Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,10

out of the way and dig in the drawer of utensils for the biggest spoon I can find. The one I grab is technically meant for dishing out casseroles, and when I dip it into the bowl of banana pudding, I come up with half the contents. Perfect.

My dad’s hand hits my shoulder. He’s trying to get me to look up at him, but I can’t.

I might be playing it cool on the outside, but underneath it all, I’m a complete mess, though not really for the reasons you would expect.

This has been the wildest night of my entire life. The birthday gods heard my wish and were like, Hey, you heard the woman! She wants excitement! Let’s ramp this shit up to an 11! Examples of things that would have been appropriately exciting: having my shoe come untied; missing my turn and having to explore a new route home; or, I don’t know, I could have stumbled upon a stray puppy and been forced to take care of him. (In the end, he takes cares of me.) Getting held up at gunpoint was seriously not what I had in mind.

The whole thing doesn’t feel real, which is probably why I’m not crying or shaking or scared. I can look at the situation and logically see that my life was in danger. The man in the ski mask was deranged, nervous, and mumbling under his breath, and yet I’m not totally sure he wanted to do anything bad to me. Yes, sure, obviously you don’t just hold a gun to someone’s head for the fun of it, but he didn’t take my money even when I offered it, and he didn’t try to rip at my clothes. The whole thing just felt…off, almost like it wasn’t happening to me. I know it makes me sound naive, but I’m not wholly convinced he would have hurt me even if Ben hadn’t shown up.

Ben Rosenberg.

God. His name should always be accompanied by a long lusty sigh. Even now, my heart does a little flutter kick in my chest just thinking of him. I was actually grateful for his busted lip and swollen eye. Without them, I’m not sure I could have formed coherent thoughts. Even with them, my brain was only running at about 50%.

I’m still distracted by his looks—the one piercing brown eye that wasn’t swollen, his hard cheekbones and defined jaw. Oh, and let’s not forget his tall muscular frame poured into a navy suit with a few specks of blood dotting his shirt for good measure. I mean, Jesus, give a girl a break.

I dip my spoon back into the pudding aggressively.

Other than his haggard state, the only other factor I had going for me was that I was in total shock that he, out of EVERY person in Clifton Cove, was the one to appear on the dark street as my white knight. It was so shocking, in fact, that it enabled me to keep my wits about me on the walk home. It was like I wasn’t convinced it was actually him. Am I totally sure the guy didn’t shoot me back there and this isn’t all some weird purgatory I’ve fallen into?

I’m still thinking about Ben later when we get home from the police station, after I’ve said every word I ever want to say about the incident, after they’ve cleaned up the small cut on my head and swabbed every inch of me for evidence. I’m finally able to sneak off upstairs and shower. I’m bone-weary and ready to pass out on any inanimate object that can support my weight, but my brain is wide awake, running through the conversation I had with Ben on our walk home. I try to remember if I sounded normal or not, charming or just weird.

It’s not that I’ve never carried on a conversation with a cute man before. I have, at least twice. The reason it’s such a big deal is because in Clifton Cove, Ben Rosenberg is a god, an urban legend, a man unto himself.

Let me put it another way. You know how people always have at least one story about a time they ran into a celebrity? Once, on a flight home, I was seated ten rows back from Jennifer Aniston! That kind of thing.

This night will be my celebrity story: Once, Ben Rosenberg saved my life.

There are quite a few reasons our paths have never crossed before today: he’s six years older than me;