Not So Nice Guy Page 9

  “You look so…smart tonight, Nicholas.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because I was thinking…I know you’re ten years older than me, but maybe after—”

  “No.”

  “I graduate, we could—”

  “Nicholas.”

  “Date.”

  I sigh heavily. “Nicholas, this is just a dance. I’m your teacher, and while my job is trying at times, you know what’s worse than dealing with checked-out seniors who don’t care about English? Prison. Prison is worse.”

  There’s no deterring him. “That’s fine. I hear you loud and clear. We’ll revisit the topic when I’m legal.”

  I sigh and give in to the moment. I’m not hurting anyone, and Nicholas is so damn happy to be out on the dance floor with me. So what if he weighs 95 pounds and is seventeen years old? He likes me! He asked me to dance, which is more than I can say for Ian—who, by the way, is still over there chatting with a few other chaperones, not bothering to look my way.

  We haven’t spoken all night.

  We drove separately.

  Principal Pruitt assigned me to the left side of the cafeteria when I arrived earlier. Ian was already stationed on the opposite side. I stashed my cell phone and purse in my classroom and didn’t think to bring walkie-talkies, so there’s been no communication thus far. I’m not sure he even realizes I’m here. I know this because I’ve had my eyes on him for 99% of the evening. I can’t help it. Tonight, he looks magnificent in a black suit. He’s taken the time to style his chocolate-brown hair in some kind of debonair sexy way I’ve never seen him do before. Usually, the short, slightly wavy strands are free to do what they will. It’s cute like that, bedhead chic, the stuff wet dreams are made of. Tonight, he’s decided he hasn’t taunted us enough already. He wants to make it worse with the suit and the hair and the smoldering gaze. Oh yes, he’s stepped it up all right. No doubt his blue eyes are gleaming like sapphires beneath his dark brows. His sharp cheekbones could probably take out an eye.

  I shouldn’t get too close, not if I know what’s good for me. If I’m not careful, I’ll sustain lasting damage.

  Still…

  “Nicholas, hey, twirl me in the direction of the punch bowl.”

  “Twirl? Uhhh, I didn’t make it that far in the instructional dance video…”

  I lead us, taking control and basically dragging poor Nicholas across the cafeteria. He trips and tumbles into me. I try to play it off like we’re having so much fun and can hardly contain our laughter.

  “Laugh, Nicholas,” I say sternly.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  We’re only feet away from Ian now, and I produce a cackle verging on insanity. “Nicholas stop, stop. You’re killing me.”

  “Oh my god, am I stepping on your toes or something?”

  As a matter of fact, he is, but I ignore the shooting pain and aim a pleasant little smile in Ian’s direction. Finally, I catch his blue gaze and he inclines his head with a sexy lift of his brow. The expression says, Samantha, please. You’re fooling no one.

  He wins that round.

  My poor feet do not.

  Later, as I’m sitting down, icing my toes, I watch as the Freshman Four descend on Ian across the room. They weren’t even supposed to be chaperoning the dance and yet here they are, wearing bright dresses in Starburst shades with enough sequins to rival a disco ball. Their seduction strategy boils down to squirrel psychology: to be attractive is to be bright and shiny. Their attack on Ian is coordinated. They each take a cardinal direction so he’s surrounded. I watch with glee while he tries to break away from them. If only he wasn’t ignoring me, I could go over and help the poor man. He’s really done it now. Oh yes, he’s going to get it.

  Except, a minute later, he holds out his hand and I watch with a gaping mouth as he leads BIANCA out onto the dance floor. BIANCA, the wicked witch of Oak Hill High! She’s never looked more smug.

  I catch a hint of their conversation and my eyes narrow to slits.

  “Bianca stop, stop. You’re killing me.”

  Oh, okay, funny man.

  They dance dangerously close to where I’m sitting with my ice pack, except Ian knows how to dance, and he also knows how to make Bianca toss her head back with riotous laughter. Oh please, Bianca. Your sense of humor is limited to the first half of knock-knock jokes. You don’t even remember the punchlines.

  When they twirl even closer to me, Ian catches my eye. He tips his head and smiles, so self-serving and congratulatory. I stand up, wince at the pain, and march away as swiftly as seven shattered toes will allow.

  I’m not even sure what game we’re playing or what the rules are, but I know he upped the stakes with that stupid, magnificent black suit.

  I retaliated with a misguided dance with Nicholas, and now he’s delivering a backhanded blow with Bianca on his arm. By my count, he’s up two to zero. If someone were to ask what the point of all this is, I’d tell them there is a perfectly good explanation but that it’s none of their business. In reality, there is no point. I don’t know where my motives lie because I don’t take a single second to think about them. I’m too busy reacting, strategizing. There’s not an eligible bachelor in the room aside from Ian. Principal Pruitt is not only ancient, he’s also happily married. Even now, he’s out on the dance floor with his wife. They’re smooshed together under the disco ball and their love makes me want to spew chunks.

  I could have had a date tonight. Apparently, I could have even had dates tonight! A veritable reverse harem if only Ian hadn’t bribed children to steal from me. I wonder how many bears he intercepted—tens, hundreds, thousands? There’s no telling. I could have been buried alive in stuffing and fake fur and tiny choking-hazard eyeballs. What a dream.

  Even worse, I spent time on my appearance tonight in an effort to make Ian swallow his tongue. I booked appointments for hair and makeup at a local salon and I suffered in a chair with poor lumbar support all afternoon. They did things to my eyebrows. My long hair was twirled, teased, curled, brushed out, and then sprayed in place. Usually, I don’t wear much makeup, and right now I feel like I’m about to step on stage at a beauty pageant.

  And that’s not even mentioning the dress.

  It’s short and blue and flirty, not so short that students are liable to catch a peek at my privates, but short enough that my legs are “killing it, baby,” as the sales clerk noted. I wish I’d just worn a velour tracksuit. I feel ridiculous now that I’ve gone to all this trouble and Ian hasn’t even come to over to talk to me.

  I hover in the shadows until he’s finished dancing with Bianca, and when he’s out of sight, I reluctantly retake my post.

  It’s 8:00 PM. Surely this thing will wrap up soon. Don’t these kids have to be in bed by like 8:30 PM?

  As if in response to my thoughts, the DJ suddenly switches the music from slow jams to techno, the overhead lights cut off, and flickering strobe lights take their place. The students go wild. The DJ (who, by the way, is just a dorky PTA dad) is jumping in the air, holding his headphones to his ear with one hand, and pumping the other one as hard as he can. He’s close to herniating a disk and he doesn’t care. For him, this is the final night of Coachella.

  “How’re your toes?” Ian’s voice to my left makes me jump out of my skin and shout an incomprehensible syllable in surprise.

  I recover quickly. “Were you just lurking there in the shadows, you creep?”

  Technically, now that the lights have been cut, the entire room is shadowed.

  The strobe lights are doing tricky things to my sight. Every other second is stolen from view so life looks like a stop-motion movie, and my brain’s reaction time is delayed as Ian reaches out to tug on one of my waves. I stand absolutely still, letting it happen and watching in wonder.

  “What was it Logan said yesterday?” He has to lean in close so I can hear him over the techno. “Did you do something different with your hair? It lo
oks great.”

  “Then why have you been ignoring me all night?”

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I think it’s an effort to keep from touching me. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “You wore a suit.”

  “You wore a dress.”

  “We both look like we’re going to prom.”

  “Did you enjoy your prom?”

  He looks serious now and I have to look away.

  “No. I had to do the thing where I went with friends because no one asked me, but by the end of the night everyone ditched me for boys. It sucked.”

  “I wish I could have taken you.”

  The idea is preposterous. I’ve seen young Ian in framed pictures at his house. There were no awkward teen years for him. You know how in Hollywood they cast 30-year-olds to play high schoolers? That was Ian, tall and strapping even at seventeen. Meanwhile I was teased mercilessly about anything and everything: wild red hair, elf-like stature, bony knees. How’s that for fair?

  “I could make it up to you now,” he suggests, holding out his hand.

  My heart tap dances against my rib cage.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  Why?!

  “Because I’m like that silly mouse from the children’s story. If you give a Sam a dance, she’s bound to ask for a kiss. If you give her kiss, she’s going to want…”

  My gaze locks with his and my heart plummets. There needs to be caution tape wrapped around his head because his eyes are heated and tempting and I definitely shouldn’t get any closer. My body goes haywire. At first, I’m panting and fanning my face. Then my mouth goes completely dry and goose bumps bloom across my skin.

  “What?” he persists, stepping closer. “Tell me.”

  “More.” The word rushes out on an exhalation. “I’d want more.”

  10

  S A M

  Ian isn’t touching me, which means he’s not technically forcing me, but he’s calling the shots all the same. We’re walking quietly down the hall. My admission drags behind us like a third wheel. Our gigs as chaperones have ended. A new round of teachers relieved us and now it’s time to go home. I need to retrieve my purse, though, and Ian has insisted on accompanying me to my classroom.

  His suit jacket is hanging on my shoulders. He offered it to me a few minutes ago when I was rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself up. My little trick worked perfectly. I’m cloaked in eau de Ian, an intoxicating blend of spiced cologne and body wash. I tilt my head to the side and sniff as inconspicuously as possible. He still catches me.

  “You’re weird.”

  He says it like a compliment, and I don’t deny it.

  He holds my classroom door open for me and I think he’s going to flip the light on, but he doesn’t. Moonlight filters in from the half-closed blinds. Just like in the cafeteria, the lighting is playing tricks on my brain. This setting is romantic and mysterious, full of tantalizing possibilities. I need to get out of here immediately.

  “Oookay, so I’ll just grab my purse and then we can go. Here is my purse, and look, here are my keys.”

  I think I’m gaining control of the situation by narrating my actions aloud, but Ian has his own plan.

  He finds the latest edition of the Oak Hill Gazette sitting on my desk and turns it to face him.

  “Oh! That’s nothing. Let’s go.”

  It’s too late. He’s staring down at the front-page story and the accompanying photographs. It’s Phoebe’s piece, and that photo she snapped of me during the soccer game is front and center. The caption is something innocuous about me watching the game, but it doesn’t matter because the picture says a thousand words. At the bottom of the frame, the Freshman Four are tittering over Ian. The rest of the shot is taken up by me, scowling with jealousy. She focused on me rather excellently. It’s a great photo, and I’ll be forced to give her an A on the assignment.

  “Were you not enjoying the game?” Ian asks innocently.

  He’s fishing.

  “Can’t remember. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “It’s just that you look pretty upset, which is odd considering we had the lead through most of the game.”

  He’s a dog with a bone. I have no choice but to lean over and inspect the picture, pretending to think back on it.

  “Oh, yes.” I tap my finger against the page. “Now I remember—a grasshopper had just flown into the back of my throat. Nasty thing, really. Where did you park?”

  He turns to me slowly and reaches up to touch my cheek. My thighs press together on instinct.

  “You’re running out of reasons, Sam…reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Is that supposed to be a riddle or something?”

  Our eyes catch and a delicious sense of promise hangs in the air between us. I deflect, poorly.

  “Bianca sure seemed happy to be in your arms earlier—think you’ll ask her out?”

  He stands back to his full height, putting some distance between us. “You gave me no choice but to dance with her. You were ignoring me. I wanted to further test a theory.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Does Samantha Abrams have a crush on me?” His brow quirks. “Does she feel envy?”

  “And what’d you discover?”

  He steps closer so the tips of our shoes touch. His hands catch the lapels of his jacket where it sits on my shoulders and he tugs me toward him.

  “My hypothesis was true. This picture confirms it.”

  Our chests touch and the warmth of his skin sears me through our clothes. I tilt my head back, back, back until I’m looking right up at him. His thumb reaches up to drag along my bottom lip, and I have to tamp down the urge to draw it into my mouth. I need to know the answer to that age-old question: what does Ian Fletcher taste like?

  His head tips forward another inch and I can feel his breath on my lips. It’s minty fresh. We’re going to kiss. This is going to be a moment I tell my grandchildren about. I will etch the details in stone and send it to the Smithsonian.

  Instead, he smiles. “Let’s play a game.”

  My hands, which I’d completely forgotten about, are gripping his hips. I’ve been pulling him flush against me for the last…oh, several thousand seconds. What little hussies my hands are.

  “Fine.”

  “The game is truth or kiss.”

  I smirk. “Don’t you mean truth or dare? Are you that out of touch?”

  “I’m rewriting the rules. I’ll ask you a question and if you don’t want to answer it…well, you can probably guess what you’ll have to do.”

  Between the two of us, he’s the one in charge, the one dressed in black. Me? I’m suddenly sweating under this coat made for giants.

  “Seems like a game I’d rather not play.”

  In a flash, he releases me and steps back. Cold air-conditioning replaces his warmth. It’s like he’s just plunged me in that dunking booth.

  “Fine! Okay!” I relent quickly, hoping he’ll immediately step close to me again, but he doesn’t. He leans back against my desk and crosses his feet at the ankles. The sight throws me into a vivid memory of an old fantasy of mine: the two of us having sex against that desk. I have to look away so fantasy and reality don’t start to merge.

  “We’ll start small. Are you attracted to me?”

  “In a general sense?” I wave my hand in circles. “Are bees attracted to flowers? Yes.”

  My pithy response falls flat. I drag my gaze back to him and find he’s crossed his arms. He looks angry, like he wants to punish me, preferably with a ruler. Oh, wait, no—that’s the fantasy talking.

  “If you’re not going to answer honestly, let’s not play.”

  “Yes…I’m attracted to you.” I say it like I’m admitting to picking my nose.

  It’s a terrible habit I really need to work on—being attracted to him, I mean.

  He nods, seemingly pleased with the answer. “Even though
I’m nothing like the guys you usually date?”

  I release a puff of air that sounds like PAH. “Of course you’re nothing like the guys I date.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Is this part of the game?”

  The very tip of his mouth curves up. “Yes.”

  Meaning if I don’t answer, we’ll have to kiss. Am I prepared for that? His lips on mine?

  I shiver at the thought and look down at my newly painted nails so I don’t have to watch his reaction while I offer him the truth. “Because you’re out of my league, Fletcher, literally and figuratively. You’ve never dated a woman under six feet. They’ve all been sturdy and tall. Growth-hormone milk drinkers, if you will.”

  “Milk drinkers?”

  “My mother used to tell me if I didn’t drink my milk, I wouldn’t grow big and strong. I preferred orange juice, and well, now who’s laughing?”

  He finds that little insight very amusing indeed. “Adorable.”

  I want to wrap my hands around his neck and prove to him just how un-adorable I can be when provoked. Scrappy is an adjective that comes to mind when people try to describe me. I’m quick in a fight. I can sneak under arms and karate chop you in the kidneys—at least I can in my head.

  Ian is looking at me like he doesn’t realize my full potential. I sneer.

  “You know what? Is this game two-sided? By my estimation, you owe me like fifty honest answers.”

  “Or…the alternative, if I don’t want to answer.”

  My eyes go wide.

  Fifty kisses?! My lips would swell, bruise, fall right off.

  His blue eyes promise me if I challenge him, I won’t like the results.

  I sigh, kick off my heels, and scooch my butt up onto the small desk behind me. “Fine. Keep asking me questions then.”

  “When did you first realize you were attracted to me?”

  Ha.

  “Day one. Next.”

  His brows rise in shock.

  “Have you ever been close to telling me the truth?”

  “Of course.”