"Erica, your brother and his new friend will be here any minute," my mom said as she strolled into the library. I glanced up from the book my friend, Crissy, and I had been discussing just in time to see disappointment mar my mother's pretty face. "How many times have I told you not to sit like that? You don't want to end up with varicose veins."
I uncrossed my legs and laid the book cover-down. I didn't need another lecture on proper reading material for a fourteen-year-old girl. Certain genres had not made the list. If my mom had her way, I would spend less time reading and more time preening in front of a mirror.
"Hi, Mrs. Wood. I love your outfit. You look beautiful," Crissy gushed.
"Oh, this old thing?" my mom said, dismissing Crissy's compliment with a wave of her hand. The gray pantsuit, which matched the color of my mother's eyes and fit her trim body to perfection, was not old. Maybe old as in last season old.
My mother flitted around the library straightening things even though the room was already immaculate, courtesy of our housekeeping staff. I stared out the window at the snow blanketing the endless expanse of our Vermont backyard and contemplated my odds of escape.
"You're not wearing that, are you?" my mom asked, jolting me from my plotting.
I looked down at my baggy sweatshirt and jeans. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing? It's just Damian."
With one French-manicured hand on her hip, she said, "And his friend. Darling, you only have one chance to make a good first impression. Look at the beautiful dress that Crissy is wearing."
Crissy did look nice in her red Maxi dress. "I don't think it matters what Damian's friend thinks of me," I said.
"Appearance is everything, darling." As if to prove her point, she checked her flawless makeup in the antique mirror above the fireplace. "Why don't you wear that lovely teal dress I bought you last week?"
I almost groaned, but settled on an eye roll. "I don't want to wear that. It's too tight and shows too much skin."
"Don't be stubborn. You look beautiful in that dress. After all the weight you've lost, you should be proud to show a little skin."
"Fine," I lied, hoping to end the conversation before Crissy heard any more about my recent weight loss. I had no intention of wearing that dress. My mother clasped her hands together and beamed like I'd told her the secret to immortality.
After my mom had flounced out of the room, I turned to Crissy. I wanted to finish our discussion about The Hunger Games. I had just launched into a diatribe about why Gale could have done so much better than Katniss when Crissy dug her pink fingernails into my arm.
"Who. Is. That?" Crissy hissed.
I glanced towards the door, not even attempting to hide my annoyance.
"Oh, that's just my brother, Damian," I said, but I couldn't hold back my smile. It had been months since my brother had left for Stanford and I'd missed him, but I wasn't about to let on how much.
"Pip," Damian called out, bounding through the door with a grin on his face. When I was seven years old, I had made the mistake of wearing my red hair in pigtail braids. One time. My brother had never let me live it down. The only reason I still allowed the horrid nickname was because it bugged my mother even more.
Damian practically tackled me to the ground, picking me up and spinning me until I was breathless and giggling.
Crissy stood up, thrust her chest out and gave my brother a once-over that was totally gross. Damian didn't seem to notice, because he was too busy staring at me.
"How are you?" I asked.
"I'm great. Nice to be on the opposite side of the continent and out from under Dad's thumb," he said under his breath, even though my dad was nowhere in sight. If I had to guess, my dad was probably in the formal parlor, downing his third cocktail of the evening. "How did you grow taller? And you've lost more weight," he said, a hint of concern deepening his voice.
"And you've gained weight," I said, slapping his rock-hard stomach. My brother had always been a big guy, but now he was enormous. The freshman fifteen apparently referred to muscle when it came to college athletes.
"I couldn't have done it without that guy. He's an animal in the weight room. It's no wonder his nickname is the Demon."
I looked over my brother's shoulder to the dark shadow filling the doorway. I swore I heard ominous organ music and a wolf howling in the distance, but then I reined in my overactive imagination. Dante stepped into the light and all of the blood in my body pooled between my legs.
"Dante, this is my little sister, Erica, and her friend..."
"Crissy," she said, thrusting her hand out, while I tried to pick my jaw up off the teak floors.
Dante sauntered closer, his pitch-black eyes piercing me in place. They reminded me of the Eye of Sauron. Or the Gateway to Hell. Demon seemed like the perfect nickname, because if he were staring me down on a football field, I would run screaming the other direction.
His plain t-shirt hugged a broad chest and hinted at washboard abs, while holey jeans completed his thrown-together ensemble. Dark tattoos ran up and over both biceps, disappearing under the cuffs of his shirt. I swore that Crissy almost fainted from all the testosterone in the air.
"Nice to meet you." The bored look on his face contradicted his statement. But damn him and his sexy voice. I wanted to swim in the smooth texture of it, have it wash over every intimate part of me.
"Likewise," Crissy said with an overenthusiastic lilt.
"Earth to Erica," my brother said at the exact moment Crissy elbowed me in the side.
Crap. How long have I been staring?
"Oh, uh, yes, it's so nice to see you... I mean meet you." I knew my cheeks burned bright, but I couldn't think straight with Dante standing so close.
My brother and Crissy chatted about the insane amount of snow Vermont had received in the last month, while I stood there stupid. All bodily functions were working. My heart beat and my lungs drew in oxygen, but I couldn't focus on anything beyond Dante's bottom lip and the coarse stubble lacing his jawline.
"Erica," Crissy said, "I'm going with your brother."
"What?" I asked.
"We're going to grab snacks. Mom said the chef won't have dinner ready for another hour," Damian said. Crissy linked her arm through my brother's, ignoring the pleading look in my eyes. "Stay here and keep Dante company. He's as much a bookworm as you are," my brother threw over his shoulder.
"Oh, uh, okay," I stammered, rubbing my sweaty palms down my thighs.
"Chef?" Dante said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
"You guys don't use a chef?"
The sound of his laughter reverberated off the floors. "Not unless you count Chef Boyardee. This place is insane. I mean, I knew people lived like this, but could it be any more over the top?"
I wasn't sure how to respond since he seemed unimpressed. "What are you studying at Stanford?" I asked, hoping to put us back on neutral ground.
"English and Communications."
If I knew how to swoon, I would have. "What are your plans after you graduate?"
"Jesus, you sound like a fucking guidance counselor. I plan on playing football."
"Professionally?" I asked, ignoring his surly remark.
"Yep," he said, no bluster just pure confidence. He shuffled to the cabinet in the corner, rifling around until he found a bottle of my father's forty-year-old whiskey. Without bothering to ask, he popped the top off and threw back a gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I don't think you should do that," I said, looking over my shoulder.
"Why?"
"Because you're underage."
"Don't be a killjoy."
"And that bottle probably cost more than your tuition last semester." I regretted the pompous words the second they spewed from my mouth.
Regarding the bottle with interest, he ran his long fingers over the beige label. "Good thing last semester didn't cost me a dime, what with my full athletic scholarship."
I was sure my cheeks were as bright as my hair. With a chuckle, Dante returned the bottle to its original location and sauntered to the couch. An apology was on the tip of my tongue when he pointed to the book on the end table.
"Is this what you're reading right now?" he asked. I rushed forward and tried to snatch it out of his hands, but he held it above his head, teasing me with his height. "Ah, The Hunger Games. How young adult of you."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. It's a great read. And very fitting, given that it's about the haves and the have-nots."
He pressed the book into my outstretched hand.
"It's also about the plight of a young woman in a dystopian society who overcomes great odds while outsmarting the men trying to control her," I said.
"Isn't that the predicament of every woman in every society? Dystopian or otherwise?" he asked.
My heart had whiplash. I had gone from infatuation to annoyance back to infatuation in a matter of seconds. The man had me in a crazy loop-the-loop of emotion.
"True. But it's not really about feminist ideology. It's about good overcoming evil. It's an underdog story, with a protagonist who doesn't know her strengths until she's forced to use them. And I'm not talking about her bow and arrow."
He nodded, regarding me with interest. "Nice synopsis," he said with the most positive tone he'd used since he walked in. I practically glowed under his praise until his next words slipped out. "You're pretty smart... for a kid."
I almost stumbled back from the verbal slap. I would have rather been called ugly. Before I could manage a comeback, Damian and Crissy walked in. Damian and Dante settled onto the couch and started talking football, while Crissy feigned interest.
Still too unsettled to do much of anything, I gawked at the back of Dante's head. When he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at me, I was a goner. No matter what it took, I vowed that one day Dante would see me as more than a silly kid.