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It’s so unfair. How does one kid get a double helping of good looks, brains, talent, and money, while the rest of us are left struggling for a few measly crumbs?
“Come on, let’s get this over with, Gus-Gus,” I mutter.
“Who?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“No one.”
I turn and lead him into the kitchen, since I figure it’ll be the easiest place to start. We’re going to be working with straws, after all—thousands of straws—but I stop abruptly when I notice Landry and my mom are already occupying the space. It looks like he’s trying to convince her to put down her liquid dinner and eat something solid for once, so I backpedal and opt for Plan B.
“Let’s work in my room instead. I don’t want Landry to bother us,” I half-lie.
“You don’t need to make up an excuse to get me into your bedroom, Reed. All you have to do is ask.”
I roll my eyes and suppress a gag as he snickers at his own joke. “In your dreams, Blake.”
“What’s your brother still doing around here, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be off at college by now?”
“He backed out of going straight to LSU. He’s starting at community college now, so I’m stuck with him for a few more months, at least.”
He nods and follows me across the threshold of my sanctuary, my bedroom, the one place I never thought I’d have to worry about guys like Blake Bourgeois trespassing. I cross my arms and glare as he saunters in, stopping to examine some of the random trinkets and books strewn around the room.
“Cute,” he says in a condescending tone. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your thoughts,” I fire back.
He laughs again. “So, are we doing this, or did I come over for nothing?”
I glare at him and wonder whether he meant to sound so suggestive, but he continues running a finger over the cover of a well-loved copy ofPride and Prejudice, and for some reason, I shiver.
“Yeah, I suppose.” I pick up the pile of clothes hanging over the back of my desk chair and gesture for him to take a seat, but when I turn, he’s already helping himself to the edge of my bed. I huff and plop down in the chair instead, keeping my distance.
I watch carefully as he begins unpacking his book sack, pulling out a few packs of straws, a notebook, and a grocery store bag. “I figured we could model our bridge off of the one we know best—the I-10 bridge in Baton Rouge. Now, I’ve already found the measurements and started converting them down to scale. I also mapped out a design?—”
“Hold on,” I interrupt him. “Who said I’d be willing to go along with your ideas?”
He furrows his brow. “I thought since I’d volunteered us to be partners that I’d take the liberty of getting us started on the first project.”
“Yeah, and about that—what the heck were you thinking? Why’d you tell Mr. Soileau that we were partnering up for the entire school year without even asking me?”
He shrugs, and I can’t believe he has the nerve to look disappointed by my reaction. “I’m sorry about not talking to you first, but when he called on me and asked for a name, I kind of panicked. My instincts took over, and I figured teaming up with you would give me the best chance of getting an A in this class.”
“Oh,” I say, secretly flattered, though I’d never admit it. “So you just expected that I’d do all the work for the both of us, and that you’d reap the benefits? You know I’m still a tenth of a point ahead of you, GPA-wise, right?”
He sighs. “Why would I bother showing up with a gameplan if I were only trying to get out of doing the work, Loren?” Then he presses his lips together before reaching around to pull something out of the plastic bag. He tosses a pack of my favorite candy at me. I barely catch it, bobbling it around like an idiot. “I even came prepared with a peace offering.”
I stare down at the bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Pumpkins, the ones that only come out around Halloween. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways,” he replies cryptically.
“Thank you. But you didn’t need to resort to bribery. You could have just asked me to be your partner,” I say quietly. “I would have agreed if you’d have explained yourself ahead of time.”
“Would you really?” he asks, smirking at me again.
I can’t help but smile. “Eh, probably not.” Then I rip the bag open and shove an entire peanut butter pumpkin into my mouth, groaning at the taste. “There’s just something about these, you know,” I begin, probably grossing him out. “The peanut butter to chocolate ratio is absolute perfection, as if da Vinci himself formulated it.”
I mime a chef’s kiss, and he chuckles, seemingly pleased that I’m enjoying my gift.
“And you really thought I’d leave my physics grade to someone who thinks they use the Golden Ratio to produce a pumpkin-shaped candy? There’s too much at stake here.”
