One Tiny Lie: A Novel (10 page)

I giggle softly at her confidence. It’s refreshing. “I have yet to ask Ashton why he’s calling me Irish. I feel like every time I see him, I’m too busy swallowing my tongue to get the question out. Do you think Grant knows?”

Reagan shakes her head. “I asked. He doesn’t. Only Ashton knows.”

There’s a long moment of silence, during which Reagan gulps back her drink. I don’t know how that tiny body can hold so much alcohol. Then she says, “Connor’s into you.”

I flush, glancing over my shoulder and into the kitchen window to see him talking with Grant and a new guy. “He is?”

Her head bobs up and down. “Oh, yeah. I can tell. He can’t take his eyes off you. He’s probably imagining what he’s going to do to you later.”

“Reagan!” I shake my head as she grins. She’s as bad as my sister.

She takes another long, noisy sip as my thoughts unintentionally drift back to Ashton. “She seems nice.”

“Who?”

“Ashton’s girlfriend.”

“Oh . . .” Reagan pauses and then murmurs, “Yeah. Too nice for him. I feel guilty every time I see her. If he could just learn to keep it in his pants . . .”

Wait
 . . . “He cheats on her, a lot?” It wasn’t just with me?

She shrugs. “I hear things. A lot of things. He has quite the appetite. His heart and his brain are two separate entities that don’t commingle. Ever. Poor, sweet Dana doesn’t have a chance in hell of satisfying him.”

“I’m sure no one does,” I murmur, silently relegating him to top spot on the man-whore totem pole.

When we reenter the house, there are a dozen new people in the kitchen and adjoining family room, taking up the right side of the house, opposite the den. More people are at the front door, trickling in.

“You guys good?” Connor appears with my drink. “Sorry, I was going to bring it out, but you looked like you were having a serious conversation.”

“We were, but . . .” I glance over at Reagan, who’s fluttering through the room with waves and nudges and smiles. Grant trails two feet behind her, his eyes glued to the back of her head, a goofy expression on his face. And I smile to myself, wondering if Reagan has any clue that Grant is seriously crazy about her.

“But what?”

The sound of Connor’s Irish intonation brings me back to him, to his beautiful green eyes and his easygoing smile. “Girl stuff,” I say as I clink his glass.

The smile never slips from Connor’s face, even as I catch his eyes flickering to my lips for a second before lifting back up to ask, “How were your first few classes?”

I open my mouth to answer when the stereo blasts on. We both turn in time to see Ty strut out in his kilt, rubbing his hands up and down over a puffed-out chest as he surveys the crowd.

“He likes to accidentally flash people when he sits down.”

I lift a brow. “Accidentally?”

Shaking his head, Connor admits, “No. Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me back out to the deck where I just stood with Reagan, shivering against the chilly night air.

Connor must notice my involuntary shudder, because he slips his arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward him so that I’m tucked against his broad chest. “Better?” he murmurs, his one hand rubbing up and down my arm. “Okay,
now
tell me how your classes were.”

I let myself soak up Connor’s body heat for a moment as my nose absorbs the scent of his cologne—light and clean, with hints of lavender. And I silently marvel at how
comfortable
this is.

I tell him about the two science classes I had on Thursday and Friday and the ones I have next week. I tell him all about the volunteer job at the hospital and about the twins, rehashing their interrogation.

“Derek and Eric are twins?”

I roll my eyes and giggle. “I know.”

He takes a sip of his beer and then his arm moves back, pulling me tighter. “So, what makes you want to go into pediatrics?”

“It’s just something I knew I wanted to do since I was young. I can’t picture myself doing anything but that.” Stayner’s words from this morning slink into my thoughts and I instantly chase them out.

“That’s noble. And sweet,” Connor says. Letting my head tilt back a bit, I feel his head turn, his lips brush my forehead as he murmurs, “And hot.”

I swallow and duck back down, knowing my face is red again. “What about you, lawyer?”

I get jostled lightly as Connor shrugs. “I come from a long line of lawyers. Me and Ashton both, actually. It’s a family tradition. Are your parents doctors?”

I shake my head, smiling wistfully. “My dad was a high school principal and math teacher. My mom was a music teacher.”

There’s a long pause. “Was?”

Taking a deep breath, I pull away from Connor, enough to see his serious expression. “Yeah . . .
was
.” I take a long chug of my drink. And then I tell him everything—about the car accident, about Kacey almost dying, about all the people who
did
die that night. About Trent. Everything.

As I talk, I feel his arm slide around my shoulders and tighten. I feel his other arm wrap around my body, his hand cupping the side of my head, his thumb grazing my cheek, pulling me even closer than I was before, until I close my eyes and let my head melt against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat, cocooned in his warmth. Protected.

We stand like that through an entire song, not talking, swaying silently to the beat, until Ty barrels through the door, visibly more drunk than he was only twenty minutes ago. “Now I remember you!” he bellows, holding his hand out and wiggling his fingers. “Come on. Lemme see that picture. I need to make sure it’s flattering.”

“Oh no . . .” I groan, shrinking back.

Connor laughs unsuspectingly as he gives Ty a playful shove. Taking my hand, he leads me back. “Let me show you the rest of the house.” Connor keeps me close as we weave through the house and he introduces me to people. I think I remember a few of them. I pray they don’t remember me. Or that I likely told them that I loved them. And I sure as hell hope they don’t remember me with Ashton.

Once I’ve seen the entire main floor, Connor leads me upstairs. “That’s Grant’s room,” he says with a head nudge to the left. “Across from him is Ty.” As we pass by the bathroom, he murmurs, “You’ve already seen that.” I nod, biting my bottom lip as I glare at it, as if the room itself did something heinously wrong. At the end of the hall are two doors opposite each other. “That’s Ash’s,” he says, a lazy hand waving to the open door on the left, revealing a king-sized bed and dark gray linens. I instantly picture Ashton’s body stretched out over those sheets as he was the morning in my dorm room, and my stomach muscles tighten.

Opening the closed door to the right, Connor leads me into a large bedroom with a double bed and two giant windows. “This room’s mine,” he says, turning on a small lamp.

I’m in Connor’s bedroom. Did he bring me up here for a reason? My eyes skim over the space, settling on the bed for a moment. Does he think we’re going to have sex tonight? I clear my voice and offer, “Nice house,” as I spin around, noticing the door was left slightly open.

Connor is leaning against a wall, watching me intently. “My parents own it. They bought it two years ago so I could get off campus for my junior and senior years. Almost everyone lives on campus around here, but I was finding it a bit too much. And the guys jumped at the chance to move in with me. They pay next to nothing for room and board, so it was worthwhile for them.” Stepping forward to push a thick lock of my hair back behind my ear, he murmurs, “Relax, Livie. I didn’t bring you up here with any expectations.” His hand moves to cradle my chin. “Just one hope . . .” Leaning down, Connor’s lips slowly close over mine, moving as if coaxing a response. It feels safe and warm and nice.

That doesn’t mean I’m not petrified that I’m doing it all wrong, that Connor will regret me as well. When he breaks away, I wonder if my one drunken night was enough to teach me the basics. With my bottom lip tucked under my teeth, I look up to see eyes a darker shade of green and more glossy than normal.

“I’m just . . .” I frown. “I’m not very experienced.”

Placing a gentle kiss on my forehead, he murmurs, “That’s okay. To be honest, I really like that you’re different.” Does
different
translate to
virgin
? With a second kiss on my brow, his hands lift to hold my face on either side as he murmurs, “Let’s keep things slow and easy.”
Slow and easy
. What does that mean?

“Okay.” I use my drink as a diversion, bringing it to my lips to take an extra-large gulp, thankful that Mr. Jack Daniels is helping to keep me calm.

“So, I hear you got a tattoo last weekend?”

The quick change of topic is appreciated. I still groan and roll my eyes, of course. “Looks like it. Do you have any?”

Connor’s hands fall from my face to ruffle the top of his head. “Nah, I hate needles. Ash keeps trying to get me out with him but I refuse.”

“Go drinking with my sister and you’ll end up with one whether you like it or not,” I mutter wryly, but inside I’m mentally taking inventory of Ashton’s tattoos, ones I’ve seen sober and the other ones that I somehow remember—a bird on the inside of his right forearm, the Chinese script on his right shoulder, the Celtic symbol over his left pectoral,
Irish
on his butt...

And my face is burning again.
Dammit
.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing! Do you want to see it?” I blurt out, intent on diverting his attention from me and my perverted mind.

“Sure. I mean, it isn’t anywhere . . .”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, it’s on my back so, yes, you can see it.” I shake my head at my flustered self as I quickly turn around and sweep my hair to the side. I stretch the back of my shirt down. “See it?”

“Yeah.” There’s a long pause as he looks at it. He doesn’t touch it, though, and I wonder whether he wants to or not. This is so unlike the caveman-style manhandling earlier with Ashton. I’m seeing very quickly that Connor is his opposite in so many ways. I don’t get how they’re best friends. “What does it mean?”

“Just something my dad used to call me,” I smile wistfully.

“Well . . .” Connor’s hand gently takes mine and my shirt falls back into place. He sweeps my hair back the way it was, smoothing it gently, before his hands settle on my shoulders. I sense him lean forward until his mouth is close to my ear. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice decidedly husky, his thumbs sliding back and forth over my back with a hint of pressure. And I know that, despite not having expectations, Connor definitely has ideas.

I think this is the part when my brain is supposed to vanish. It’s supposed to be sucked right out of my head by the sexy guy breathing in my ear. At least, that’s what I’ve always assumed was supposed to happen. When you’re in a bedroom with a hot guy for the first time and he’s all but saying, “I’m horny and I’m yours,” you’re not looking for an escape route. You’re looking for a way to lock the door so you can tear his clothes off and do all kinds of things that don’t involve your brain.

But the problem is my brain is still intact, and it’s telling me I want to go back to leaning against his chest and feeling his warmth. I can even handle another kiss. Maybe. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, something about that doesn’t sit well with me either right now.

Is this proof that I’m repressed? Maybe I need to get drunk again. Maybe then it will sit well.

Or maybe I just need time to ease myself into this.

Or maybe I should just give up now and join a convent.

The volume of the music suddenly spikes, rattling the glass in the window. With a sigh of reluctance, Connor takes my hand and mumbles, “I’m sorry. We’d better go downstairs. Ty’s going to bring the cops here if I don’t go put a leash on him.”

I feel my shoulders sag with relief, my face stretching out into a contented grin as we leave his room, knowing that I’m getting the time that I need. Until I see Ashton’s bedroom door closed and a red sock hanging on the doorknob. I remember Reagan talking about “the code.”

“I thought Dana went home.”

Connor shakes his head, looking over his shoulder at me with a knowing stare. “She did.”

CHAPTER NINE

Games

Students trickle into the cold lecture hall for the Monday mid-morning class as I make my way down to the front. The entire first row is empty but I don’t care, picking a seat near the professor’s podium, my stomach a bundle of nerves as I anticipate a semester of difficulty. I briefly considered dropping this English lit course out of spite, seeing as Dr. Stayner was adamant that I do things based on what I want—not on what others want—and this is clearly what someone other than me wants.

Everyone assumes I’m a genius and grades just fall onto my lap because I ace the hard classes like calculus and physics. It’s true that those grades come easier to me than they do to most. The material is straightforward, black and white, right and wrong. I’m all about the clear-cut choices.

Subjects like philosophy, and history, and the English lit class that I’m about to begin, though . . . they just don’t make sense to me. If there’s a formula to find a right answer, I can nail it. But in classes like these, all I see are degrees of rightness and wrongness, and I’ve had to work hard to uncover those. In the end, I always get my A—I’ve never received anything but an A in anything, including gym—but those grades certainly never fell into my lap.

The door to the side of the chalkboard opens and a graying man in a black turtleneck and wire-rimmed glasses enters, carrying a stack of books and papers to the desk at the front. I smile. Finally, one thing that’s consistent with how I always pictured Princeton to be.

“Hey, Irish.”

The Ivy League’s walking contradiction takes the seat right next to me. His tall frame fills out his space and encroaches on some of mine.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, turning to see Ashton in dark jeans and a sky blue shirt. I’m starting to recognize it as his typical style—flawless but careless. And he can pull it off, too, because he has a body that would make leopard-print tights look hot.

Sitting up straight in his chair, he looks around the room. “This is Professor Dalton’s English lit class, right?”

“I know what class this is!” I bark, and then temper my tone, catching the professor’s eyes flicker up at us from his podium. “Why are
you
here?”

“I’m a student and I’m here to take his class,” he answers slowly, his expression somber. “Some of us are here for a serious education, Irish. Not just to party.”

I glare at him, fighting the urge to punch him in the face again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, which is quickly followed by the crooked smile I’ve come to know as Ashton’s trademark flirt move. One that obviously worked on me when I was drunk but will definitely not work on me when I’m sober and annoyed.

“You’re a senior.”

“You seem to know a lot about me, Irish.”

Gritting my teeth, I simply stare at him, waiting for his answer. Finally he shrugs, making a display of opening up his notebook and clicking his pen a few times. “Had a course to burn and this one was open.”

“Bullshit!” The word bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it. This time the professor looks up from his notes to stare at us directly, and I feel my cheeks burn under the scrutiny. When he looks down, I turn back to Ashton.

“Relax, Irish. At least you know one person in the room now.”

He has a point, I think, as I look around at a sea of unfamiliar faces. “And I suppose you’re going to sit beside me every single class?”

“I don’t know. You seem like an angry student. I’m not sure I want the prof associating me with you.”

I shift away from him intentionally, earning a derisive snort. “So the fact that you saw my schedule has nothing to do with picking this course?” I ask.

“What? You think I’m taking this just because you’re in it? Why would I do that?” There’s a playful quirk in his brow.

Good question. But I still know it plain in my gut: he’s here because I am. I just don’t know why. “How’d you get in, anyway? I thought there was a wait list for this.”

I see his fingers running back and forth over that worn leather band around his wrist. “I know one of the ladies in the registrar’s office.”

“Perhaps the one you had over on Saturday night?” I blurt out, the image of that stupid red sock still burning in my mind, reconfirming how
wrong
he is.

He pauses and then turns to look at me, cocking his head. “Are you jealous, Irish?”

“Of what? That you’re such a douche bag that you drop off your girlfriend and have another woman in your bed within hours?”

“I didn’t have anyone in my bed,” he says defensively, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip slowly. I fight the urge to look down at it.

“You didn’t?” I sigh with relief. And then I realize that I just sighed with relief. Why am I sighing with relief?

He shakes his head, clicking his pen a few more times. “Up against the wall . . . in the shower . . .”

I start gathering my books in order to change seats before the professor begins, but Ashton’s hand lands on top of mine, holding it in place. “What does it matter? You were with Connor in his room anyway, weren’t you?”

“No, I . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “We were just talking.” I shake my head. I don’t know why it matters, really. What he does behind his girlfriend’s back is sleazy, but he’s right—it’s none of my business. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. “It doesn’t matter, Ashton. I just thought you regretted messing around on your girlfriend.”

“I never said
that
,” he answers softly, releasing his grip of my hand and shifting in his seat as the professor affixes a microphone to his collar, ready to begin the lecture. “I said I regretted messing around with
you
.”

My jaw clenches as my pride takes another hit. “That makes two of us,” I mutter, hoping that came out convincing, knowing that it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Nice skirt, Irish,” he murmurs, his eyes now very obviously on my thighs. I instinctively smooth the simple black skirt, wishing it were longer.

I struggle to keep focus for the next hour, Ashton’s words weighing on me. I grab onto bits and pieces of what Professor Dalton says, sometimes even an entire point. And then a brush against my knee or my elbow makes me jump. I adjust in my seat. I squirm. Several times I glare at him, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. And he doesn’t take notes, I notice. I see him scribble a few lines on a page, but I doubt they have anything to do with this lesson.

By the time the class wraps up, I’m ready to run up the stairs. Or stab him in the leg with my pen.

As the professor writes our first assignment on the board, I hear Ashton mumble, “Now I remember why I never wanted to take this class.”

“There’s still time to drop it,” I snap back.

Mock horror twists Ashton’s distractingly beautiful face. “And not enjoy your pleasant company twice a week for an entire semester? Heavens, no!”

I shake my head with resignation. “Okay, seriously, Ashton. Back off.”

“Or what?”

“Or . . . I’m going to tell Connor.”

“No, you won’t,” he says softly.

“Why? Because you think he won’t want me after? I have a feeling you’re wrong.” I don’t have that feeling at all. In fact, I have the feeling that Ashton is right. But I also have the urge to have the upper hand on him. For once, dammit!

Leaning to the side until his shoulder presses against mine, he murmurs, “No . . . because you’re in love with me.”

A strangle gurgling sound escapes my throat.

Upper hand gone.

My heart hammers in my throat. I’m really not sure how to respond to that but my gut says that I have to, partly to defend myself, partly because I know he likes embarrassing me. It takes a few swallows to form words. “If loving you means wanting to rip your balls off, then . . .” I turn to lay what I hope is a steely gaze on him. His face is inches away from mine but I don’t back off. “Yes. I’m madly in love with you.”

Kacey would be so proud.

I’m not sure what I expected in response. I’ve never threatened anyone like that before. Maybe a flinch, maybe a shift away from this crazy girl who talks of maiming his genitals? Definitely not that damn smirk again. And I think he may have leaned in even closer. “I love getting you all riled up, Irish.” He grabs one of my books and scribbles something on the inside cover, and then tucks in a folded piece of paper. “I just remembered . . . I already took this course three years ago. I aced it. Call me if you need help with your papers.” With that, he scoops his notebook up. I turn in my seat and watch as he bounds up the stairs before the prof officially releases us, earning glances from pretty much every female and a few guys in the class.

I shake my head as I flip open the book to read “Irish loves Ashton” with a big heart and a phone number scrawled across the inside of the front cover. “Dammit,” I mumble. He just defaced a two-hundred-dollar textbook with this nickname I
still
haven’t asked about. On the plus side, he’s no longer in the class.

Curious to see what the note says, I unfold it.

The only thing I regret is that it ever ended. And I’m the one who’s jealous. Insanely so.

My heart rate skyrockets.

“
Nice skirt,” he says as his hands slide up my bare thighs, sending fire shooting upward. I’m standing in front of him as he sits on the edge of his bed. And I’m shaking. Strong fingers curl around the backs of my thighs and squeeze, dangerously close to where I’ve never been touched before. My body’s reacting to him, though. My heart rate is racing, my breathing quickening, and I feel myself getting wet. Sliding his hands up, he hooks his thumbs under the band in my panties. He pulls them down until they fall to the ground on their own. I step out of them.

“Come here.” He gestures to his lap and I comply, letting him guide my one knee to one side of him and the other to the other side of him so that I’m straddling him, my hands gripping his shoulders, marveling at their strength. He pushes my skirt up to pool around my waist and I’m instantly self-conscious. “Look at me,” he orders and I do, watching his dark eyes bore into mine, holding them there. Never shifting. I hold that stare as he reaches around to settle one hand on the small of my back. I hold that stare as his other hand moves up my inner thigh. My breath hitches as he touches me. “Don’t look away from me, Irish,” he whispers as his fingers push inside, first one, then another . . .

I wake with a gasp, the textbook lying across my stomach sliding off and making a loud noise as it hits the ground.
Ohmigod
. What the hell was that? That was a dream. I just had an afternoon nap with a dirty dream about Ashton.
Ohmigod
. I sit up in bed and look around. I’m alone. Thank God I’m alone! A strange discomfort stirs between my thighs. It feels . . . frustrating? Is
this
what Storm and Kacey are always talking about?

I wish I had time to sort this out. But someone is knocking on my door. That must be what woke me up in the first place. If the dream hadn’t been interrupted, would I have had dream sex with Ashton? No . . . my brain doesn’t even know how to conjure that up.

Maybe if I weren’t so frazzled, I would have looked in the mirror. That would have been smart. But Ashton and apparently anything to do with Ashton turns me into a primate.

And so I simply throw open the door.

“Connor!” I exclaim with way too much enthusiasm, my eyes widening in surprise.

I see his eyes shift down and I follow them to appraise my pair of ratty Lululemons and my dad’s old Princeton sweatshirt—three sizes too big for me. “What are you doing here?” I stealthily drag my fingers through my hair. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that it’s a wild mess.

He steps in with an easy smile, one hand coming from around his back to reveal a large pot of green leaves. “Here.”

I tilt my head and frown as I examine it. “Clover?”

“To remind you of me while you’re in here, being a good student.”

“Wow.” I swallow as my cheeks burn.
Yes, that’s what I was doing in here. Being a good student.
“Thank you.” I try to slow my breathing and act normally.

“How are classes so far?”

“Busy. I’m already swamped with English lit.”

“Are you liking it?”

“It’s . . . interesting.” A hand unconsciously brushes against the folded note in my pocket. The one permanently creased from all the times I’ve folded and unfolded it, running my fingers along the edges, trying to puzzle it out. Trying to make sense of my reaction to it and why it’s made me so giddy when it should make me angry. It’s as though Ashton telling me that he doesn’t regret what happened has now given my brain license to flash inappropriate memories from that one night at an alarmingly more frequent rate, leaving me flushed and scattered and unable to focus. Even Reagan has noticed.

“I won’t keep you, then.” I squeal as, grabbing my waist, Connor lifts me up onto the top bunk. Considering I’m about 125 pounds, that’s not easy. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised, I realize, noting the definition of his arms in that gray-striped shirt he’s wearing today. He’s not quite as tall or broad as Ashton, but he’s built almost as well as him.