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“What do you mean, you’re not going to prom?” her mother asked one night around the family dinner table. Con was going with Sherry Wong, a mathlete like himself. “Hasn’t anyone asked you?”
“Nine guys have asked her, Ma,” Connor offered, taking another shovelful of mashed potatoes.
“It’s not for me,” Colleen said easily. “Drama, rayon dresses, crepe paper, the inevitable tears. I’ll pass.”
“That’s my girl,” Dad said with an approving nod. Connor sighed, and Colleen could feel his mood drop several degrees. It was no secret that Colleen was their father’s favorite.
People like them, Dad said once in a while, were too smart for that. Just whatthatwas, Colleen wasn’t sure, but she was flattered to be included. Her father’s approval was everything. Connor was smart, too—smarter, at least according to his grades, but “we think alike,” Dad would say.
Pete O’Rourke was still handsome enough to get stares from women of all ages—black Irish, the same clear gray eyes Colleen had, unlike Connor’s blue. He was the youngest of his family, widely viewed to be the star of the family by his older sisters, who fussed over him at family gatherings, getting him plates of food as if he were an invalid, cooing over his latest real estate coup. In town, men shook his hand, laughed loudly at his jokes, came to him for advice—Dad owned six of the fifteen commercial buildings in town.
Mom was still sappily infatuated with him, which Colleen found both cute and annoying. When his car pulled into the driveway, she’d rush to ditch her slippers, shove her feet into heels and put on lipstick. If he commented on her appearance, “Jeanette, is that a new hairstyle?” She’d flush with pleasure. “Oh, thank you!” she’d say, not quite noticing that it wasn’t exactly a compliment. And Dad would give Colleen a little wink of collusion, which made her feel simultaneously guilty and clever.
Mom never finished college, knocked up in the great tradition of the O’Rourke family. She worked part-time for an interior designer and actually could’ve joined the firm; her boss quite liked her, but she always said no. “Your father is such a good provider,” she’d say.
Slightly overweight, she’d go on fad diets before the holidays or the annual Manningsport Black & White Ball, get her hair done, buy a new dress...but still, Mom always looked a little older, a little frumpier, a little less certain than Dad. Pete O’Rourke was, there was no mistaking it, one of those guys who got better with age, Manningsport’s version of Pierce Brosnan: the graying hair, the extreme good looks.
To Colleen, the best compliment she could get was that she was her father’s girl. Except when Mom said it, for some reason; there’d be a slight and rare tinge of bitterness in her voice. Then again, Mom loved Connor best. It was only fair.
So yeah, a high school romance, prom, and all that...leave that for the other girls: Theresa and Faith, who’d marry their high school honeys, no doubt. Let other girls worry over boys (or girls, in the case of Deirdre and Tiffy). Colleen would give advice to the girls, deflect advances from the boys, cheerful and observant and not at all lonely...not with a twin and a best friend and adoring father. It was exactly how she wanted things.
And then she met Lucas Campbell.
It was big news, of course. Manningsport had a tiny year-round population; just about any change was cause for excitement.
“Kids,” said Mrs. Wheaton, their beleaguered English teacher, adjusting her corduroy (ouch) jumper, “we have two new students joining our class shortly.” She consulted her paperwork. “Bryce and Lucas Campbell. Uh...cousins, it says here. Please be nice.”
“Is Bryce a boy’s name?” Tanya Cross asked. She wasn’t tremendously bright.
“Yes,” Mrs. Wheaton asked. “Now, getting back toHamlet. Does anyone have an opinion on Ophelia?”
No one bothered answering. A ripple went through the class.Twonew members of the senior class? Jeremy Lyon had transferred in last summer, and look how totally awesome he was! Could lightning strike twice? The girls began either whispering to or ignoring each other. Posture: improved. Hair: tossed. Legs: crossed. Lips: licked.
The guys in the class exchanged glances, aware that two new roosters in the henhouse would shift the dynamic. Well, not all the boys. Asswipe Jones was sleeping (hungover, probably), and Levi Cooper stared at Jessica with that hot look of his. Jeremy was running a hand through his own dark hair.
As for Colleen, she didn’t need to sit up or lick or cross. She already had it going on. (False modesty—not one of her flaws.) Still, she too glanced at the door. Just because she didn’t want to date anyone didn’t mean she didn’t want to be acknowledged as, yes, the prettiest girl in high school, the funniest and the most sought-after.
The door opened, and in came the newbies.
There was a stunned silence, then a collective murmur.
“Oh, my God,” Tanya breathed.
Yep, the first guy was a looker. Blue, blue eyes, sweet smile, dark brown hair that was styled but not too embarrassing. Dimple in his left cheek. Were Colleen the dating type, she’d probably be all over that. His eyes stopped on her, his smile widened, which was gratifying. Colleen allowed a faint smile back. The not-quite-catty thought came to her—she could have him if she wanted. Which she didn’t, but still.
Then she noticed the second guy. Her smile faltered.
Holy St. Patrick. Her face didn’t change (she hoped), but her body was...wasdoingthings. Stomach tightened, mouth dried, knees (and other parts) tingled. She acknowledged the feelings from afar because her brain couldn’t quite function at the moment.
He looked a lot like the other boy, but he was darker. Not quite as good-looking...well, no. Not quite as perfect, but alotmore compelling. Black hair instead of brown, olive skin and deep, dark eyes.
He looked like a Spanish pirate. Like a Romany gypsy. Like Heathcliff inWuthering Heights,and like Heathcliff, there was something about his expression that said he knew things, saw things, that he wasn’t as sweet or as easy or as simple as the boy who stood next to him.
“Now, which one of you is Bryce?” Mrs. Wheaton asked.
“I am,” said the blue-eyed guy. “This is my cousin Lucas. He lives with us.” And even though Bryce made the introduction, it was Lucas who shook hands with Mrs. W. first, causing his cousin to follow suit, and Colleen could sense the dynamic: Lucas, the cousin who lived with “us,” was in charge.
“Nice to meet you,” the gypsy boy said, and Colleen just about slid out of her chair in lust. Because thatvoice,good God, did eighteen-year-old boys really get to sound like that? It was deep and mellow and just a little rough and caused a reverberation in Colleen’s special places, and what the hell would happen if he actually spoke to her?
