I sing to him, and I can’t stop myself. And the screwed-up thing is everyone thinks I’m zeroed in on Preston—except Gage.
What scares me is I’m on autopilot, the song coming from my subconscious because as the words flow, I’m not looking at the screen or thinking about the song. I remember our competitive run. I recall hanging out in his room. I picture his tattoo. I daydream about the way he looked in those boxers. It’s all Gage, no Preston.
Exactly how would any of that work anyway? I can’t date one brother and have feelings for another.
The song ends to thunderous applause. Preston’s waiting at our table when I get back, and he jumps up, bends me backwards and plants a huge kiss on my lips to the crowd’s cheers. His arms crush into my waist, and I squeeze back, but when I open my eyes, Gage is watching. He smiles and nods, so formal-like, and when I get upright on my feet and smile back, Gage stands up, throws some money on the table and walks out.
Chapter 16
Gage
W
hoever came up with how to pronounce “R” in the French language should be tortured and obliterated. Madame kept yelling in class that our “Lazy Southern Drawl” originated the sound against the rooves of our mouths instead of in the throat, the way native French speakers did it. I think we “lazy Southerners” do it best. Who the hell wants to sound like they’re hocking up a loogie while they’re talking?
The other patrons in this coffeehouse obviously agree because every time I practice this list of “R” words and get some good throatiness going, they turn and stare, eyes squinted and lips snarled. Like they’re waiting to see a big loogie come flying out onto the table. That’ll spoil their cappuccino break.’
The chimes on the door ring out, and I look up from my notebook. Rayne walks in with her backpack on both shoulders, wearing a strappy red tank top that dips just low enough to leave me wanting more. The French “R” and the monster test coming up next week slip from my mind as I watch her absentmindedly playing with her earring. She considers the menu, and then smiles at the girl taking her order—a lopsided grin that shows just a flash of white between her pink lips.
These are not things I should be noticing about my brother’s girlfriend. I mean, it’s a free country, and I can think she’s hot. My mind’s fair game. I just can’t ever do anything about it. That’d be breaking the bro-code, complicated by the fact Preston’s my actual brother and not just some random guy, so the thoughts alone are bad enough.
Latte in hand, she pauses by the counter, scanning the room. She must be looking for Preston. He left home before I did, saying he was going to see someone, and I’d automatically figured he meant Rayne. Maybe they’re meeting here instead.
When her eyes land on me, she waves and smiles. My heart skips a few beats, like a butterfly flapping around in my chest, as she heads in my direction. It isn’t the only thing affected. A deep stirring—in a place where there should be no stirring when thinking of my brother’s girlfriend—forces me to readjust in my seat.
“Studying for the French exam next week?”
“Trying. You?” I nod toward her backpack.
She shrugs off the straps and plops it on the table. “Yep. Mind if I join you for a minute?”
I choke back the words because anything at this point would sound too exuberant. Yes! Please! Now! I nod and use my foot to slide the chair out towards her. She takes another quick scan around the room then sits down across from me.
“Looking for Preston?”
She takes a sip of her latte, leaving a smidge of coffee on her upper lip that disappears under a tongue swipe. Dear God. “Jaycee, actually. We’re supposed to study together. Why?”
“Just wondering. I thought when he left this morning, he was going to see you.”
She shakes her head and shrugs. “He’s texted me a few times, but I haven’t seen him in days. He said he might have some time this weekend but… I guess not. He’s always so busy with school and work stuff. Guess I’ll have to get used to that, right?”
No, she shouldn’t have to get used to it. Preston’s a fool. Just because those other shallow girls he’s dated were willing to wait at his beck and call, doesn’t mean this one will.
“What part are you studying?” She takes another sip and reaches for my notebook, angling it towards her as she reads the page. “The dreaded ‘R,’ huh?”
“It’s useless. I’m gonna fail the speech portion of this thing.”
“No, you’re not. I’ll help you.” She scoots her chair closer, pushing up on her elbows to scour the notebook.
She’s not wearing much make-up. Her freckles spread out over her cheeks and nose then spill down across her shoulders and chest, a few disappearing into the neckline of her tank that gapes open a bit as she leans in toward me. My eyes follow the freckles down the rabbit hole, my body reacting in more ways than one when the thought of her…
Snap!
I glance up. She snaps her fingers again, dodging around and trying to catch my gaze. “Did you hear me?”
Fire rushes to my cheeks. “Uh… no… missed it.”
“Say this phrase,” she says, tapping her nail beside raison d’etre.
Making the loogie sound is not the impression I want to leave her, but she’s staring at me so I have to. “Hhrrray-zon”
She grimaces. Please don’t say I’ve spit all over her.
“Too hard. R’s are supposed to be throaty, not snotty.” She reaches over and grasps my throat, just under the jaw bone, the gentle pressure of her fingertips spiraling out into euphoric waves down my body. Once again, I have to shift in my chair, the visceral reaction so strong and immediate it’s a bit painful. “Push the word from here.” She pinches in as I say the word again, this time creating the perfect pronunciation.
I squirm as both her fingers and her eyes fix on me as she nods, a huge grin spreading across her lips. I want to tell her how awesome I think she is. How she makes me actually want to try to master this damn “R.” But I can’t. The words would be treason to the one person I admire most.
“What the hell is going on?”
Rayne jerks her hand away. We didn’t see Jaycee walk up, but she’s standing beside us, hands on her hips, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the tile floor.
“Just helping Gage with his French,” Rayne stammers, jumping to her feet, backpack in hand. “Exciting stuff.”
Jaycee steps up to the table, darting her eyes between me and Rayne. I shift in my chair. Apparently the wrong move, because she glances down, her eyes fixing on the exact thing I’m trying to keep hidden. She smirks, licking her tongue across her teeth and motions to a table on the opposite side of the room. “Come on, Rayne. Let’s go study. I think Gage has had enough excitement for one day.”
When I get home, a white work truck is parked in front of my garage door. Mom’s on some sort of kick. Last month it was all new curtains for the living room; the month before that, a new chandelier in the dining room, big and showy with lots of crystals hanging everywhere. What now?
I open the front door. The workman is standing back beside his ladder as my mom stands at the wall with her tape measure, verifying the new shelf is level and that each Chinese vase on top is equidistant from the others. Controlling much? The hefty paycheck is probably the only thing keeping him from stabbing her through the ear with his screwdriver.
She turns around, only momentarily, to glare in my direction. “Where’ve you been?”
“At the coffeehouse, studying.”
“In that?” She runs her eyes up and down my clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt, totally fine except for the smallish rip near my knee. Big deal.
She heaves out a hard breath and turns back to her measuring, dismissing me without a word. I used to care that everything I did seemed to irritate her. That inclination stopped a long time ago.
I’m heading to my room when voices from the dining room catch my attention. Preston and Ashlyn sit s
ide by side at the table, a massive pile of paperwork spread out in front of them. He’s pointing to some multi-colored graph talking about sales figures and projections while she’s propped on one arm, leaning into his side, giggling from time to time.
Yeah, because accounting is so hilarious.
“Pres? I didn’t know you were working on internship stuff today.”
They both dart their eyes toward me standing in the doorway. Ashlyn flounces back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest with a sigh.
“I wasn’t planning on it. Mom said Dad needed help on this project and thought it’d be a great way to get some experience.”
“Of course she did,” I mumble. Preston seems unaware of my sarcasm, but Ashlyn glares at me under her fake eyelashes. This is so typical of mom, manipulating this “work date” between them and all under her watchful eye. Preston’s not interested in Ashlyn, so mom’s forcing the issue. Her way or no way. But what Preston should be doing is praising the universe for a girlfriend like Rayne and spending his free time convincing her he’s worth all the waiting.
“Is there a problem?” She jacks one eyebrow up into her forehead, the corner of her lip curling into a sneer.
“I can think of at least one.”
Her chair scrapes across the hardwood as she jolts to her feet, hands on her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I wave her off with an eye roll. “Pencils down, Ashlyn. Better luck next time.”
Her jaw drops open as she flips her fake hair extensions over her shoulder in disgust. Like I care her shallow, self-absorbed feelings are hurt.
Preston stands up, inserting himself as a barrier between us. “Calm down, y’all.” He turns to Ashlyn and points toward the kitchen. “Let’s take a quick break. Why don’t you get us some cokes from the fridge?”
She deadpans a minute, then finally nods and stomps out of the room.
Preston nudges my shoulder and pans his hand across the table. “Why are you so mad at Ashlyn? We’re working.”
“You’re working. She’s shoving her boobs onto your arm.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t like her like that. Besides, I have Rayne.”
He has Rayne? It’s becoming painfully obvious he has no idea what kind of person she actually is. She won’t be happy Preston simply chooses to talk to her. She’ll want to be a priority. Why can’t he see what he really has? Or what he stands to lose if this keeps on?
“Oh yeah?” I counter. “Then why aren’t you with her? Y’all were supposed to hang out this weekend.”
Preston shrugs, palms up. “I know, but this came up. What could I do?” He sits back down at the table, shuffling papers into neat rows, and then glances over at me. “How do you know that anyway?”
“Because I was just at the coffeehouse. With your girl.”
Chapter 17
Rayne
T
he following Tuesday, Gage slides into the desk behind mine. “Has Madame said what the big project is yet?”
“Not yet, but I hope it doesn’t involve a lot of—”
Madame Martine taps her ruler on the podium. “Vous attirez l’attention!” She looks more like a French storybook character than a teacher, her orthopedic shoes, long chambray skirt, and oversized cardigan channeling Mother Goose.
“Class, it’s mid-term project time, accounting for forty percent of your semester grade. You’ll need to work in pairs, of my choosing, to select a location in Paris, present a short history, create a backdrop, and lastly, my favorite part, prepare an authentic French dish. Transport me to Paris—the city of lights and love!”
She places a glass jar on the podium, pulls out strips of paper in pairs, and begins announcing partners. Jaycee matches early on with a girl she hardly knows. I hold my breath, hoping I get someone semi-decent. “Mademoiselle Davidson et…” Please let it be good. “…Monsieur Howard.” Yes!
He taps my shoulder, face lit up when I look back at him, and whispers in my ear, “I’m thinking this is the most action Madame sees all year. So… what are we cookin’ good-lookin’?”
I strum my fingers on my cheek, but it’s all for show. There’s no doubt in my mind what we’re making. “Tartes aux cerises.” He wrinkles his forehead as if leafing through his mental French dictionary in a desperate translation attempt. “Cherry pie,” I finally say.
“My favorite.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down as he says it.
“Of course it is.” God, he’s sexy. Though technically, I shouldn’t think it.
The rain freckles my windshield as I turn in the Howards’ drive the following Sunday afternoon. I’ve spent the better part of the drive feeling guilty about my less-than-honest conversation with Mama before I walked out the door, purposefully vague with a dash of accuracy and a dollop of evasion. She asked if I’d be working in approved “public spaces” such as dens, dining rooms, kitchens, and garages with absolutely no bedrooms—ever. Check.
She asked if the Howards would be there. Kinda check. They were away for the weekend but messaged their kids religiously each day at four o’clock. That counted, right? She asked if Preston and I would ever be there alone together. Nope. Preston’s at a study session at the campus library so it’d only be me and Gage. I’m honest on a technicality. She asked about the wrong brother.
If I’d told her the whole truth, she’d have railroaded it, and working on this project with Gage can’t be jeopardized. The grade is important. Time with him is more important.
Too often lately my wandering thoughts start off with something perfectly innocent, like a conversation with Preston, and then somehow meander into the forbidden fraternal territory. Images of Gage—his lips, his eyes, barrel into my mind like little wrecking balls that pulverize my flimsy pretenses. I picture him in my daydreams, never us, because that’d be what the preacher calls “lusting in my heart.” Mama always says if you’re thinking about it, it’s the same as doing it already. The Bible says so. The people in town think that, too. The last thing I need is to tick off the town and Jesus.
Gage stands in the driveway before the car is in park. He opens my door and grabs bags of groceries and craft supplies from the back floorboard.
“Quit! You can’t carry all that.” I get out and slam the door. He twists toward me and switches the plastic sacks into his left hand, a smirk on his lips.
“You doubt my strength?” He plunges his finger into his chest. “I got all this… and you.” I squeal as he hoists me up, circling my arms around his shoulders and burying my face into his hair as he walks up the sidewalk, through the front door, not stopping until we reach the kitchen.
His grip is different from Preston’s. Sturdier. Tighter. Every nerve ending lights up, fiery hot and frenzied, like a thousand lighters at a rock concert. I’ve been trying to avoid this mental situation and now here I am on some sort of physical tight rope. Forget lusting in my heart. Now my whole body’s yearning to break the rules.
“We can work in here. Want something to drink?” He drops the craft supplies onto the table and swings open the refrigerator door, sliding in the groceries and surveying inside. “Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Cheerwine?”
Mama never buys soda at the store. Besides the morning coffee, we have three options on any given day—milk, water, and sweet tea. She says soda rots your teeth. “Pepsi, thanks.”
He grabs two, pops the top on both and hands one to me. The fizz tickles my nose as I take a drink, the hot sweetness burning a trail down my throat, causing me to cough.
“You all right? Need mouth-to-mouth or something?”
Oh God, do I ever. “Went down the wrong way.” I pray he doesn’t see the redness burning in my cheeks.
“Just checking. I kinda need you alive to do this project with me.” He lays belly-down on the kitchen floor, now littered with paints and brushes, and pats the tiles beside him. “We can spread out down here.”
I join him on the floor, side-by-sid
e, our shoulders lightly grazing and an unseen force sucking us together like attracted magnetic poles. If I stop fighting it at any point, I’m sure to go flying right into him. Dammit, Rayne, stop this. My relationship with Preston is a good thing, and he’s a good guy. So why can’t I quit thinking about his brother?
“So, for the project, I’m thinking…” Gage starts. My intense focus on his lips lulls me into a quiet trance. Pucker, pinch, straighten, and part. As they move with each syllable, I drift backwards into myself. He’s saying something about the project, and I should be listening but all I can focus on is the heat from his shoulder touching me and how much I want to run my fingers along the stubble on his chin and brush my cheek against the lettering down his abs. “What d’ya think?”
“About what?”
He shifts his eyes to me and frowns. “The project…”
Oh yeah, the project. “I’m thinking Montmartre. Not too touristy. More artsy. Cool lights and love, not that movie junk.”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s what I just said.”
Really? “Yeah, I know,” I stammer, looking down to spin a marker in circles on the floor. “Just agreeing with you.” Two days ago, Preston said I’d be a fool to do anything but the Eiffel Tower if Madame wanted lights and love. What girl could resist the fantasy surrounding it?
Me, apparently. I’m more Midnight in Paris—quirky, whimsical, nostalgic. Now Gage sits here regurgitating that exact logic.
“Awesome,” he says, holding up his hand for a high-five. “Let’s do this.”
Over the next couple hours, we paint our version of Paris’s original artist village across a series of three foam boards, complete with narrow streets, sidewalk cafes, and a string of Christmas lights stapled along the border to play up the eclectic vibe. But the best part is when Gage narrates a string of childhood memories from secret handshakes in the backyard tree house to frog-catching conquests. I love imagining him as a kid, how cute he’d be running around in overalls, dark hair scruffed up with skinned knees. But something about it hurts, too. It’s how he talks about his brother. The whole town loves Preston, but Gage idolizes him, and listening to his memories only makes me cringe.
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