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I switched my attention to Thomas. What kind of thing was that to say? “He’s my boyfriend. Obviously I see a lot of good in him.”
“Really? You don’t just see a rich celebrity?”
“Hey. He’s more than that.”
“Uh-huh. He gets obscene amounts of money for playing a stupid game.”
“Football isn’t stupid. And it’s not like he just keeps all that money.”
“Oh, really? Wasn’t that a Jag you guys drove up in?”
“He did a commercial for them. They gave it to him.”
“Yeah? And how do you know his other millions don’t go to the same way? You ever asked him about that?”
I dealt him a hard glare. “For God’s sake, Thomas, he started the Jean Carter Foundation.” I sighed. “You don’t get it. I don’t even need to ask him. I know him.”
I almost surprised myself by how fervently I meant that. But other than the Manhattan apartment—which even I would buy if I had that sort of money—he didn’t spend money obscenely. He had a bike and a car, but not two or three. He ate at local diners, not five star restaurants with two hundred dollar tabs. He wore jerseys and T-shirts half the time. The only time I’d seen money spent on appearances was for the Children’s Gala—and I’d also seen the check he’d signed for them.
But that was the thing. I didn’t need to see the checks.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked Thomas, tired of the whole thing. I started past him, heading for the pool house and giving the door a half-hearted twist. To my surprise, it was unlocked, and I stepped in, peering about in case Ryan had taken a very wrong turn.
Lights came on automatically. The still indoor pool cast rippling blue shadows against the white walls, and potted plants stretched up between the lawn chairs. For a moment, I flashed back to junior year of high school, when the entire class crammed in here for Casey’s sweet sixteen.
But Ryan wasn’t here, so I turned to go.
Thomas blocked my way. He looked terribly earnest, but something in his languid posture irritated me. “Because.” He shook his head so that a dark forelock fell over his forehead. “I don’t think you should be with him. I think we should give it a go.”
What.
No.
I stared at Thomas Brewer, high school dreamboat, and could not believe my luck. Seriously? How had this just happened? And why did I feel like it was a comedy of errors?
“Thomas.” My irritation died down a bit in light of his earnest wooing. “That’s sweet. And, you know, I was madly in love with you in high school. But...” I shrugged, wanting to laugh. Honestly. What was the likelihood an old crush would actually profess interest?
Too bad I no longer had any romantic feelings for Thomas Brewer at all.
“You did?” His face lit up, and then in a heartbeat he crossed the space between us and pressed his lips to mine.
Chapter Twe
nty-Three
Thomas’s lips were warm and insistent, but unfortunately, all I could think about was how they were Thomas’s lips, and it was really too bad I wasn’t seventeen and delirious anymore. I took a quick step back, and when he followed, I brought a hand up and gently pressed him away.
I sighed. “Oh, Thomas. You should have tried that five years ago. It’s not going to happen now.”
For just a moment, his expression reminded me of a small boy throwing a tantrum, before he morphed into a concerned friend. “Are you kidding? Come on, Rach. What are you doing with him? Are you going to become one of those girls who just follows her boyfriend around and lives off his money?”
I could feel the dig twist my stomach. “Don’t be disgusting.”
He grabbed my arm. “You’re not part of that world. You don’t want to be. How many of his games have you gone to?”
I wrenched my arm away. “A handful!”
“Yeah? Not Thanksgiving, though.”
