“I hate fireworks, remember?”
“Willa, you’re such a smart girl, why can’t you see that you and Finn are obviously end game?”
“You’re forgetting about Damien.”
“Ugh, I’m trying,” I mumble. “I haven’t forgotten about Damien. He won’t let me forget, he’s always lurking around.”
Willa’s voice rises with each word. “He is not lurking. I want him around. I like him around. I like him. So get over it.”
I raise my voice to match. “I’ll try.”
“Try harder.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Silence.
Then Willa can’t help herself. “Okay, but promise you’re not going to accidentally fall in love with Cabot. If he’s not confused, like you say, I don’t want you to get your heart broken again.”
I think about that near-kiss and why he doesn’t want to do it again. “Me either, Willa. I promise I won’t accidentally fall in love with Cabot Wheeler.”
…
He should have kissed her.
Cabot thought about it the whole way home to Pemberton Heights. At first he’d wanted to kiss Mariely to show her that whoever had kissed her before had done a really bad job. Slobber? They weren’t in eighth grade. And she was so adamant she wasn’t nervous about it. He knew better, though. He’d seen the way her eyes widened when he’d leaned in, the jump of her pulse at the base of her throat—she wasn’t as detached as she pretended to be. Total vindication after her sultry karaoke performance.
When her eyes had shut and he’d heard the sigh escape her red lips, almost as if she had conceded the argument, if not to him, then to herself, he’d wanted to kiss her so badly. Stupid cell phones.
The quiet ride to Willa’s house had given him time to think, to remind himself of their agreement. No strings, no complications. The last thing either of them needed was more complication. Cabot took out his phone and pulled up their picture. Her large luminous eyes stared back at him, her smile, big and wide and exuberant, like she spent all her time laughing. He knew it was all for show, but he wasn’t lying when he told her she was a threat, only not just to Audrey. Cabot had the feeling that if he’d kissed her the way he’d wanted to, it would lead to nothing but complications. For him.
Damn, he really wanted to kiss her.
Chapter Twelve
Cabot’s waiting for me on the steps in front of A-Plus on Monday morning: jeans, pullover, jaw hewn from stone. I shift my bag on my shoulder, take a deep breath and fortify my resolve.
After Friday night I decided that for our fauxmance to be really successful, I must view Cabot more objectively. Be able to see his pulse-leaping combination of dark hair, indigo eyes, and wry smile without the accompanying cardiac distraction. Sort of how you actually see your nose all the time, but your brain stops processing the image because it’s unimportant to your survival. Cabot’s looks are a distraction unimportant to my survival for the next two weeks.
He sees me and tugs off his sunglasses and— Sweet Barbara Stanwyck! How is it possible he’s even more gorgeous today than the last time I saw him? The memory of those fathomless blue eyes reflecting the lamplight as he’s a half second away from kissing me flashes to mind and…so much for not being distracted. Note to self: in the future, when selecting a guy to fauxmance, stick with someone closer to a six or seven on the hotness scale. Going with a ten just wreaks too much havoc on your nervous system.
Afraid my willpower might not be up for a nearly impossible task, I came up with a backup plan: pencil skirt.
“Hey, Mariely. You look…wow, you, uh, look great this morning.”
My skirt is covered in tiny pink cherry blossoms and I paired it with a soft pink sweater and kitten heels. My curves aren’t all that, more squiggles than anything, but they don’t have to be in this outfit—the skirt does all the work. I notice Cabot noticing this same thing. I have to focus hard to keep from grinning and giving myself away. So what if this isn’t a real thing between us? We’re in this together, and I shouldn’t be the only one who’s distracted.
“Aw, thanks, Cabot. That’s sweet. You seem like you’re in a good mood this morning.”
“You could say that. I started a new canvas this weekend.” He yawns and stretches his arms over his head, pulling up his shirt just enough for a peek of taut skin beneath. Seriously? How is that even fair? “Worked on it all weekend,” he tells me. “I haven’t spent this much time in my studio in weeks. It feels amazing.” His energy is infectious.
“Ooh, the beginning of a new project is the best. Full of possibility and perfection. Whenever I have a new part I want to run lines for hours. It makes Jacen crazy.” I pause. “Guess he won’t have to put up doing that with me anymore.”
“That’s his loss. Speaking of crazy exes, Audrey unfriended and unfollowed me on every social media account I have about five minutes after our picture posted.”
“Ha ha! So social media can be used for good.” I mimic twirling the end of an evil villain mustache between my fingertips. “What’s our next step then to keep that monkey—oops, I mean Audrey—off your back?” Cabot laughs, a hearty sound, and I’m glad there’s not any lingering awkwardness leftover from the almost-kiss. “Whatever we do, I’m going to require coffee by the gallon if I’m going to stay awake today. A tea for you?”
“Sounds great.”
We agree to meet in the quad to walk to the Café together for lunch. The three hours in between are literally a year long each, minimum. When the bell rings, I’m up and out of my chair like a prisoner on parole day. Outside, I search for Cabot. When I spot him he’s already halfway from Sushi Hall and closing the distance fast, not his usual unhurried saunter. The idea that he might be in a hurry because he wants to see me sends my stomach butterflies into a tizzy, even as I tell myself it’s ludicrous, that he’s rushing only so others will think he’s in a hurry to see me, or because he’s really hungry. Either way, it’s not enough to convince the butterflies to calm down.
“How was class?” I ask.
“Way too long,” he says in a breathy, earnest way that makes the butterflies riot. He takes my hand and I have to look away so he can’t see my too-wide grin. When we cross the quad, Cabot holds open the door for me. He follows behind, and presses his hand lightly against the small of my back, guiding me around a group of people standing between us and the Café.
I. Feel. It. All. Over.
To my hands, my toes, like sun-warmed honey pouring along every inch of my body, all sweet and languid. And even though I know I shouldn’t because of confusion, like Willa warned, I slow my steps and enjoy the feeling. Then because I suppose I’m an idiot, I take it even further, letting myself imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t a fauxmance. What if after the dance we didn’t go our separate ways? What would it be like to be Cabot’s girl and feel this every single day?
We make it through the line for food and meet up with Willa and Damien in our usual spot. We’ve barely sat down before the very person who could tell me exactly what it’s like to be with Cabot shows up at our table.
Audrey doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Cabot, I want my things back that I left at your house.”
Cabot stays calm, focusing on his sandwich. “Sure, come by. I’ll have them ready.” If he’s rattled or bummed out about any of this, he does not give Audrey, or any of the people now staring in our direction, the satisfaction of showing it. They may as well be discussing the rain in Spain rather than the ashes of their relationship for all the non-emotion Cabot displays. Maybe I’m wrong about Cabot having lingering feelings for Audrey.
She doesn’t seem happy about it, either. “Don’t forget to include the painting of me and all the photos, too,” she snaps.
Cabot’s indifferent demeanor doesn’t change, but I see the muscle in his jaw tick back and forth. “Why would I give you my painting?”
One corner of Audrey’s mouth curls maliciously. “Since I won’t be s
igning the consent form for its use in your spring show, there’s no reason for you to keep it anymore.”
Cabot’s jaw ticks one last time before, in a blur, he jumps to his feet, crashing his chair to the ground. Anyone who wasn’t staring at us before is now. “No way, Audrey. The painting is mine. I worked for months on it.”
Now that she has not only Cabot’s full attention but the entire cafeteria’s as well, Audrey relaxes in the spotlight, her tone less waspish, but no less venomous. “I know, it really is some of the best work you’ve ever done, but in light of your current situation”—her eyes roll over to me, and her lips pucker with distaste—“I don’t feel comfortable giving consent. Without my consent the painting is pretty useless to you, isn’t it? So unless you’re keeping it for sentimental reasons, I want it.”
Cabot’s hands are shaking, but the rest of his body is rigid. “No. Sentiment is for things you want to remember. You can have the painting when you come for the other crap. ” He turns his back to her and yanks up the overturned chair. For a moment, I think he might throw it, but he sets it right and drops into it. Satisfied with the damage she inflicted, Audrey strolls away, letting the curtain fall on our little lunchtime melodrama.
Damien is the first person to break the shocked silence at our table, of course. “Dude, she’s superhot but she’s a superbitch. You’re lucky you got out with your balls intact.” Willa, bless her, elbows him in the ribs. “What? It’s true.”
Cabot snorts. “Yeah, it’s true.”
“Let’s go get a Coke or something.” Willa grabs Damien’s hand.
“But you don’t drink Coke,” he argues as she drags him away, leaving Cabot and me alone. I reach out and lay my hand on his arm. The muscle is uncomfortably tense beneath my fingers.
“I’m so sorry. Is this really bad for your senior project?”
“I need twelve finished paintings before March. Without it, I only have seven complete. I spent two months getting that one perfect. I planned for it to be the show’s centerpiece.” He rakes his hand through his hair and pulls at the waves.
My stomach twists and I feel horrible because Cabot looks miserable, frustration pouring off his body. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He stares in Audrey’s direction for a beat, before turning to me, his eyes wild and alight with something that sends my pulse into doubletime. “Yes, you and I are going to amp this up. Right now.”
Then he shifts his fingers into my hair and kisses me. It’s fast and hot, and definitely not a stage kiss. No, this kiss is all breathless urgency and persuasion, like he’s afraid I might pull away and he’s doing whatever it takes to make sure I don’t. My heart is hammering against my chest so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it, but I stay exactly where I am. How could I not? This kiss is everything. All the heartbreak, embarrassment, anger, fear, nervousness, excitement, every single emotion I’ve felt since that horrible party is in this kiss. But what I feel most as his lips move over mine is the desire for it to go on forever.
When he pulls away, my whole body is tingling. My eyes flutter open—when had I closed them?—and he’s staring back, his eyes so deep and beckoning they make me want to dive into them and never find my way out. Except I also see confusion in their darkness.
Confusion because he can’t believe he kissed me? Or confusion because he felt the same thing I felt: electricity?
I don’t get a chance to find out, though, because a throat clears loudly next to us and crashes us back to reality. Mr. Foster, one of our school counselors, does not look pleased with our violation of NextGen’s effusive PDA policy. “Mr. Wheeler, Miss Hinojosa, a word in my office, please.”
“No, just me, sir,” Cabot tells him. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” I’m about to argue that I’m not a victim, but rather a (most-willing) participant, except Cabot shakes his head at me not to. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you later, okay?”
Mr. Foster huffs. “Fine. Come with me, Cabot.”
As he leaves, my skin is hot and prickly because once again everyone is staring. Well, maybe not everyone. Sloane Whitaker and Tru Dorsey seem too wrapped up in each other to give two Mae Wests about what went down between Cabot and me. The same cannot be said for my best friend, however. Willa makes a beeline back to our table, her withering look of disapproval a practical cooler of iced Gatorade on my hot kiss parade.
“What the hell was that?” she hiss-whispers. “That didn’t look so fake to me.”
“Don’t worry, Mommy Dearest. Everything is under control. That was all part of the plan.”
She cocks an eyebrow. She’s not buying it. Willa knows that kiss was never part of any plan I came up with, but I don’t care. I’m in no mood to placate my overprotective BFF at this moment while I’m still basking in the afterglow of the most **ah-mazing** (** = double jazz hands) kiss of my life.
A proper kiss.
From Cabot.
If I’d known kisses like this one existed in the world, or more importantly, that someone would actually kiss me this way, there would never have been a question in my mind that my relationship with Jacen was a fraud. Never mind that my relationship with the eye-opening kisser is an actual fraud, and that he only did it to make his crazy ex-girlfriend even crazier.
Because I’m the one he’s making crazy.
And not only that, but I would swear on the graves of Bogie and Bacall that that kiss was just as eye-opening for Cabot as it was for me.
Chapter Thirteen
He shouldn’t have kissed her.
Not because he hadn’t wanted to—he’d hardly thought about anything else but kissing Mariely since Friday night. Still, it had been for all the wrong reasons and now he was worried the kiss had been too much, too soon for her.
He certainly hadn’t planned to do it. Not like that and definitely not quite so publicly. But Audrey taking his painting… God, he’d never felt so angry and powerless in his life, not even when his parents split up. But what had really gotten to him was the way Mariely had looked, like she was afraid it was her fault any of this was happening. He’d wanted to make it all go away. Everything but her.
He hadn’t thought, he’d just acted, rashly, and it had almost backfired on them.
At first she’d been so stiff with shock that he’d worried she might push him away. Which would have spelled disaster for their plan. But then her mouth had gone all soft beneath his, pulling him in and then kissing him back and he’d nearly come undone. Tasting her, feeling the silkiness of her hair as it fell across his hands. At that moment, if he could have, he would have gladly drowned in her.
He didn’t know how Mariely felt about it, though. Mr. Foster had ruined the chance for him to get a read on her. Now as he waited for her outside in the quad, he chewed nervously on his lip, worried about what she was going to say and that maybe he’d done damage he couldn’t undo.
When she came out of A-Plus, she immediately searched for him, and then hurried over. “Hey,” she said. She didn’t sound upset, so that was a good sign.
“Hey,” he answered and watched her closely while they stood awkwardly and he waited for her to say something, anything that would give him a clue what she felt about what happened.
“That was not a stage kiss,” she said finally and it sounded to him like an accusation.
Shit.
“I’m sorry, Mariely. I know we agreed that’s as far as we’d go and I crossed the line. Audrey knows exactly how to push me over the edge.” He felt guilty about placing most of the blame on his reaction to his ex when that was only a fraction of the reason why that kiss went so far.
Her expression seemed to falter, like she was as disappointed by his answer as he was. “Oh, yeah, of course…Audrey. The kiss was good, though. Kind of perfect, actually. After that no one could doubt we’re together now. You even fooled Willa.”
Right then, Cabot’s phone dinged and he pulled it from his pocket. “Speak of the devil—she’s going to be at my house in fifteen mi
nutes to get her stuff.”
“You’d better go, then,” she said, but she seemed unhappy.
“What about taking you to work? Audrey can wait ten extra minutes.”
“No, don’t provoke her any more. I’ll have Willa take me. She won’t mind. Besides, I think we could use some space after today.”
Space? Who needs space in a fauxmance? Crap, he’d really screwed up.
Cabot sped home. He’d managed to gather everything he could find in his room that belonged to Audrey by the time the doorbell rang. He opened the door and without saying hello, handed her the box of crap.
Audrey rolled her sunglasses onto her head and took a cursory glance at the contents. “And the painting?”
He held the door wide so she could come in, and she followed him down the hall into his studio. The studio, and the house, had belonged to his mother’s father, a sculptor, somewhat famous in his time and able to make a better-than-nice living from his art, something most artists never achieved. Cabot had left some of his grandfather’s smaller unfinished marble pieces here and there around the room after he died, for inspiration. His own canvases sat mostly on the floor leaned up against the walls.
The only one hanging up was the painting of Audrey. Brushstroke by tiny brushstroke he’d replicated the photo: she’d just come out of a turn, the thin film of her skirt swirling forward with the motion, her head and arms thrown back, curving her back sensuously and thrusting forward her breasts. Contemporary dance was powerful, raw, and sexy, and his painting captured all of it. Finishing it had been the only time he’d ever had the feeling, like knew deep in his bones, he had a chance to be truly great at something.
“It really is the best thing you’ve ever painted, Cabot,” Audrey said over his shoulder.
“I know.” Then he reached up and took it down from the wall. “I already put the photos in the box.”
Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Page 9