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“Depends,” Becca hedged. “What have you heard?”
“That you knocked two seniors on their asses on the soccer field, then flipped off the coach.”
“Absolutely true,” said Becca, deadpan. “I’m surprised you doubted a word.”
Hunter leaned in, and his voice dropped. “Would you feel better if I told you the only thing I don’t believe is the part about the coach?”
His tone was making heat crawl up her neck. She had to glance away. “Too bad. That’s the only part that really happened.”
He sat back, not convinced. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
“Don’t get cocky. I might have to give you a firsthand demonstration.”
Hunter laughed. “You’re on. Friday night?”
She almost lost the smile. He’d sure turned that around. Was he asking her out? Or still teasing?
She had to hedge again. “You want to spend your weekend nursing a black eye?”
“Now who’s cocky?” His eyebrows went up, but he was smiling. He dragged his fork through the rice on his plate. “Maybe we could save the ass-kicking for the end of the evening, though. Just to be safe.”
“Just to be safe?” she mimicked. “What exactly are you planning?”
Some of his easy confidence slipped a bit. He glanced away before looking back to meet her eyes. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to Homecoming.”
Her breath caught. She’d sure walked right into that one. Was Homecoming really this Friday? She’d never planned to go—even now she had no idea where she could come up with money for a dress. Maybe she could borrow Quinn’s from last year.
If she said yes.
“No fighting with Chris,” she said.
He grinned. “I thought you just said I’d be fighting with you.”
“I’m not kidding.” He lost the smile. “I won’t pick a fight with Chris. I promise.”
She pointed her water bottle at him. “Or his brothers.”
“You have my word.”
“Then you’re on,” she said.
“For Homecoming or the ass kicking?”
She smiled. “Both.”
CHAPTER 30
Becca’s mom slid a bobby pin against Becca’s head, securing another curl. “Would it be wrong,” she whispered, “if I offered Quinn a cardigan?”
Becca rolled her eyes. “Mom.”
“And maybe a pair of jeans?”
“Mom.” Becca glared at her in the bathroom mirror. She was sitting on the edge of the tub while her mother created a rather impressive updo. Quinn was painting her toenails in Becca’s bedroom—right next door. “She’ll hear you.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“It’s not that short.” But it was. Quinn’s strapless baby-doll dress had multicolored rhinestones across the chest, giving everything a nice lift and leaving very—very—little to the imagination. The skirt flared beneath the bodice, a spray of tropical colors that made her look like a butterfly. The whole thing stopped about six inches above Quinn’s knees.
