment plain to see. She wears her emotions openly, even when trying too hard with girls like Reese. She has no mask, no façade. Was she hoping I was single? Or is it just lust that blankets her face from time to time? There’s no doubt she has me twisted in knots. She turns me on to the point it’s hard to walk; I have this need to be near her, to make sure she’s okay, but the last thing I want, now or probably ever, is to get in deep with a girl. Even thinking the word need has me picturing my father staring out the window, catatonic.
Either way, this lie of mine is planted and will grow between us every second it exists. I’m pretty sure I didn’t say it for her benefit, though. To make her feel safe. I flash to Lacey cringing at the sight of my legs.
I said it to protect myself.
Eight
Nina
I slide into the front seat and close the door as Sam puts my bags in the trunk. In a daze, I grab the seat belt and give it a yank, but it barely moves. I tug the thing several times with no luck and finally slouch, still clutching the fabric. I’m in One-syllable Sam’s car. Traveling with him. In New Zealand. Him—the guy who saw my privates. The one who kissed my ear. The same one who followed me from Pahia like a total stalker. And who has a gorgeous girlfriend.
The whole girlfriend thing has thrown me for a loop. I mean, what boyfriend makes moves on Reese and me only to claim his relationship is “strained”? There’s something about Sam, though. An underlying sadness. The chivalrous way he chased me down to make sure I’m okay. His excessive hotness. Definitely the hotness. Now I’m in the guy’s car.
I wish I could trade my mother in for one of those stern models whose voice of reason would ring in my head, warning me of my inevitable fate in a frozen meat locker. If I texted Mom that some random guy talked me into his car, she’d urge me to trust my inner goddess. “If it feels right,” she’d say, “go with your instinct.” If I lived by Mom’s code, my inner goddess would be having a panic attack, knowing this is the Guinness record of bad decisions.
Sam opens his door and slides into the driver’s seat as I yank the seat belt again. It moves but jams midchest. Shit. “Sugar,” I hiss.
He