you know you would have lost.” I poke him playfully.
Thayer laughs and meets my gaze. “Maybe,” he answers. “Or maybe not.” And before I can say another word, he winks, then disappears into the crowd with Laurel.
5
NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT
On Monday afternoon, the Lying Game holds an official IM chat to check in about all current works in progress. We take our pranking very seriously. I lean back against the ornate sleigh headboard of my bed, the laptop warm against my legs.
Charlotte, whose IM handle is SexxyRed, types, Are we sure a Thayer prank is enough for our annual kickoff prank?
SwanLakeMafia, aka Mads, replies: I was thinking the same thing.
But now that I’ve started this flirtation with Thayer, I don’t know if I want to stop. We’ve got to do it, I, SuttoninAZ, answer. But only as a favor to the best BFF ever. I can tell Thayer’s bugging you, Mads. We’ll think of something else for the big back-to-school prank.
SwanLakeMafia: Thanks, Sutton. You’re right. And nice job on the Scooby score last night!
Watch and learn, ladies, I say nonchalantly. But I’m glad my webcam isn’t on right now, because I’m blushing—and snuggled up next to Scooby. I wouldn’t want my friends to see him there and get any ideas that I really like Thayer or something. It’s just that he’s so cozy to sleep with. And he barely smells like funnel cake and corn dog at all.
We still need to come up with our REAL prank then, I type, manicured fingers flying across the keyboard. Thinking caps on!
After a moment, an image loads into the chat screen: Charlotte, winking, a Eugenia Kim straw fedora perched at an angle across her forehead. Cute. It’s her take on a thinking cap. She looks a little like Britney Spears pre–Breakdown #1.
Adorbs, I tap. But keep the ideas coming. We have a reputation to uphold.
Off to ballet, bitches. I declare this Lying Game meeting officially dismissed, Mads types before signing off.
Later, Char, I type, flipping my laptop shut and sliding off my bed. Even with the windows shut and the central AC blasting, I can still hear the angry, insistent throttle of a leaf blower buzzing like a chain saw outside.
Gritting my teeth, I wander toward the window and thrust aside the curtains. Sure enough, across the street, a diligent gardener in a blue baseball cap walks the perimeter of the Donovans’ front lawn in increasingly wider circles. Their yard isn’t that big, but he doesn’t look remotely close to being done. I sigh in frustration, considering a long, hot shower with my Fresh lavender scrub, when I spot the leaf blower’s landscaping partner. I’d recognize that thicket of dark, shiny hair anywhere.
Thayer.
He’s at the edge of the front walk, neatly clipping the box hedges that line the flagstone path from the driveway to the entrance of the Donovans’ house. He’s not wearing a shirt, and the strong, defined arms that he debuted at the country club the other day are on full display. From where I stand, it looks like they’re getting a good workout, too.
On the one hand, the Fresh bath scrub is yummy-smelling. On the other hand, it’s not like I’m going to be able to truly relax as long as the leaf blower is making all that noise outside.
On the third hand—and as long as Thayer’s got his shirt off, I decide to give myself as many hands for this argument as I need—Thayer’s out there. Just begging to fall head over heels for me. It’s like fate has handed me an early Christmas present, wrapped in a bright, shiny bow.
Game on.
It only takes me a minute to fluff my hair in the mirror and swipe on some of my favorite NARS lip gloss in a peachy shade. Something tells me Thayer’s the type to appreciate the natural look in a girl. I grin at my reflection and shoot a quick glance at Scooby on the bed. The sight of him there gives me a warm glow—and a double shot of confidence. “Scooby-Dooby-Doo!” I whisper, then smile to myself.
Stepping into the Tucson heat is like crawling into an oven, but I stay focused as I approach Thayer. He’s crouching on the ground now, tugging a particularly stubborn weed.
“Oh my God,” I say, surprise ringing in my voice. “What are you doing here? Do you work for the Donovans?” As if I hadn’t been spying on him through the window.
Thayer turns, sets his shears down, and appraises me coolly.