The Secret Life of a Dream Girl (Creative HeArts)

by Tracy Deebs

  So much for melting. He hadn’t given the plan—or the mythical Dream Girl—a thought for hours. Guess he couldn’t say the same for her.

  “About that,” he said, clearing his throat. “I made you a thank-you gift.”

  “Made me…” Her voice drifted off as he handed her the small peacock he’d spent most of Sunday whittling and polishing.

  Her eyes grew wide as they jumped between him and the small wooden statue. “You made this?” she asked, her voice gentle, reverent. “For me?”

  He loved the sweetness of her voice, loved even more the softness of her face as she looked at him. Still, it embarrassed him a little and he shuffled around, glanced away. “It’s no big deal—”

  “It’s a very big deal!” she corrected him as she held it up to the porch light so she could get a better look. “He’s gorgeous. Really detailed and beautiful. How did you even know I liked peacocks?”

  “You were—” He gestured to his ears. “You were wearing those earrings at the dance, so I took a chance.”

  “You noticed my earrings?”

  He didn’t want to say that he noticed most things about her, so he just shrugged. “They looked good on you. You looked…really beautiful.”

  Her smile grew impossibly wider. “You looked really good yourself. I liked your tie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And the way that suit made your shoulders look.”

  It was his turn to grin. “You were checking me out.”

  “No!” she said, suddenly flustered. “I was assessing what I had to work with. You know, to attract Dream Girl.”

  “Oh, right. Dream Girl. Of course.”

  “I was.”

  He nodded even as he bit his lip to keep from smiling too widely. “I believe you.”

  “No, you don’t,” she huffed. “But fine. Maybe I was checking you out a little. You are an incredible specimen of manhood, after all.”

  She said the last totally tongue-in-cheek, but he teased her about it anyway. “Wow. Should I put that on my Tinder so Dream Girl can see it?” He held his hands up in front of him, then pulled them apart like he was reading a marquee on Broadway. “Incredible specimen of manhood Keegan Matthews enjoys picnics, slam poetry, and long walks in the rain—”

  “Oh, shut up.” She smacked him in the stomach with the back of her hand. “I’m going in now.”

  “Cool. I’m just going to go start that Tinder account…”

  She looked so adorably annoyed that he couldn’t resist. He pulled her into a hug, held on tight. And did his best not to notice how good she smelled—like vanilla and sugar and apples all rolled into one.

  It didn’t work. For one second, two, he leaned down and buried his face against the soft skin of her neck and just breathed her in. God, she felt perfect in his arms. So, so perfect. He really didn’t want to let her go.

  But he also didn’t want to do anything to screw this up, either. With that thought in mind, he started to pull back. But, super quick, Dahlia wrapped her arms around his waist and held him in place, the hard planes of his body pressed to her soft, slight curves.

  In that moment, he was more than a little spellbound by her, totally ensnared by the soft glow of her skin under the porch light. The slightly wicked curve of her lips. The shadow of her impossibly long lashes on her cheeks. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Soft. Warm. Comfortable in the best possible way.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” she asked after a moment, looking up at him with a teasing glint in her eyes.

  His brain froze and so did the rest of him. “Ummm…” How exactly was he supposed to respond to that?

  “You’re trying to woo Dream Girl here, right?”

  “Right…” His heart nearly stopped when he realized she’d figured out that she was his dream girl. That he was doing all of this because he liked her, wanted to be with her. And she wasn’t pushing him away. In fact, she was—

  “Well, then, act like it.” Her arms were still wrapped around him, and she took advantage of that fact by poking him right above his hip. Hard. “Pretend I’m Dream Girl. You’ve just taken me out on a fabulous date. You’ve walked me to the door. I’ve let you know that I had a good time and am not repulsed by your touch. What do you do next?”

  His eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “Are you coaching me on how to kiss a girl?”

  “Don’t consider it coaching necessarily. Just consider it some friendly advice. Better to practice a little bit now than to make your move and realize you’re unprepared, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I don’t really—” He cut himself off right in the middle of telling her that he didn’t need any coaching. After all, he’d been kissing girls since middle school. But if he admitted to that, she’d back off and he wouldn’t get the kiss.

  He really, really wanted the kiss.

  So even though it made him feel a little like a sleaze, he said, “You know, you’re probably right. But are you sure you’re cool with…practicing?”

  Her smile flickered for just a second, but then it grew to megawatt proportions as she nodded. “Of course. What are friends for?”

  Not for making out with, he was pretty sure. But he wasn’t about to tell her that, either. “So, umm, how exactly do you want to do this? I mean—”

  “I told you. I think we should practice.” She let go of his waist, slowly stepped away. As she did, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to wrap himself around her and hold her in place—snuggled right up against his heart, where he was getting more and more convinced she belonged.

  “Okay. So how exactly do you want to practice?” he asked when he could trust himself to speak.

  “Well, let’s pretend you just walked me to the door.”

  “I did just walk you to the door.” He said it to watch her make a face at him, and she didn’t disappoint.

  “Are you going to take this seriously? Because if you’re not, I have homework to do.”

  “Don’t go!” He grabbed her hand, held her in place. “I’ll take it seriously. I promise.”

  “We’ll see.” She made a disbelieving sound. “Okay, so as I was saying… You just walked Dream Girl to the door and she smiles up at you, bats her eyes a little.” She does an exaggerated eyelash bat that is both ridiculous and incredibly endearing all at the same time. “What do you do?”

  Her hair had fallen over her left eye and he reached up, smoothed it back so he could see her face. As he did, he brushed his palm against her cheek just to feel the softness of her skin.

  “That’s—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat a couple of times before continuing, “That’s good. That’s really good. Now you should tell me I’m beautiful. I mean, Dream Girl. You should tell Dream Girl that she’s beautiful.”

  He cupped her cheek in his hand, ran his thumb gently over her full lower lip. “You’re so beautiful.” His voice ached with sincerity.

  She swallowed audibly.

  He loved that she appeared to be as affected by his touch as he was by hers. To test that theory, he inched forward a little, crowding her with his body. Bumping his shoulders and hips and thighs against hers.

  Dahlia gasped a little, nerves suddenly replacing amusement in her eyes. Normally, he’d do everything he could to put her at ease, but right now he was enjoying her nervousness. Enjoying the proof that she finally saw him as more than just some goofy guy who needed her help.

  He waited for her next instructions, but they were more than a little slow in coming, so he finally asked, “Now what?”

  She looked up at him with dazed eyes that had heat spreading through his whole body. She swallowed again, took a couple deep, shaky breaths. And then whispered, “Now you kiss me.”

  “Just like that?” he asked, not missing the fact that she’d said me instead of her. It was the final proof he needed that she knew exactly who he was interested in. He took another step forward. Moved her another step back, until her back was against the door.


  “Just—just like that.”

  He brought his other hand up to her cheek, cupped her face between his palms. Then slowly, slowly, slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

  He meant for the kiss to be soft, sweet, tender. A get-to-know-you kiss. A thank-you kiss. An I-could-really-like-you kiss. And it was. At first, it was. Bodies brushing, breaths mingling, mouths moving gently against each other.

  But then she gasped, her lips parting against his. Her hands sliding up his chest. Her fingers twisting in his shirt. Her body arching, pressing, trembling against his own.

  And he lost it completely.

  Groaning deep in his throat, he traced the perfect bow of her top lip with his tongue before sneaking inside to stroke his way along her tongue, the roof of her mouth, the inside of her lip. She moaned a little, clutched at his shoulders, and he delved deeper.

  Tangled his hands in her hair.

  Bent his knees so he could press his hips firmly against hers.

  Took everything she was offering him and gave her everything he had in return.

  Then he gave more, took more.

  It was no gentle first kiss, no sweet, getting-to-know-you exploration as he’d originally intended. Not even close.

  This kiss was hot. It was wild and dark and everything. It raced through his veins like a rocket, lit up his nerve endings like Times Square at New Year’s. It had him pressing closer to Dahlia, had him rocking his hips against her even as she pushed to get closer to him. Had him wanting more, more, more, until it was a beat in his blood, a throb in his brain.

  When he finally, finally, could think more than mine, mine, mine, he ripped his mouth from hers—they were on her front porch, after all, in full view of the neighbors—and she whimpered. Twisted her hands in his hair. Tried to follow his mouth with her own.

  And damn, just damn. He managed to drag a couple of shallow breaths into his oxygen-starved lungs and then he was kissing her again. And again. And again.

  He pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her lips, her collarbone, a sensitive spot he found just behind her ear.

  She skimmed her mouth across his jaw, his neck, the curve of his shoulder.

  His hands slid down, cupped her ass.

  Hers yanked his shirt from his jeans, then stroked across the bare skin of his waist.

  On and on it went until they were both a little punch-drunk on lust and each other. Until all he could feel, smell, taste was Dahlia. Until she was all he could think about.

  And that’s what finally stopped him, what finally had him lifting his mouth from hers and taking a couple shaky steps back. He liked this girl. He really, really liked this girl, and he wasn’t about to ruin everything by making her think all he wanted was to get in her pants. Especially when she’d spent the last few days thinking he liked another girl.

  But then his first good look at her had him rethinking his restraint. Her eyes were dazed, her lips swollen, her skin pink and flushed. She looked beautiful, so incredibly beautiful that he had to shove his hands deep in his pockets to keep from grabbing her again.

  It took a moment for her eyes to clear, and he was afraid of what he’d see in them when they did. Afraid she’d be embarrassed or worse, angry at him for kissing her like that when she didn’t know that she was Dream Girl.

  But it didn’t happen. Instead she just went soft and smiley, like she knew what he was thinking. Or more, like she was thinking the same thing herself.

  “I should, um—” He nodded his head toward the street. “I should get going.”

  She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the tip of her tongue with an intensity he was sure bordered on the creepy. But he couldn’t help it, any more than he could look away. He’d used up all his restraint backing away from her, and now he would take whatever he could get.

  “Yeah, probably,” she agreed, and her voice was as shaky as he felt. “I still have to finish that homework.”

  “Okay, yeah.” He took a couple more steps back, each one a little harder than the one before it. He ached with the need to touch her again, just once more. “I’ll text you…in the morning. Maybe we can have lunch together again.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Okay. I’m actually leaving now.” He shot her a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  He forced himself to keep his hands in his pockets, forced himself to turn and start walking away. It was already past midnight. They’d be back at school in eight hours and he could see her then. Could hold her then. Could—

  “Keegan!”

  He turned just in time to see Dahlia hurtling down the path toward him. And then she was throwing herself into his arms, her mouth plastered to his in a kiss that made the last few seem tame. His knees nearly buckled. Hell, they did buckle, but he locked them in place. No way was he going to risk dropping Dahlia now that she was in his arms where she belonged.

  She was the one who tore herself away this time. The one who gave him a smile and a little wave before jogging back up to her front door.

  He stayed where he was, watching her, as she fumbled her key into the lock. And even after she’d disappeared inside—after giving him another wave—he still watched. Still waited, until he saw her light go on and heard the lock click into place. Only then did he walk to his car.

  He’d barely climbed inside when his phone lit up with a text from Dahlia—a link to a YouTube video of the Beatles’ “I’m Happy Just to Dance With You.” A quick check showed him that it was the fifth song on the Hard Day’s Night album, and as he listened to it for the first time, he couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. Because if this was the song she’d meant when she said the album reminded her of him…well then, he would take it. Hell, yeah, he would.

  When the song was over—and he was stopped at a red light—Keegan pulled up messages and didn’t even have to think before he texted her back the link to “Yellow” by Coldplay. It might not be the most original choice in the world, but as far as love songs went, it summed up his feelings pretty damn perfectly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wake up late the next morning—like five minutes before school starts late—because I was up until three doing homework. And, more accurately, mooning over the peacock Keegan made me.

  I glance at it now, even as I frantically roll out of bed. It’s on my nightstand, standing guard over my cell phone and tablet, and it’s still as beautiful—as detailed and perfect—as it was last night. I can’t believe Keegan made it for me. Actually, I can’t even believe that Keegan knew to make it for me—that he’s paid enough attention to know that peacocks are my favorite animals. And then to spend this much time making it…it kind of boggles my mind.

  Oh, I’ve gotten things from guys before. Expensive jewelry, trips to the spa, things like that. But no one’s ever made me anything. No one has ever put this much time into thinking about me and what I actually like.

  Before I can think better of it, I bend down and drop a kiss on its cute little head. Then I feel myself blushing because it’s ridiculous how attached I am to this thing. How attached I am to Keegan.

  A glance at my phone yields a new song text from Keegan. I click on it and grin hugely as “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer starts playing. I love this song, love even more that Keegan thought to send it to me this morning.

  I may not be Dream Girl, but lying here looking at the peacock he made me while listening to this song…it doesn’t seem to matter all that much. As long as I don’t think about telling him who I really am.

  Refusing to let the thought ruin my happiness this morning, I shove it out of my head as I text him back One Direction’s “Kiss You.”

  I roll out of bed just as the bell should be ringing, and race to the bathroom. I don’t bother with a shower, just a quick face wash and some lip gloss and mascara before I’m rushing back into my bedroom and throwing on the first clothes I find in the closet—which happen to be a pair of white skinny jeans and an old Madonna Like a
Virgin concert tee that I found in a vintage shop a few weeks ago. I grin as I knot the bottom at my hip, wondering what Keegan is going to say about my taste in pop music. One Direction and Madonna all in one morning seems like a bit much for his hipster musical taste…I can’t wait to see the look on his face.

  I grab a granola bar and a tumbler full of water on my way out the door, then run to my car. Seconds later, I’m zipping away from the curb and racing for the green light at the end of the street.

  Fifteen minutes later, I barrel through a yellow light next to the school, barely making it before the thing turns to red.

  But I do make it, I remind myself, and that’s all that counts. “It was yellow when I saw it, ocifer,” I mutter to myself as I make a sharp turn into the NextGen parking lot, keeping my sunglasses on and my head down as I pass the handful of paps still lingering on the sidewalk hoping to catch a glimpse of Finn ditching class or something. Then I slam into the first parking spot I can find.

  Part of the whole emancipation thing comes with attendance requirements. And while I know, logically, that missing one period isn’t going to hurt me, I’m still panicking a little. I don’t want to go back to L.A., back to my father’s rule. I’ve got nearly eleven months until I turn eighteen—God only knows what kind of damage he could do to my career, and to me, in that time.

  Already there have been a bunch of small-time smear campaigns against Cherry in the tabloids. Little stuff, all of it, but when you add it up I’m looking more and more like a spoiled brat in the public’s eye—especially with my mysterious disappearance. The magazines that aren’t claiming alien abduction are all speculating about rehab, a rumor that gains ground every time another one of these stupid articles runs. None of them are true, of course, but that doesn’t matter. In fact, it makes it easier to deny later on if I need to—a fact that proves to me that my father is the one behind the bad publicity. It’s got his heavy-handed fingerprints all over it.

  It’s not like he’s hard to figure out. He wants to tank Cherry’s name, tank her career, just enough to send me running back to him with my tail tucked between my legs. But he doesn’t want to do any long-term damage that might impact his bottom line, either. So he’s walking a fine line of total crap right now, throwing a bunch of stupid stories up just to see what will stick.