Attraction

“No. He said later that it was because I wasn’t valedictorian, but I think it’s because he forgot about it. It didn’t rank in his priorities.”

“Oh,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. His eyes were hooded, guarded, taunting—like he was daring me to feel sorry for him. I wouldn’t though. Or, rather, I wouldn’t show it.

“He’s the smartest man in the world, did you know that? He’s taken all the tests, whatever the fuck that means, and overall he’s the smartest.”

I placed my hand on his thigh and squeezed. “There’s more than one kind of smart, Martin.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, his eyes losing focus over my shoulder as he considered my words.

Feeling brave, I added, “I don’t think any of those examinations tested for parent-smarts, or priority-smarts, or valuing-your-incredible-son-smarts, because if they did, he would have failed.”

His brilliant gaze refocused on mine and I was somewhat surprised to see the bitterness leech out of his expression, leaving only sorrow and breath-stealing vulnerability.

“You’re a good person, Kaitlyn.” He was frowning at me, like I was a puzzle or a unicorn, like “good people” were the subject of fairy tales.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Thank you. You are too, Martin.”

His answering smirk looked wry and his eyes moved to my neck, where I still had the purplish marks from our encounter in the cove.

Normal and comfortable conversation gave way to our baseline: sexual tension. His half-lidded stare grew hot, the intensity of it built a fire in the area of my pants. He was forever building fires in my pants. The figurative Bunsen burner forever alight.

“You’ve never lied to me before,” he said, his voice sultry and teasing.

“I haven’t lied yet.”

“Parker.” He gave me a knowing look.

“What?”

“I’m not so good. You know that, remember? You called me a jerk-faced bully.”

“Well, so far you’ve been good to me, as far as I know.”

“I’d like to do more good things, better things, if you’ll let me...”

I was hot. My cheeks were flushed. I had to measure and regulate my breathing. The soreness between my legs was a lovely reminder of the good things he’d done, but so were the marks on my neck.

“No more hickies,” I blurted.

His eyes widened though he grinned. “Why not?”

“Would you like me to give you a hicky?”

“Hell yeah.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to call your bluff. I will give you a hicky.”

He held his hands out to his sides like he was offering himself to me. “Anytime, lambchop.”

“I’ll do it on your bottom and I’ll make them so big, you won’t be able to sit down.” I narrowed my eyes and pointed at him.

He groaned like a starving man taking a bite of the most delectable dessert, as though the very thought was more pleasurable than he could process.

I scoffed at him, snorting. “You’re a doofus.”

Then he sat up and scootched to where I sat, one hand sliding up my thigh into the hem of my cotton shorts, his other tucking my hair behind my ear. His eyes felt cherishing and a little lost. The effect of his triple assault—earnest eyes, caressing hands, sexy smile—potent.

“I told you before,” he paused, brushed a light kiss over my lips, leaving me breathless as he continued in a low voice, “don’t say it unless you mean it.”

I lifted my chin for another kiss, but to my surprise, Martin stood from the bed. I watched him, confused by his withdrawal, and wrapped my arms around my middle.

He glanced at me and must have sensed my confusion, because he explained as he walked backward to the door. “It’s late, you’ve been sleeping for hours. You missed dinner, again. I’ll get Rosa to bring you a tray before we leave, but we need to get going.”

“Going? Where are we going?”

His smile turned smirky and victorious as he said, “To the party of course.”

The party.

The bet.

I’d forgotten.

Well…barnacles.

***

Martin won the bet, even though he’d cheated, and therefore Sam was in my room getting me ready for the party. She saw me coming out of my room with my hair in a ponytail, wearing sweat pants, flip flops, and a raggedy stained T-shirt that showed Chuck Norris destroying the periodic table. It read, The only element I believe in is the element of surprise.

She didn’t think my attire was appropriate.

Therefore she marched me back into my room, made me wait while she found some suitable clothes from her room, then dolled me up. She’d put me in a backless orange and purple paisley halter dress that made my boobs look fantastic. She also scrunched my hair with chemicals, separating my curls and somewhat taming the frizz.

To top it all off, she put makeup on my face. Again. It was some kind of personal record, makeup twice in one week. I gave her my resting bitch face while she applied mascara to my lashes.

“The straps of the halter covers your…,” her eyes flickered to my neck, “…it covers your love marks.”

I grumbled. “Just make me look pretty so I can throw myself off a cliff.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“You know I hate parties.”

“You didn’t complain this much on Friday.”

“That’s because I had a mission. I had a reason to be there, an assignment. Get in, tell Martin about the plot, get out, go home. This time,” I lifted my hands—and my newly painted purple fingernails—then let them drop noisily with a smack on my thigh, “this time I’m window dressing. I’m the paisley curtains.”

“This dress looks great on you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You are being so nice. I just need to complain.”

I wasn’t kidding when I’d said I hated parties.

Hate!

I didn’t understand them. They seemed to bring out the worst in people. People laughed too loud, talked too loud, exhibited odd behavior, pretended to have fun when they weren’t having fun…or maybe that was just me. Maybe people did have fun at parties and I was the weirdo.

Despite my grumpy stance, I had to admit Sam was a miracle worker. I looked good.

We met the boys in foyer; they were dressed casually in shorts and T-shirts, but they all seemed to have taken special care shaving, administering product to their hair, and applying cologne. It was a variable hurricane of smells—all flavored Proctor and Gamble manly.

Yet some of my surliness receded when Martin looked up and our gazes met. When his eyes widened a little and he appeared to be some degree of blindsided by my appearance. His lips parted and his eyes dropped, moved up and down a few times, blinking.

Sam nudged me and cleared her throat, saying just loud enough for me to hear, “It’s not the dress and it’s not the makeup, it’s you.” Then she walked toward Eric, addressing her next comment to him, “This time I want to drive.”

“You drove last time.”

“Your point?”

He smiled at her, looking handsome and happy, then shrugged. “Fine, drive now, ride later.”

She hit him on the shoulder, but she laughed at his double entendre, and walked out the door. Meanwhile Martin pulled his eyes from me and I was a little perplexed to see a mask of boredom slip over his features.

“Hey Ray,” Martin said. “You got Parker? Griffin is going to ride with me.”

I felt like I’d just been pawned off and had no idea why. I didn’t even want to go to this party, Martin had insisted, and now he didn’t want to ride with me?

Ray glanced from me to Martin, then back again, his raised eyebrows and slightly parted lips betraying his surprise.

“Ssssure,” he said, hesitating, frowning his confusion. Martin and Ray exchanged a glance as I fiddled with the pocket of my dress, all the good feelings upon entering the foyer dissipating in the face of this strange exchange. As well, Ben was there and I could feel his slimy eyes on me. I wished my boobs didn’t look quite so fantastic in this dress.

Then Ray nodded with sudden vehemence. “I mean, absolutely.” He turned a bright smile to me. I was relieved to see how genuine it looked, and he offered me his arm. “I’d love to.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a tight smile.

Boys were weird and I hated them. Except Ray. Ray was nice.

We left first. He chatted amicably on the drive over, making me laugh with a story about how he fainted in high school when he had to dissect a stingray. He also had a really engaging smile and an openness about him and made me think we were friends, or he was my ally, or I could trust him not to eat my Chinese leftovers even when I wasn’t looking.

When we arrived at the house—another sprawling monstrosity, though slightly less sprawling—Ray ran over to my side of the cart and helped me out. We were the first to arrive, so he seemed content to loiter by the cart while we waited for the others.

Ray fit my hand in his elbow and gave me a big grin. “So, you and Martin, huh?”

“I don’t honestly know. Doesn’t make much sense to me,” I admitted, shrugging.