Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,28

and Erica sleep, my brain’s conjuring up images of Connor and me. Working together. Sitting side by side on the buttery leather couch, hips and shoulders pressed together, heads bent as we puzzle out Dorothea’s handwriting. I decipher a word, maybe say something clever, and Connor catches my hand. Holds it. Turns to me, his pretty, gold eyes full of admiration, and leans in and—

No way. Granddad will probably chaperone us the whole damn time.

But Granddad hates to run the central air, and even with the french doors open and the fan on, it gets stuffy in the library in the afternoons. He couldn’t begrudge us a break. A swim, maybe. I picture Connor shucking off his shirt, and maybe his shorts too, standing on the dock wearing nothing but his blue-plaid boxers and his tattoos.

I groan and throw myself facedown on my bed.

What will I say when I see him? What will he say? Should I pretend nothing happened? Like he’s just my…I don’t know, my coworker? My coworker whom I daydream about seeing half-naked and making out with?

Oh no. What if he thinks I wheedled my way into this project as an excuse to see him again because I’m into him?

I’ve had a few hookups, a few kisses here and there, but I was never as into it as I was tonight with Connor. The boys were cute enough and nice enough and wanted to kiss me, so I let them. Two of them asked me out later, but I was too busy for a boyfriend—or so I told myself. I had swimming and studying and extra classes. I had Abby and Claire and Alex. That felt like enough.

But this is different. I am into Connor. And tonight it seemed like he was into me.

Was this a one-time thing, or could it be more?

Chapter

Eight

When I get back from the pool Monday morning, I expect to find Luisa sliding a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls into the oven, Granddad reading the Cecil Gazette at the table, and the kitchen filled with the scents of coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I’ll kick off my sneakers and throw my Cecil Warriors hoodie over the back of my chair, bend to hug Luisa, and complain that I’m starving after an hour in the pool. That’s how we do mornings.

So it’s a surprise when I throw open the back door and find Erica sitting at the kitchen table, her phone in one hand and a tall, slim glass of tomato juice in the other.

I’m tempted to walk right past her but I don’t. I can be mature about this. I can. I pull out my earbuds. “Good morning.”

She looks up with a frown. “You’re up early. Yesterday too.”

I fight the urge to apologize. For everything. Being awake. Being in the kitchen. Being tall. Being born. We haven’t spoken a single word to each other since that scene in the library. Other than the awkward family supper last night, where the conversation was carried mostly by Gracie and Granddad, I’ve managed to pretty well avoid her.

“I was at the pool,” I explain. “I go most mornings. Free swim from seven till nine.”

“Dedicated. Dad must love that.” She makes a face. Her bottle-blond hair is a little less spiky today, but her eyes aren’t. “When I was your age, you couldn’t have pulled me out of bed before noon. Especially yesterday, after a bonfire party.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t out that late.” I peer into the fridge. Luisa’s been here after all, judging by the pitcher of orange juice. I wonder if she saw Erica and fled. I wouldn’t blame her. “Where’s Luisa?”

“I told her I had breakfast covered.” Erica’s chuckle is low, with a raspy catch to it. She stirs her drink with a celery stick. “Ever had a Bloody Mary?”

“No.” I pour a glass of juice.

“There’s vodka in the cabinet, if you want to make that a screwdriver.”

“No, thanks.” I smile, uncomfortable. “I don’t think Granddad would approve.”

“Don’t you ever do anything he’d disapprove of?” She gazes at me over the rim of her glass. “I bet you don’t. Jesus. How are you my kid?”

Is she drunk? I peer at her closely, but I don’t know her well enough to tell. Still, it’s the first time she’s acknowledged that I’m her daughter. “Careful. You wouldn’t want anyone to overhear that.”

She waves a skinny hand laden with chunky silver rings. I think she is drunk. Wow. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning.

“Nah. Grace is