“Oh, and here he is!” Church calls out, smiling big.
I move hesitantly into the room and find myself under Mr. Johansen's intense scrutiny.
“Your friends tell me you’d like to help with the charity baking auction?” he starts, and I just gape at him. Me? Enter a baking auction? That's laughable. I can't bake to save my own life.
“Um, no?” I start, but he's already patting me on the head and smiling. Clearly, Mr. Johansen's hearing aid isn't working at the moment.
“Excellent! We’ll need your entry by eight am tomorrow morning. Normally, we don’t take such late entries, but your friends have adamantly spoken up on your behalf. This auction is a yearly tradition and reflects heavily on the school’s reputation and its students—not to mention the new headmaster.” Mr. Johansen waggles his caterpillar-like gray brows at me, and my stomach drops. “Generous donors bid handsomely on these goods, and all proceeds go to benefit the children’s hospital. Don’t let us down, son.” Mr. Johansen clamps me on the shoulder, and gives it a good squeeze.
He’s out the door before I can even find the right words to respond.
“You dickhead!” I snap, giving Micah and Tobias a pleading look as they move into the room behind me. They know my secret now, so surely …
“We thought you’d like to contribute to charity,” they say together, grinning like maniacs.
“You guys know I can’t bake worth shit!” I’m panicking now. Will Dad let me take his car into Nutmeg, so I can grab an instant cake mix or something? “You’re going to help me, right?”
“Not a chance,” Church purrs, tapping his fingers on the side of his to-go coffee cup. “Have fun, Mr. Carson. The official Culinary Club meeting is cancelled today, so you can have the kitchen all to yourself.” He moves around me, knocking me out of the way as he passes. I scowl at him, giving the twins a serious stare-down as they pass, but they just chuckle like it’s all a big game.
Spencer pauses next to me for a moment before patting me patronizingly on the head.
“Good luck, Chuck,” he says, before sauntering out of the room.
Now it’s just me and Ranger in here.
“If I leave you here, are you going to burn the place down?” he asks me as a bead of sweat trails down the side of my face. Legit. I am sweating bullets right now. I mean, I can get a recipe book and follow instructions, but ... a cake worthy of an auction? This is some cruel punishment right here.
“Maybe,” I say, getting my phone and searching YouTube for how to make an easy cake. If I follow step-by-step instructions in a video, I should be fine. Right?
Ranger reaches out and plucks my phone from my hand. For a moment, I panic when I think he might smash it again, but all he does is chuck it on the second large island behind him.
“You need an apron,” he tells me, moving over to one of the tall cabinets and opening it. There are a ton of aprons in there, but only a few cute, frilly ones like he usually wears. He puts himself in a white apron with a red cherry print, and offers up a pink one with hearts all over it to me.
I reach out for it, sling the strap over my head and let the straps hang. Ranger rolls his eyes and curses under his breath the way he did when he finally gave in and helped me find my glasses that night.
“Helpless idiot,” he murmurs, turning me around with his hands on my shoulders and tugging the straps tight. My breath catches, and I hope he doesn't notice the curve in my waist too much. “Okay, do what I say and we might actually have a presentable cake.”
“Why are you helping me?” I ask, and Ranger scowls, pointing at one of the lower cabinets.
“Just get the pastel-colored ceramic mixing bowls from down there, and I'll work on the pans.” Ranger sighs as he fusses around in a drawer, and I do what he's asked. “I'm not helping you by the way. It's just ... baking is kind of my thing. I can't stand to see it fucked up, not when I could step in and help. Besides, that auction earns a ton of money for the kids.”
“Or the rich asswads betting on cakes could simply, you know, donate without having to flash their wealth around in each other's faces in some sort of my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours competition.”
Ranger's mouth twitches, but then, he's the offspring of those same said rich dicks, so I'm surprised when he ends up smiling. It only lasts a second, and then he's ordering me around again.
“What sort of cake are we making?” I ask, picking up a can of cherry cola and wrinkling my nose.
“Chocolate cherry cola cake,” Ranger says, popping a maraschino cherry between his lips. “It's not fancy, but the bidders don't all want fancy at the auction; they're rich, they can get fancy cakes whenever they want. Sometimes, simple and nostalgic, with a touch of homemade Americana is best.”
“So ... giving the rich toilet-paper-wads a taste of the middle class?” Ranger gives me a look.
“Toiler-paper-wads, huh? That's ... an interesting insult. You're strange as hell, Chuck.” Ranger watches me for a moment, and then points at the flour. “Now start whisking together the dry goods: sugar, flour, cocoa, dry milk, salt, baking powder and baking soda. I'll take care of the wet stuff,” he says, and my entire body goes hot at the word wet passing between his lips. “The oil, eggs, and vanilla. After that, we'll combine the two bowls. Takes about fifty strokes to make it nice and smooth.”
Wow.
Has baking always sounded so damn sexual?!
I find myself breathing a little harder as I pick up a measuring cup.
“How much flour?” I ask, and Ranger pauses, like he hadn't thought of that before.
“Fuck. I don't measure shit, I just ... Shit.” He reaches up to ruffle his blue-streaked black hair and then pauses to rinse his hands. “Okay, let's just do this together.”
He comes up behind me, and I forget to breathe for a whole minute as he takes my hand and uses one of the measuring cups to scoop white flour from the sack into the bowl. My heart is thundering, and I can feel him pressed close against my me. If ... he knew I was a girl, this might be a very different scenario.
We finish up mixing both the dry and the ... wet ingredients in different bowls, and then pouring them together.
“Let me show you how to beat it properly,” he says, and then we both pause and Ranger laughs, this smooth, dark sound that works its way into all the crevices of my brain. Why are all these Student Council pieces of shit so hot and swoon-worthy? I have a weakness for cute boys, remember? “The cake, I mean. You’re a dude, so I’m sure you know to beat other stuff just fine.” He chuckles again, and the sound is so warm and inviting, I have to suppress a small flutter of butterflies.
Cody, Cody, Cody, I tell myself, but then Ranger's grabbing my wrist and showing me how to whisk, his fingers firm but not overbearing, his touch scalding.
It's a relief when we finally get the cake in the oven, and I can put some space between us.
Ranger leans against the counter near the giant, industrial fridge and watches me with narrowed eyes. He looks ... I don't want to say cute in his apron, but really, cute is the first word that comes to mind.
“So what's so great about California?” he asks, making it sound like a dirty word. “I thought it was hot and expensive and prone to natural disasters?”
I give him a look, but he doesn't seem at all apologetic about it.
“It's more about my friends,” I start, and then pause before I can add and my boyfriend. “My girlfriend, Monica.” I stop again because for some reason, it feels hard to lie with Ranger staring at me like that, as if he can see straight into my soul and isn't a fan of what he's found there. “Plus, you know, it's not cold enough to freeze my”—don't say tits, don't say tits—“balls off.”
“Well, if you like forest fires and tsunamis, then cool.” He gives what looks like the briefest of smiles, making me think that's supposed to be a joke or something. I smile back, but by the time I do, whatever remnant was on his face is gone. “I'm going to start on an assignment that's due tomorrow. You've g
ot time until the cake’s finished baking, and then it has to cool before we can frost it. Basically, you have some time to yourself for a while.”
He moves away from the counter and takes up the chair in the corner. I sit in the one opposite him and then we just wait together in companionable silence, filling out different assignments on our laptops.
It's … actually kind of nice.
Like, maybe in a different place, a different universe, Ranger and I could be friends.
Maybe.
Too bad it's not that time or that place.
I've never been so excited as I am that first day of winter break, gathering my things up, and sprinting up the hill toward my dad's place. On the way, I run into Spencer, sitting on one of the log benches that line the path, tapping his fingers on the edge of the armrest and watching me with those miraculous eyes of his.
“Off to see your girlfriend, huh?” he asks, sounding pretty damn salty about the whole thing. I pause next to him, still irritated about the whole cake baking fiasco, and cross my arms over my chest.
“Yeah, so?”
Spencer shoves up to his feet, his blazer all rumpled, tie loose and crooked, and gets right up close and personal with me, running his knuckles down the side of my face.
“Don't pretend you don't fucking feel it, too, this tension between us.” My heart is pounding, and I'm suddenly all sweaty and tongue-tied. I feel it; of course I do. But that doesn't matter. I'm going home to Cody today. I may never come back here again, never see Spencer Hargrove again.
“What about it?” I ask, and he growls at me, slamming his palm into the tree trunk on my left. My eyes narrow as I look up into his.
“What about it?” he repeats, clearly pissed off. “What about it?! I'm questioning everything I know about myself, about my sexuality. You're the only guy I've ever been attracted to.” Part of me feels almost sorry for Spencer, but I can't help it if … he likes me. Oh god, he likes me?! How, why?! Why is he such a freaking bully then? “And you told me you were gay, and then suddenly I find out you have a girlfriend?”
“I'm bisexual,” I blurt, feeling guilty for taking on an identity that doesn't belong to me. At that moment, however, I feel like it's my only way out of this.
Not that it matters … right? Since I’m leaving?
I bite my lower lip, and exhale sharply when Spencer steps away from me, raking his fingers through his silver-ash hair. He's got dark roots, but I think they're intentional, and I love the layered, charcoal look of it.
“Jesus, Chuck,” Spencer snarls, sighing and rubbing his palms down his face. He shakes his head, curses, and stands up straight, letting his head fall back, so he can look up at the blue, blue sky above. It's freezing ass cold out here, but there's not a cloud in the sky. “Just go. Have fun in California.” He drops his arms to his sides and looks over at me, and I wonder if he can tell how hard I'm breathing, or how many beads of sweat are tracing their way down my spine.
Spencer steps closer again, and I back up against the tree, giving him a chance to lord over me.
“Or maybe we should have one last, kiss, so you've got something to compare Monica to? What do you think, Chuck?” He reaches up and pulls my lower lip down with his thumb, leaning in toward me and breathing against my mouth. My eyes go half-lidded, and my heart rate picks up speed. I should push him away, but … I'm really struggling here.
Spencer closes the distance between us, and crushes his mouth against mine, kissing me with so much passion that I nearly stumble. A strong arm wrapped around my waist is the only thing holding me up, and I find my breath knocked away, my head spinning, stars bursting behind my closed lids.
It's the sort of kiss you only ever read about it, the kind you can never forget, not when a dozen years pass, not when a century does.
Pushing away from Spencer, I take off up the hill, throw my stuff in Dad's trunk, and then put my earbuds in to drown out the emotions that are so desperately calling out for my attention.
After two layovers, and god only knows how many hours shoved in the crowded economy seats on some budget airplane, Dad and I arrive at the San Jose International Airport. Even though it's winter here, too, it's about a million times warmer than back in stupid Nutmeg, Connecticut.
The drive into Santa Cruz is excruciating, especially when Monica and Cody stop answering messages. I'm on pins and freaking needles, but I sit quietly in the passenger seat of our rental car, and say nothing. This road we're driving—State Route 17—is considered to be one of the most dangerous in the entire state.
Once we get into Santa Cruz proper, my heart nearly explodes in my chest. I'm practically bouncing up and down as I curl my hands on the edges of the seat and wait for Dad to take me straight to Monica's mansion on the beach.
“What are you doing after you drop me off?” I ask, and Dad sighs heavily.
“Heading back to the hotel to work. This trip is for you, Charlotte, not for me. I left everything behind when we moved, and I'm happy to keep it that way.” I scowl at him when he isn't looking. How can he talk about Mom so casually like that? Like she's some broken vase to be discarded? It just pisses me off.
“Whatever,” I mumble, but my irritation quickly fades when we pull up to the huge front steps, a fountain on our left, and Monica's brand-new silver Beemer on the right.
I'm out of the car and taking off before Dad even has a chance to come to a complete stop. Not only is today special because it's a break from the academy and its stupid Student Council, but I'm back home, and it just so happens to be my seventeenth birthday.
The front door opens before I even get to it, and there she is, dark hair shorn short, makeup on point, mouth curled up at the edges in a big grin.
“Welcome home, babe!” she calls out as I throw my arms around her neck in a huge hug. Laughing, Monica pushes me back a step and holds me by the shoulders so she can look me over. “You're as pale as a ghost.” She reaches up and plays with my hair. “And this hair, girl, we need to get you into my mom's stylist.”
A small sliver of hurt cuts through me, but I ignore it. Actually … I'm just looking for Cody now. He said he'd meet me here.
“Hey, cutie!” Cody calls out, sauntering in from the next room. He's as handsome as ever with his golden tan, sun-bleached hair, and shiny white smile. I ready myself for butterflies, ones that are a thousand times more intense than the ones I felt while kissing Spencer.
Only … nothing happens, and I'm left standing there feeling so lost and alone that I sort of want to throw up.
Cody swaggers up and puts his arms around me, pulling me in for a tight hug. He gets a little fresh and cups my ass, and both Monica and I make a sound of disgust.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, but there's a thread of discomfort there that I'm not understanding. Before I left, I couldn't stop touching Cody. I loved when he touched me. And now … he smells like suntan oil and something sweet that seems familiar, but that I can't quite place.
Cody steps back from me, giving my hand a squeeze as he, too, looks me over. He bites his lower lip, and I can see from the twinkle in his pale blue gaze that he's a hell of a lot more excited to see me than Monica seems to be.
I stand there for a moment in the cool, air-conditioned foyer, and look between the two of them, people I've known since I was in kindergarten. And yet … they both feel like strangers. Monica's trying to smile, and Cody is smirking, but it all feels like an act.
The door opens behind me, and Dad appears with my bag, setting it down just inside.
“Monica, Cody,” he says, and his eyes narrow just slightly. He's never liked Cody which used to make me like Cody more. Not so much right now. “I'll be picking you up on Monday, no exceptions. You hear me?” I nod, and Dad leaves, closing the door behind him. We already made arrangements with Monica's parents for me to stay here. They don't mind; their house is like ten thousand square feet.
“So, we were just about to hit up the beach,” Monica says, and I force a smile. Jus
t about to hit up the beach? Like, they weren't waiting for me to get here? I'm sort of confused, and all of this excitement that's been building in me for months is starting to trickle away. “We figured you could get changed, and we'd all go together? There's some swimsuit competition that Heather and Sheila begged me to enter, so … we'll do that, and then get lunch?”
I'm just standing there listening to her talk, and feeling my stomach turn to lead. It's just nerves, Charlotte, I tell myself, shaking it off and forcing a smile. I'm sure they haven't mentioned your birthday because they're waiting for the right moment. I don't want or need presents or anything else from them, just … a simple acknowledgment would be nice.
“I'll go get dressed then,” I say, trying to stay perky as I pick up my bag and head for the upstairs guest wing. Yep, they have a whole wing dedicated to guests in the Peters house. And I've stayed here so many times that I know exactly where my room is.
It hasn't changed much since I left, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least something is the way I remembered it. Groaning, I sink down on the edge of the bed and put my face in my hands.
Monica seems standoffish while Cody seems … overly interested in me physically. I'm not sure what to make of all that. Dropping my hands to my lap, I force myself to shake it off. Monica threw that surprise party for your sixteenth birthday, remember? And that whole day you sulked because you thought nobody knew or cared.
That's enough motivation for me to get up, switch into my pink and white polka dot bikini, throw a cover up on top, and head back downstairs. When I get there, I find Cody and Monica whispering frantically near the front door.
They both pause when I hit the bottom step, and I find myself forcing back a grin. Yep. She's planning something.
I shake off that odd feeling in my arms and legs, and move over to stand beside them, slipping my shades on and cocking out a hip.
The Secret Girl Page 12