Rose
I WALK DOWN THE AIRPLANE aisle and eyeball the window seat I’ve been assigned. Three, maybe four inches separate me from death.
Yeah, I’m tough, but flying makes me crazy scared.
Planes are basically just battered tin coffins traveling a million miles an hour. Toss in a small thunderstorm—like the one currently surrounding us—and I’m a freaking basket case. Sweat beads on my forehead as I picture my mangled body on the ground amid flaming debris.
My hands tremble as I unpack my backpack, removing my lucky paperback copy of Jane Eyre, my Kindle—you can’t have too many books—and a sweater. I’m freezing on this plane, and I’m not sure if it’s from nerves or if it’s actually cold. Nerves, I decide as I furtively check out the other passengers who seem warm and toasty.
Shivering, I settle in my seat and try to read the ridiculous book my cousin Marge has downloaded to my Kindle. A twenty-something New Yorker, I stayed with her while I visited New York University on my spring break from prep school. We had some late-night talk sessions, and when I mentioned my crush Trenton back in Highland Park, she made it her mission to load me up with self-help books and advice about how to get the man of your dreams.
It’s a dumb idea, and I know it.
But it’s hard to tell Marge no.
Forgetting the book, I lean my head back against the headrest on the seat. I’m tired from my evening out with her, even though I sat in the corner at the back of the bar and just watched everyone most of the night. I was nervous since I’m only seventeen and used a fake ID, which Marge provided. I’ll be eighteen in September, about five months from now.
My thoughts go back to the hot guy from the gate.
From the moment I first saw him last night, something about him just . . . called to me.
It was as if I knew him—yet I didn’t.
My eyes followed him the entire night, the way he stalked across the stage as if he was fearless, the way his lean and muscular body whipped around, moving with the rhythm of his gritty and evocative music. With an excuse to Marge that I had to go to the bathroom, I’d even followed him outside during the break where I watched from the doorway as he smoked a cigarette, leaning his head against the brick of the building as he blew smoke up into the air. He hadn’t noticed me . . . of course. There’d been too many girls around him vying for his attention. In a nutshell, he was way out of my league.
Forget about him.
Right.
What I should be doing is focusing on convincing my adoptive mother Anne to let me attend NYU this fall.
As if she knew I was thinking about her, my phone pings with a text from her.
Did Marge behave herself? Growing up, she was quite wild.
From Anne, this really means she thinks Marge is a slut. I was actually surprised when she agreed to let me visit Marge, and I attribute her acquiescence to her own recent surprise pregnancy and subsequent hasty marriage. That’s right. My uptight, forty-five-year-old adoptive mom had a one night stand and got pregnant.
I type out a reply. She was great. Very hospitable. Her apartment is close to NYU.
Her reply is quick and fast, and I picture her fingers typing the words furiously. She hates any mention of NYU and every time I bring up attending there, she shuts me down.
I know NYU seems exciting, but Winston University is smaller and here in town. Plus, you’ve been accepted. It’s too late to apply to NYU. Only a few more weeks and you’ll be graduating high school. Love, Anne
Only Anne texts as if it were a term paper, with complete sentences and correct punctuation.
I sigh, my fingers running idly over the surface of my phone. I don’t want to attend Winston. Exclusive and located just ten minutes from Highland Park, it’s just like the prep school I currently attend, only with older students. It’s also where Anne went to college. I mean, I’m grateful she’s providing me with an education, but I’d like to have a say in the matter.
She’s under the impression that this trip was just a quick visit to see her cousin and take in the sights on spring break. She doesn’t know that I secretly already applied to NYU months ago and recently got the acceptance letter. I just have to talk her into it.
A well-known Dallas philanthropist, I first met Anne after two years of being shuffled around in the foster system. That day, she’d sat with me in the office at the Department of Human Services and marveled over my hair color (a mix of brown and auburn) and complimented me on my perfect skin. I read her right away, a rich lady looking for an accessory, and I used it to my advantage, telling her about my above average test scores and my dream of getting a doctorate in psychology someday.
It worked, and once she took me in and adopted me, I was given a complete makeover: a new layered hair cut with a tutorial on how to style it, conservative clothing, and a course on manners and etiquette. Want to know where the water glass should be at a place setting? Just ask me . . . approximately one inch from the tip of the dinner knife. She molded me into her idea of what a perfect girl should be.
I sigh as guilt tugs at me for going to the bar in New York . . . for even wanting to attend NYU. She’s given me so much, and I shouldn’t want to get away from her, but I can’t breathe in Highland Park. With famous residents such as past Presidents, country music celebrities, and Texas bigwigs, I simply don’t belong in the wealthy suburb.
Before we have to turn our phones on airplane mode, another text comes in, this time from Trenton.
Butterflies go crazy in my stomach as I read it.
Senior Spring Fling is coming up. Wanna go?
Senior Spring Fling is a notoriously secret party sponsored by the popular kids at Claremont Prep and held the first weekend in May, usually at a destination that’s only revealed at the last possible moment. If you don’t get the invite, you’re a nobody—which I am. I don’t really care about going, but Trenton is popular and attractive, and I’d be crazy to tell him no.
Yes, I reply then quickly lock my phone before I say anything else like, Is this a friend thing or a date thing?
He and I have been flirting with each other for a while . . .
Whatever. I can figure all that out later.
Glancing up from my seat, I see Spider—yes, I know his name from the bar last night—stalking down the aisle like a Greek god. Wearing expensive black jeans with holes in the knees, motorcycle boots, and a gray leather jacket, he has major bad boy vibes all over him.
Completely dangerous.
Completely panty-melting.
Not going to lie, he has the kind of face that takes your breath and stops you in your tracks. Just looking at him straight on makes me blush. He isn’t classically handsome like Trenton, with his square chin and athletic shoulders. Instead, he grabs your attention with his hollowed cheeks, the sharp edges along his jawline, and the thick black lashes that surround his eyes.
He comes to a halt right next to my seat and props his muscular forearms on the overhead bin. He’s lean yet toned with sharply defined muscles, his height at least six three. My breath hitches when his gaze lands on mine. He stares at me, and I don’t look away. Warm and honey-colored, his eyes are pools of sunlight shining through whiskey. I could get drunk in those pools.
Oh . . . wait. I blink.
He’s sitting here? With me?
Sweet baby Jesus. I’m a goner.
Stay strong, Rose.
I tuck my Kindle down into the seat.
He smirks, his eyes following me, and I grimace, realizing he probably saw what I was reading.
“Great,” he says. “I get to sit next to Pillow Girl.”
Ignoring the nickname, I shrug. “And I get to sit by the guy who lies to little old ladies about his girlfriend dumping him—and we can’t forget the poor dead collie you recently lost. And dabbing at your eyes with that napkin—great touch.”
I don’t know why I’m so annoyed with him.
Yes, you do.
I exhale. Okay, I do. I really wish he remembered me from the bar. I wish he were as fascinated by me as I was by him. Last night after his show, I even dreamed of him and this morning when I woke up, he was the first thing on my mind. Strange.
What was it about him that pricked at me? I don’t know.
His lips twitch. “I nearly cocked that whole thing up. I’m not exactly at the top of my game today.”
“I bet you’ve never even had a dog.” I smile, softening the words as I study his profile, tracing the lines of a face that’s flawlessly heartbreaking. It’s hard to stay annoyed with someone so damned gorgeous.
He chuckles as he eases into the space and sits down. “I did, a huge mastiff named Noodles. My sister and I used to ride him like a pony, and he loved every minute of it.” He buckles his seat belt and I find myself watching his long fingers, noticing how elegant they are. I recall how those very fingers strummed his guitar the night before. I can’t help but imagine them on my skin as warmth settles throughout everything below my navel.
Get a grip, Rose. He’s too old for you.
“I’m not sure I can trust a thing you say after the lies you told Betty,” I say.
He shrugs. “True story. The sad part is my father sold him along with our estate when we moved to the US. I often wonder what happened to the big lug.”
Estate? He must be rich.
“What brought you to the US? Music?” I’m curious about what makes him tick.
Something flashes beneath the controlled expression of nonchalance he wears, and I stare at him intensely, trying to catch the minute shift in his emotions. He lets out a sigh as his fingers tap nervously on his thighs. “My father wanted out of London, kind of like a fresh start for us.”
Interesting. I’m itching to ask him why the fresh start, but common sense tells me it’s too personal.
“Noodles is a cute name. There must be a story there?”
A quick grin ghosts over his face. “When he was a pup, he’d never beg for scraps. Father had him trained by a puppy school so he knew how to behave, but if Cook ever served a Bolognese sauce with spaghetti—all bets were off. No admonishing or collar zapping would make him stop barking until you put a few in his bowl.” He tosses his head back and laughs. “So, we changed his name to Noodles. Much better than Bertram, am I right?” His gaze slides to me, amusement making the hard lines of his face soft.
No man has the right to be that freaking hot.
I swallow, feeling all of seventeen and completely out of my element. “Yeah. Totally.”
My usually adept vocabulary is sadly missing.
“You got pets?” he asks as his eyes linger on my face. “I bet you’re a cat person.”
“Why would you say that?”
He smirks. “You’re a little prickly . . . like a cat with an attitude.”
Oh. The way he says the word cat, like he likes it, makes me feel . . . fluttery. “I love all animals, but I live on campus at the moment.” The student dorms are a recent thing for me since Anne married and then promptly left for a month long honeymoon. I insisted I would be okay at their house in Highland Park until they returned, but she was adamant that I move into school housing where there was some supervision. Since Anne is on the school board, the administration agreed to let me move in until graduation.
“Ah, a college girl.”
I lie—or at least, I don’t correct him. I nod and clear my throat as I change the topic. “Your band was amazing last night.”
“Thank you. What song was your favorite?”
I loved all of their music, but a few stood out, especially a slow ballad called “Albatross” where Spider sang and played guitar. “The one about the guy lost at sea and all alone.” I pause, feeling self-conscious as I think about the underlying theme of the song and how I related to it. “It was a retelling of the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, right?”
He nods, looking thoughtful as he cocks his head and studies me. “Not everyone catches that.”
I shrug. “I love literature and music. The song . . . it was about carrying your burdens around your neck? Did you write it?”
He blinks at me. “Yes to both. You’re pretty astute.” He gets quiet, and I can tell I touched a nerve. It’s clear he doesn’t want to get too deep.
He clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about holding up the line earlier . . . with Betty and the flight attendant.”
I shrug. “I’m sorry for being so grouchy. Flying makes me weird.”
“So we can start over?”
I nod, already over it since he sat down, and he smiles, an earnest expression growing on his face. “Since we’re talking music, what did you think of my guitar solo on the song “Superhero”? Did you like the mink coat? It was fake, by the way. I’d never wear a real fur.”
I grow warm, remembering flashes of his well-endowed package in a pair of leopard print bikini underwear as he strutted around in the long fur coat, an outfit he put on just for that song. Only someone with massive amounts of confidence could have worn that ensemble. “If your goal was for women to throw their panties at you—it worked.”
He smiles sheepishly. “I’m hard to resist, but you never know. I like to get serious opinions.”
I roll my eyes at his hard to resist comment, and he laughs.
He takes off his jacket and stretches out his long legs, and his scent drifts in my direction, cedar mixed with the smell of leather. It makes me a little giddy.
We’re sitting incredibly close, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I’m staring at him. He’s just so different with the tattoos and blue hair. My eyes keep sneaking peeks over at him and taking mental notes. I study the word LOST tattooed on his left knuckles.
“You got a name?” he asks a few moments later as he settles his head back against his headrest.
“Primrose, but everyone calls me Rose.”
“Nice. I fancy Rose . . . it’s old-fashioned, but pretty.” He smiles and it hits me straight in the heart . . . devilish, charming, and disarming all at once. His eyes drift lazily over my face, his gaze landing on my mouth and not budging.
My heart skips a beat, and I swallow.
Fact: if men stare at your mouth, they want to kiss you—or you have really bad teeth.
Thanks to Anne, mine are perfectly straight.
But before I can formulate a reply to his comment, everything inside me freezes as the plane begins its taxi down the airstrip.