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He doesn’t elaborate any more, but I don’t need the Cliff Notes to help me fill in the blanks. Or to confirm my earlier suspicion that the guy is a total player. And a complete idiot. Because he managed to get the wrong window—the wronghouse, for God’s sake—for a booty call.
Freakin’ brilliant.
“Sorry… wrong house,” is all I say, though.
He nods slowly. “Shit… Sorry about that.” He looks a little sheepish. And his cheeks definitely get a little pinker. He lowers his left hand, and his bangs drop back over his forehead, the soft waves partially covering one eye. “I’ll get going, then.”
I nod.Yes, please do.
But he doesn’t make any move to go. The tapping starts up again, and he looks me over for the second time tonight. Probably deciding how I measure up against the lovely Britney McLaren. I’m assuming Britney is the kind of girl with fine features and shiny, perfectly straight hair that guys like Sebastian Murdoch usually seem to go for. My features are more cutesy than exotic: small, kiddish nose and a few freckles, and my blond hair is corkscrew curly and, frankly, out of control. Not that I am unhappy with my appearance. I think my hair is awesome. The only thing I dislike about it is how much it makes me stand out.
Sebastian grins and I notice a dimple in his left cheek; his ace in the hole, no doubt, on those rare occasions when a date is struck with last-minute reservations about tumbling into bed with him.
“Wow—” His grin widens and the tapping stops. “Snazzy jammies.”
Did the town football star just say the words “snazzy jammies”?
I almost smile.Almost.
“Thanks,” I say. Still with zero inflection in my voice.
He laughs; a low, husky chuckle. Then his eyes dip again to scan the yard… the neighbor’s house, the road, and the forest just beyond the edge of the Carlson’s expansive back lawn. I have no idea what he’s looking for.
Maybe Britney McLaren’s house.
His thumb is tapping double-time, now. It’s annoying. Just like the rest of his personality. Or lack thereof.
“Anyway…” I motion behind me. “I’m going to bed now, so uh… good luck finding your girlfriend’s house.”
His eyes snap back to meet mine. “Huh?” He pushes his hands into his pockets, and even though he’s still crouched down, it doesn’t look awkward at all. I doubt this guy has looked awkward for a second in his life.
“Your girlfriend: Britney,” I clarify. “Good luck. You know… finding her place.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He laughs and his eyebrows rise slightly, making him look younger. “Brit isn’t my girlfriend.”
Of course she isn’t.That would mean commitment and accountability. And a minimum level of maturity.
“Right… Yeah, well uh, good luck anyway. With, you know…” My voice trails off and eventually, I just shrug. Then I lean in and place both palms on the top portion of the window sash and push it closed before he says anything else. Our conversation has already lasted more than I’m comfortable with. Definitely long enough to confirm my suspicions that Sebastian Murdoch is a man whore, and dumber than a pet rock.
I walk over to my bookshelf and pretend to look for a book in my extensive fantasy collection, and after what I’m guessing is about five minutes, I approach the window again and peer outside.
I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s gone.
Scanning the entire roof, then the road, I can just make out a tall, athletic figure jogging toward a black Jeep parked a few houses down.
Of coursehe drives a Jeep. Could this guy tick off any more of the stereotypes if he tried?
I’m just about to turn back to my bed when the moonlight reflects off something shiny on the roof, just a few feet from the window.
I take a step closer, wrenching the window open again to take a closer look.
You’ve got to be kidding me…
Sebastian Murdoch dropped his phone on my roof. And now I’m going to have to approach him at school to return it. In front of all his friends. Because guys like Sebastian Murdoch don’t go anywhere without their entire posse of dude-bros (unless they’re out for their weekly Monday night hookup, apparently).
There is nothing I want less than to start off my Tuesday morning by infiltrating a herd of jocks and their corresponding cheerleader magnets. It is my entire mission in life to avoid them—not purposefully approach them. Especially not in their natural habitat. Especially not when I have finally managed to make myself somewhat invisible to them.After three really, REALLY long years.
I climb out and pick up the offending phone, and the screen saver lights up: a closeup selfie of Sebastian making a goofy face. Andof course,he still looks gorgeous even with his eyes crossed and his tongue hanging out like a shaggy overgrown puppy.
