my eyes shut and focus on breathing. The humid air fills my lungs, and I hold it in for a beat before I exhale. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, begging for release.
I’ve been home a week and I don’t know how to talk to Mia. Don’t know how to live with her so close to me. The last four months have been a haze of apathy and numbness, and I don’t know what to do with everything I’ve felt since I came home.
I lift my eyes back up to the window and catch Mia staring at me, her lips parted, shock on her face. For a moment, our gazes lock, and something nearly tangible pulses between us. Regret. Frustration. Desire.
She turns away, and it feels like someone has sliced off a piece of my heart.
“Christ,” Chris mutters. “You can’t look at her like that and expect assholes like Keegan to keep their mouths shut.”
Mia
There are so many things rich people have and take for granted. It’s not just the big houses and the flashy cars. It’s not the decadent vacations or the security of knowing you have a safety net if today’s job disappears tomorrow. It’s also the little things. Like fine linens. Thick, plush towels that hug your skin and smell like flowers. Sheets so soft they caress your skin as you slide between them. A stocked fridge. Fresh fruit year-round, and never the crap from cans. Air conditioning.
I fold the last of the towels, relishing the smell and the feel of them, and then begin my journey throughout the Woodisons’ house to put them away. I learned quickly that rich people don’t just have nice towels. They have different sizes of each towel—guest towels, hand towels, bath towels, bath sheets, and swim towels. And the Woodisons have different colors designated for each bathroom. In fact, Gwen’s a little OCD about her towels. I think she fancies herself an interior decorator or something.
Since Arrow has friends over, I head to the bathroom just off the pool first. The door to the back patio is open, and music and laughter float into the house.
I roll the towels and position them in the baskets the way Gwen likes them. My eye catches on the group gathered on the other side of the porthole window. Half a dozen guys from the Blackhawk Hills University football team gather around the pool, girls hanging on the arms of a couple of them. In the middle of the semester, I heard the coaches told the guys to stay away from Arrow, but here they are. Bailey said that rumor has it the judge thinks his team is the positive influence he needs to turn his life around.
As I start to turn away, I spot a broad-shouldered blond laughing at the pool-house bar. My heart squeezes hard, refusing to beat for one painful breath, then a second. You’d think I’d become accustomed to these moments when the world stops and I have to scramble to remember where I am in time and space. I grasp for my footing in the present, like forcing myself awake from a good dream and finding myself in a nightmare. The guy turns around, and I have a better view of his face, and just like that, I’m body-slammed back into the present—the nightmare. No. Not Brogan. Of course not. He won’t be joining his friends tonight.
“Oh, hey, Mia!”
I shake myself out of my reverie and turn to see Christopher Montgomery standing in the doorway. The BHU quarterback, Chris has soft blue eyes and one of those dimpled smiles that makes a girl feel like a princess. His chest is bare, and his shaggy mop of brown hair is wet from the pool and slicked back from his face. He’s not a loudmouth like some of the other guys, and he’s got this Southern accent to go with his striking good looks. I imagine he’s melted countless panties since he hit puberty. “Hey, Chris. I’ll get out of your way.” I shove the rest of the towels into their spots and grab my laundry basket.
“What are you doing with all that?” He frowns at the towels. “Why aren’t you out back with everybody else?”
I shake my head and try to pretend it doesn’t matter. “Gotta work.”
He steps to the side, blocking my escape, and cocks his head at me. “I guess the rumor was true. You are working for the Woodisons.”
“There’s a rumor about it?” I tell myself I don’t care,