Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 37

The jock would drive a gas-guzzling black 4Runner.

I watched through the blinds as Brett drove up, got out of the car, and checked something on his phone multiple times. His eyes flickered between it and my front door as he strolled up the walkway, oblivious of how he was putting my reputation in jeopardy.

I opened the door before he had a chance to knock. "Come in before someone sees you."

"Why didn't you tell me you lived just around the corner from me?"

I shut the door and peeked through the blinds again to make sure no one else was around. "I thought you might have picked up on it when I left on foot Saturday."

"Hey, for all I knew, you had parked down the street because you were scared to be seen with me."

My spine bristled. "I'm not scared to be seen with you."

"Then why are you acting all paranoid—like now?" He caught my hand as I was in the process of closing all the blinds.

A zing of something—anger, attraction, I couldn't tell—raced up my arm. I yanked my hand back. "I just think we shouldn't be seen together outside of school."

"Why?" He closed in on me as he waited for my response.

"Because," was all I managed to say. Anything more would reveal the way my voice trembled from the increased skipping of my heart.

He invaded my personal space even more, a grin playing on those perfect lips. "Because you're scared of something, right?"

"Only of people getting the wrong idea."

"About what?"

"Us." I turned around and added some distance between us. My pulse slowed with each blessed step I took. "The kitchen's this way."

He dawdled, taking his time to look around my house. I could only imagine how he viewed it. Everything was neat, spotless, organized. It looked like one of those photo spreads for a home magazine. "Nice place."

"Thanks," I replied, not knowing how to interpret his compliment.

"Did you just move in?"

"No."

"Then why aren't there any family pictures or, you know, evidence that this is your house?"

"My mom isn't big on hanging pictures." Unless they were of her. Unfortunately, the shortest path to the kitchen crossed in front of the shrine to my mom's beauty pageant days.

And, of course, Brett would stop there. He stared at the glass cabinet full of tiaras, sashes, and photos. "Is that your mom?" he asked, pointing to the glossy eight by ten of her in the Miss America pageant.

"Yes."

His eyes widened. "Wow."

"Don't you dare call her hot or sexy or a MILF."

"Well, you have to admit, she was pretty good looking." He peered closer at the photo. "Miss Vermont, huh?"

"Yes." I kept my voice flat and bored, even though I wanted to drag him away from the cabinet. I was just grateful my mom wasn't here to pull out her tiaras and parade around the room for him like she'd done for my friends in the past.

At last, he stepped back. "Well, that explains Taylor."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know—the eyeliner emergencies, the fear of having a loose strand of hair from her ponytail." He rolled his eyes. "You have no idea how many of those conversations I've had to listen to between her and Summer."

"I can only imagine." And thank my lucky stars she'd never come to me for those issues. I jerked my head toward the kitchen. "And now that you've stopped gawking at my mom, let's get working on the assignment."

He looked at me like he was trying to figure out where I fit in my dysfunctional family. "It also kind of explains you, too."

I counted to ten as I exhaled. Would it be worth touching him to drag him away from the glittering Bimbo Award Center? I settled for snapping my fingers in front of his face. "Brett, please, I didn't invite you here to psychoanalyze me or my family. Assignment, remember?"

He finally followed me into the kitchen and set his bag on the glossy cherry wood table, pulling out his laptop. It was probably the first time the table had been used in months. We normally ate at the island on the barstools, if we sat down to eat at all. The twice-weekly maids had polished the nearly new table to a mirror shine this morning.

I went to the fridge. "Do you want something to drink?" I scanned the almost-bare shelves. "We've got soy milk, pomegranate juice, and chardonnay." I pulled out the half-empty bottle of wine and gave it a playful little shake for him.

"Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

"You wish." Although the thought was more tempting than I cared to admit.

He laughed, and some of the knots in my stomach unraveled. I may not have been making blueberry pancakes, but I was on my way to recapturing that easy feeling I experienced with him Saturday morning before I learned I was his pity project.

"Water will be fine," he replied.

I poured two glasses and brought them to the table.

Brett had already moved his laptop next to mine and pulled up the assignment. "So, we need to do a stress assessment that's due Wednesday morning and a stress modification work plan that's due Friday. Piece of cake."

"Except we're also juggling Junior, too." I nodded to the doll that lay on the other end of the table.

"Ah, come on, Lexi. It's not that hard."

Junior chose that moment to prove him wrong by screaming at the top of his electronic lungs.

Like a pro, Brett jumped up from his chair, scooped the doll up in his arms, and whipped out the bottle. A few seconds later, the doll was quiet.

I have no idea how long my mouth was hanging open before I caught myself, but judging by the amusement in Brett's eyes, he'd seen it. "How did you know what to do?" I asked.

"That was the 'I'm hungry' cry. The 'I'm dirty' cry is lower pitched."

Once again, I had to convince myself that Brett wasn't perfect. "And you figured this out how?"

"By listening." The doll stopped making the sucking sounds, which prompted Brett to place the doll against his chest and gently pat its back. A few seconds later, a contented burp signaled that Junior would be silent for the next couple of hours. "Okay, back to the project."

He slid back into the chair next to me, and a new sense of awareness smacked me. Yes, Brett was hot. Yes, he smelled good and had a great body and made my hormones do insane things. Yes, he drove me crazy by not cowering before me like most of the people in the school. But now I was beginning to realize he might be smarter than I gave him credit for.

And if I was beginning to think of him as something other than a dumb jock, I was in danger of getting in way over my head.

High school boys were supposed to be immature idiots, right?