Forbidden Heat (Firework Girls #1)

by J. L. White

  On the table in front of us are the remains of four baskets of volcano fries, and empty glasses that used to hold the thickest, most delectable chocolate shakes I’ve ever had in my life.

  By the time the waiter asks if we’re ready for our check and we finally say yes, I know I’ve just made some fast friends.

  When he comes back with the check, everyone starts pulling out their wallets so they can pitch in. I grab the ticket.

  “How much do we owe?” Chloe asks.

  “I’ve got this,” I say.

  “No, no, no,” they all start protesting at once.

  “It’s the least I can do after what you guys did for me.”

  They pause, assessing me. I’ve already told them about some of the times people have used me for my money, but I know that isn’t the case here. I think they have to understand that.

  “Come on, please? Let me. We’ll go Dutch next time.”

  They look at one another, faltering.

  “Done!” I say, taking advantage of their hesitation. I toss the money on the table, leaving extra for a tip and start shoving Chloe down the seat so we can get out of the booth before they change their minds.

  “All right, all right, bossy,” she says, but she’s smiling and so am I.

  We head for the door and Sam says, “Imagine her thanking us with fries when she could be buying us Porches and shit.”

  We all laugh, but no one laughs harder than I do.

  Chapter 2

  Damn near three years later

  I’m swimming in the lap pool of the Rivers Paradise Resort, just a couple of weeks before the start of my senior year. It’s on the central California coast and Hartman College is only about an hour and a half inland from here. My parents are in love with this place and they fly up from San Diego every August just so we can hang out somewhere fun before school starts. This year we have an additional reason to be here.

  My mom recently finished her last chemotherapy treatment for uterine cancer and is finally starting to feel more like herself. We’re here to celebrate.

  I finish my swim and quickly towel dry my hair. I’m wearing a modest one-piece, but throw on my cover up anyway. I know what I look like in a swimsuit and don’t really like how it tends to draw in the guys. I kind of envy the girls who are comfortable flaunting it, but that’s just not me. It makes me pretty uncomfortable. I don’t like the extra attention I get from it, kind of like my family’s excess money.

  I grab my bag and head for one of the other pools. The resort has several outdoor pools, but the lap pool isn’t my mom’s favorite. She’s waiting at the more “sun bathing” sort of pool she prefers.

  I walk through the palm-tree lined grounds of the resort, enjoying the view of the ocean, and come to the luxurious pool with little waterfalls and two huge hot tubs. As I locate my mom’s chair across the way—she’s not there, but I recognize her bag—some guy I don’t know approaches me with that on-the-hunt look I’ve come to recognize.

  I roll my eyes. Unlike when I was a naive freshman, I’ve learned how to smell sleaze ball from a mile away. While my looks have attracted the kind of guys I do like, they draw in the slimy ones too, and I get pretty tired of it.

  “Hey baby, are you from around here?”

  Gag.

  “Is anybody from around here?” I say coolly, not slowing my stride.

  “I’m from San Francisco,” he says. “Juan.”

  “Well, Juan from San Francisco, no offense but I’m here to spend time with my family.”

  I set my bag by the lounge chair next to my mom’s and sit down. Still no sign of her.

  “Hey, I’d be happy to help you with your suntan lotion.”

  Is this guy for real? Does this ever actually work for him?

  “That’s a definite no,” I say firmly, looking him in the eye. “You take care now.” If there’s any good thing that came out of the Justin Kirby situation, it’s that I now have the confidence to talk to the guys that interest me and draw a line for the rest of them.

  I ignore his irritated look and reach into my bag.

  “Suit yourself, honey,” he says snidely. “I’ll let you get back to your sunbathing and your romance novels.”

  I pull out the latest issue of Scientific American and open to the page I dog-eared to mark my place.

  “How very kind of you,” I say without looking at him.

  I take to reading an article about gene-mapping while Romeo slinks away. I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m a magnet for the biggest assholes wherever I go.

  My mom finally appears. “I thought you’d be back soon,” she says. She’s wearing a broad-rimmed sun hat, her short brown hair framing her face. “I brought you a treat,” she says.

  She’s carrying two little white plates, upon which are the resort’s famous giant caramel brownie cookies. One for each of us. I can smell the chocolate from here. “Congratulatory cookies,” she says.

  “Congratulations for what?”

  “For my future Harvard student.” Clear back in my sophomore year, I decided I wanted to get my masters at Harvard. It’s one of the best places to be if you’re a biology nerd and want to research diseases, like I do. Every year, I think I want it just a little bit more.

  Honestly, I want it so badly I can taste it.

  That freaks me out because, come on, it’s fucking Harvard. Getting into their grad program won’t be easy.

  “I’m not a Harvard student yet,” I say.

  “You will be. Look how high your GRE score was,” she says, smiling and waving the plate under my nose. Mom tends to go a bit overboard. I’m their only child, so she has no one else to spoil. It’s pointless fighting it and it makes her happy, so I go along with it. I smile and take a cookie. It’s so fresh, it’s warm.

  “It’s just the generals, Mom. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

  She waves a hand dismissively and bites into her cookie.

  Actually, it’s my hopes I’m trying to contain. The general GRE test was one thing, but it’s my subject GRE in Biochemistry I’m stressing about. I want plenty of time to study up, so I didn’t schedule that one until November. I’m sure in the eyes of the Harvard admission board, that’s going to be the test that counts.

  My phone dings and I dig it out of my bag to check it.

  During school breaks, my Firework Girls and I tend to keep up via an ongoing group message.

  This latest one is from Sam: Jack says there’s a pre-school party Friday night. Will you be home in time to make it Isabella?

  “Is that Leo?” Mom asks. She’s been pestering me about him ever since we got here.

  “No, it’s Sam.”

  “Ah, that Sam. That girl needs to settle down with a nice boy, like you have with Leo. A good Catholic boy.” Leo’s family are Italian Catholics, so he’s practically liquid gold to my mother.

  “Sam’s not Catholic,” I say.

  “But is that really her fault?” my mom says. “She can’t help she was raised... what is it? Presbyterian?”

  “Methodist.” Not that it matters. Sam’s not really the church-going type. Neither am I, for that matter. Not when I’m away from home, that is.

  My mom tsks and says, “She’s a sweet girl anyway.”

  I smile. Even around my mom, Sam is still Sam, but my mother has embraced my friends almost as much as I have. My phone dings again. This time it is Leo.

  Can’t wait to see you, he says.

  “Still Sam?” Mom asks.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “You should invite Leo to the house for Christmas, so we can get to know him better.”

  “I’m sure he’d rather be with his own family for the holidays,” I say.

  Leo and I have been seeing each other for nearly six months now, but things have been winding down, especially over the summer. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother. The past couple of months have been rough on everybody and I don’t want to ruin her trip. She adores Leo and thinks he’s t
he one I’ll end up marrying. Besides, maybe when we see each other next week things will heat up again. After all, the sex was good at first.

  Kind of.

  “Doesn’t he want to get to know your family?” she presses. “If you two end up getting married...”

  “Maybe he wants me to meet his family,” I say, just to be ornery.

  She straightens and says sternly. “You should be with your family for the holidays.”

  I smile and read Leo’s text again. I’ll reply later.

  “Don’t you think this would be a great place for a wedding reception?” Mom asks. “I just love their ballroom.”

  I roll my eyes. I see I have a notification for a new email and take advantage of the excuse to not answer my mother. I open the email; it’s from Dean Jennings. He wants me to come to his office ASAP. The first Tuesday of the semester, he asks?

  Even though I have a good relationship with the Dean, I still get a nervous twinge being called to his office like this. I sounds important, but I can’t imagine what it’s about.

  I vividly remember the very first time I was called to his office.

  Sam had convinced me to report Justin Kirby to the Dean of Students, which I finally agreed to do. Much to everyone’s disappointment, things didn’t get very far. We had no hard evidence, only hearsay, and his frat brothers closed rank and denied any wrongdoing on his part. Since he hadn’t actually managed to rape me that long-ago night during my freshman year, that was as far as the dean had been able to take things.

  He’d pulled me aside later and told me, confidentially, that he believed my story and to stay away from that particular frat house. (Aside from one little excursion there with my girls and a box of illegal fireworks, I’ve pretty much complied. One little revenge prank was more than fair, I thought, and we got ourselves a nickname out of the bargain.)

  I’ve had a handful of interactions with the Dean since then, all for better reasons, thankfully. Once was for a dinner he and his wife hosted at their home last spring, in honor of the Claymore scholars, a semester-long fellowship for biology majors. There were just five of us.

  I sometimes wonder if Dean Jennings doesn’t feel a little fatherly toward me after the way we first met. I sometimes hear students complaining he’s a hard ass (Sam included) but it’s usually after they’ve gotten in trouble for something legitimate (Sam included). As for myself, I like him.

  I have to worry at the tone of his email though. I wonder what’s up.

  “But... I tested out of English 101 freshman year,” I say.

  I’m sitting in Dean Jennings’s office, across from his desk.

  He nods his snowy white head. He’s not much older than my mother, but he once told me he turned white in his thirties, poor guy. “Yes,” he says, “but you didn’t get credit for the class. That just gave you permission to skip that requirement and take a humanities credit of your choice instead.”

  I drop my head on my hand, looking at my schedule resting on his desktop. I can’t believe no one’s caught the oversight before now, but there it is. “Can’t you make an exception?”

  “I’m afraid not. You need to decide which one of your classes you want to drop this year. If you want to, you can talk about this with your advisor first. Get her advice about which one to cut, maybe...”

  I look again at my schedule, considering each class in turn. I can’t imagine giving up any of them. This is the year I’m supposed to be making myself as desirable as possible as a masters candidate.

  “Dean Jennings, I need all these classes.”

  “You can drop one and still have enough for your majors, but you have to have another humanities course, Isabella. I can’t change the graduation requirements. Not even for you.”

  I frown at the paper.

  “However,” he says slowly.

  I look up hopefully.

  “What I can do is give you permission to take an extra class.”

  “Done!”

  “Hold your horses,” he says, holding up his hand. “Before you agree, keep in mind we have those credit caps for a reason. It can be more difficult than many students realize to take on extra course work, especially when you already have such a heavy schedule.”

  I’m nodding, trying to look like I’m taking his warning seriously. I’d rather put in the extra work than drop a class in my major.

  “And keep in mind,” he continues, “you’ve got your scholarship to consider and you’re currently on track to graduate summa cum laude. I’d hate to see you lose all that over a dropped GPA.”

  “I won’t drop my GPA. I don’t have to take an upper-level humanities course right? Can’t I just take an introduction to something and be done with it?”

  He gives me an appraising look.

  “I really, really do not want to give up any of these classes,” I say, my finger on my schedule. “I need to show Harvard what I can do.”

  Even though it was his suggestion, I can see he’s still pondering the wisdom of it.

  “Come on Dean Jennings, you know I can do this.”

  “Well,” he says, “yes, I think you probably can, but I thought it was only fair I warn you.”

  He grabs the course catalogue from the corner of his desk and starts to flip through it. “Let’s see what we can get you into. But if it turns out to be too much, we may have to revisit this plan.”

  “Okay,” I say smiling. “Deal.”

  This actually isn’t such a bad turn of events. Having a double major, I’ve felt almost too focused on science at times. Science is my passion, which is why I’m not willing to put any other classes in its place. But really, as long as I don’t have to give up my science classes, I’m kind of excited to learn something new.

  “You have to promise to come to me if you’re having trouble,” Dean Jennings says, apparently still nursing some concern about our deal.

  “I promise.”

  He flips to the desired section, scans a few pages, and says, “This would be a good one. It’s a lot less reading than a lit class, so it shouldn’t take up too much time. It has an A and B semester too, so it’ll cover you for the year.”

  He shows me the book with his finger on the aforementioned class: History of Early Education in America. Fine by me. I’m about to agree when my eyes land on a listing on the opposite page.

  “Ooh. I want that one.”

  He looks to where I’m pointing.

  “Introduction to Philosophy? There’s a lot of reading in that class. The material can be pretty dense at times, too.”

  “I almost took it freshman year but thought I had my humanities credit and wanted to take Cell and Developmental Biology instead. It sounds fascinating.”

  “It is fascinating, but it’s going to take up a lot more of your time.”

  I read through the descriptions of the two courses. They both have A and B semesters and both sound interesting enough. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the ancient philosophers, though. The chances of me doing that outside of a classroom setting after I graduate are pretty slim.

  I give Dean Jennings an innocent smile and bat my eyelashes dramatically.

  He laughs. “Oh fine. Take what you want as long as you can keep up. Check with Ms. Mason. She’ll tell you if there’s any room left.”

  By the time I go out to Ms. Mason’s desk, I wonder if I shouldn’t take Dean Jennings’ advice. My regular course load will keep me more than busy. Why make things more difficult on myself than I need to? It’s just a credit. Why not take the easier road?

  Ms. Mason looks up both classes. The education class has plenty of room.

  “But,” she says, looking over her glasses at me, “there’s only one spot left in the philosophy class.”

  I hesitate for two heartbeats. “I’ll take it.”

  “Of course you will,” Dean Jennings calls from his office.

  I smile at Ms. Mason as she prints out my new schedule. “It starts in two minutes,” she says looking at me pointed
ly. “So you’d better hurry.”

  Chapter 3

  I’d almost rather miss the first class than show up late, but with both Ms. Mason expecting me to go and Dean Jennings most likely overhearing her telling me as much, I decide to hustle across the green anyway.

  It’s been a few years since I’ve been in Old Main, one of the oldest buildings on campus, and where several of the humanities classes are held.

  I glance at the schedule. “Introduction to Philosophy. Professor Brooks. OM - Room 205.”

  I’m not familiar with this professor and hope he’s not too fussy about punctuality. I check the time on my phone. Class started a minute ago. By the time I’ve crossed the green, climbed the stairs, and located the proper room, the class started some seven minutes before I walk in the door.

  Approximately 25 heads swing up as I make my entrance. Everyone is either already taking a quiz or, more likely, filling out some pointless beginning-of-the-year questionnaire for the professor.

  Said professor is standing behind the podium at the front of the class. Or... he would have been standing had he not been bending over to remove something from the podium’s lower shelf.

  Nice ass.

  Two words, I guarantee you, I have never used when describing any of my professors’ rears. I consider the likelihood of thinking “nice ass” when Old Professor Baggy Pants bends over and nearly burst out laughing right then.

  The man by the podium straightens and my breath catches in my throat. No wonder I was checking out his ass. He’s fucking gorgeous and isn’t old enough to be the professor.

  At least, I don’t think he is. Is he a student?

  We stare at one another for a moment and I at least have the wherewithal to realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it.

  He blinks at me, apparently taken aback by the sudden intrusion into the class. “May I help you?” he asks.

  A student assistant probably. That has to be it. Hartman College is known for small classes taught by actual professors, not underlings like a lot of the bigger universities. But there are a few of the larger undergrad science classes that are exceptions. Freshman year, my biology class had a hundred and fifty students. The professor gave the lectures, but if you had questions afterward, that’s what his student assistant was for.