A Kiss Like This (4 page)

Jenna rolls her eyes skyward. “How the hell would you know? You were dangling from a roof.”

“True. He could have been walking home and just passing by,” Meg points out diplomatically.

Jenna rolls her eyes again. “Yeah, right. I’m
s
ooo sure he was just out for a brisk morning stroll on a
Saturday
at seven o’clock.”

“Some people jog, Jenna,” Meg bites back.

I clear my throat and continue. “After I stormed off, I
might
have watched him from across the street. From behind a bush.”

“Alright, alright, let’s assume he was at the Omega house. Are you sure you didn’t recognize him from somewhere?”

“No. And trust me, I would have remembered him if I did.” I clamp a hand over my mouth.

“Oh
really
?” Jenna’s eyebrows shoot up into her dip dyed hairline. “Made an impression on you, did he?”

“Did you catch his name?” Meg asks.

“Was he hot?”

I hesitate. “Yes, I caught his name.” Was he hot?
Was
he?

They both stare at me, waiting.

“Well? Freaking tell us!” Jenna prompts, losing patience and staring at me like I’m dumb as a box of rocks. Oddly enough, even as my roommates stare at me expectantly, I just can’t do it. I can’t tell them his name.

Or won’t.

Same thing.

Deep down, a part of me wants to keep him a secret. A strange, exciting secret.

Nothing exciting ever happens to me. Like, ever. I’m just not
that
girl. I’m too boring, too predictable, too quiet, too… everything.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not without my charms. I even possess a myriad of fascinating skills. I’m an amazing painter, for example. I can read a novel in a day if I’m not swamped with studying, and I’m shockingly good at darts.

Not exactly man-bait.

Plus, I’m don’t let it all hang out like most girls do to attract attention from guys. My boobs don’t pop out of my clothes. In fact, there isn’t a single thing in my entire closet that exposes too much skin. I’d much rather use my brain to fascinate the opposite sex. And no guy wants to be fascinated mentally during a house party, or at a bar—nope, he wants to be fondled.

Guys just don’t go for girls like me, girls who wear tucked-in, collared button-down shirts to the bar. Girls who would rather read on a Friday night than go out. Guys don’t go for girls who chastise them for swearing. Guys don’t rescue girls like me when they climb out and fall from two-story windows.

But today… today, I
was
that girl.

And a guy did.

And maybe it wasn’t just the fall that took my breath away.

CHAPTER 4

Caleb

To clarify, the Omega house is
not
a fraternity house.

It used to be, until the fraternity, aptly named Omega Gamma Rho and called Omega for short, that had resided here the past fifty years got their chapter and charter removed from campus—dirty rushing, hazing, too many reported cases of alcohol poisoning by parents of pledges—and the house was sold.

To my parents.

And now I live there with my teammates. We still call it the Omega house, even though technically it would be considered the hockey house.

The whole house received a facelift when my parents bought it. The Greek letters have long since been taken down and painted over. Although they don’t expect me to single-handedly maintain the joint, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a certain level of responsibility to keep it in order and decent repair.

Speaking of decent repair…

With a purposeful stride, I cross our bright-green manicured lawn, which is mowed weekly, over to the overgrown, dead, weed-infested Kappa yard. Climbing the dilapidated porch, I open the screen door and proceed to unceremoniously pound my flattened huge palm on the front door.

I push the screen back into place and stand back, waiting.

And wait some more.

It takes a few moments, but the door creeks loudly, shudders a groan, and swings open, hanging precariously on its rusty hinges. I look down at a skinny, dark-haired kid, who stares back at me.

“Sup?” His red, half-hooded eyes make him look stoned, but he gives a quick flick of the chin in greeting.

I cut to the chase. “I need to talk to the guy living in the corner room upstairs. Is he here?”

“Say again?” Unconcerned, the kid eyes me warily, scratching his dry elbow. “Can you be more specific?”

I barely manage to contain my eye roll. “Why yes, yes I can be more specific.” I speak slowly so he understands. “Go. And get. The prick. Living in. The corner. Room. Upstairs.
Or
… my fist is going to come through this lousy excuse for a door and beat the shit out of you.”

Okay, so maybe I’m behaving a tad like a psycho—but he’s making me talk and I don’t like it.

The kid gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck.

“Hold on a minute.” The door slams closed in my face, and a deadbolt slides into the lock.

Smart kid.

A few minutes later, the door creaks open and the “cousin” appears. Standing in ripped mesh basketball shorts that are too long, a sleeveless Nike tank top, and white ankle socks, I know it’s him, because believe it or not, he resembles the brunette. Tall with a shaggy mop of wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, the douche also looks like he just rolled out of bed.

Or smoked a joint.

He arches his back in a yawn, unfazed by the sight of me. “What.”

“I need to get ahold of the chick that climbed out your window this morning.” How’s that for blunt?

“What for?” he asks, rotating his torso this way and that, stretching like he’s warming up for an athletic event.

“I have something I think belongs to her.”

“So? Just give it to me. She’s my cousin.”

“Because I don’t have it
with
me,” I lie, palming the ring nestled inside the pocket of my slouchy gray athletic pants, and rolling it around in my fingers. It’s warm from my body heat and solid in my hand, and I’m not offering it over to him. Not yet, anyway.

The cousin scratches his balls and yawns again. “Why don’t you go
get
it and bring it
back
?”

Okay, now he’s starting to piss me off…

“Why don’t you just give me her fucking cell phone number, and you can go back to jerking off?”

“Why don’t
you
fuck
you
, dude. Do I look dumb enough to turn you lose on Abby? You’re acting like a psychopath. My parents would kill me.”

Abby.

I turn this new revelation around in my head a few times, testing her name out and deciding I like it.

It fits.

I take a deep, calming breath and count to three. “Look. This isn’t a pissing match. My parents own the Omega house next door.” I point my thumb toward it. “And I was outside when Abby climbed out your window this morning. Trust me, I don’t want to hurt her. I just want to see if she’s okay, because she fell, and I have something to return to her.”

It’s more words than I normally string together, and quite frankly, it’s making me uncomfortable.

A shout from inside the frat house rings out—something I can’t quite discern—and the cousin turns for a second to yell back into the house. “Shit, hold on for one goddamn second.” The door slams in my face again, and Abby’s cousin disappears into the dark recesses of the house.

I rock back on my heels while I wait, tipping my head back to study the underside of the porch, which looks like it could collapse any day now. The boards are warped from water damage and haven’t been sealed or stained in years. Rusty nails are popping out all over the place, and wires hang dangerously out of the outdated light socket that should’ve been replaced ages ago.

How girls voluntarily step foot inside this death trap is beyond me.

Shaking my head in disgust, I let out a gust of air, mentally counting to ten so I don’t flip my shit, when the door finally reopens.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, not looking the least bit sorry. Instead, he narrows his dark eyes and gives me another once-over, and honest to God, he’s the first guy I’ve ever seen purse his lips. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

He nods his head before shrugging, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes. “Fine. You can have her cell, but you can’t tell her I gave it you. And if I find out you fucked with her, I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

I almost laugh at his pronouncement. Kick
my
ass?

Whatever, dude.

Incredulously, I watch as he programs Abby’s cell phone number into my phone before slamming the half-hinged door in my scowling face.

~ Abby ~

The text notification comes through just before midnight.

Just as I’m closing my e-reader and taking off the tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the bridge of my nose, the soft ping of my phone fills the quiet void in my bedroom—the gentle ping I’ve always considered a reminder that somewhere, someone out there is thinking of me at that
exact
moment.

Regardless of the sentiment, my arm wearily stretches out across my body, grappling for my phone on the bedside table, and I mumble to the empty room, “I swear, if this is Meg, I’m going to freaking kill her…”

I hold the phone up to my face, the light on the small screen brighter than my e-reader blinding me, and swipe the screen with my forefinger to open my messages. I give a small yip of delight. It’s my best friend, Cecelia, and I haven’t texted her in a few hours.

Propping myself up on an elbow, I flip a bedside light on so I’m not blinded by the glow of my phone, and smile when I click open her text.

Cecelia:
HEY SLACKER!
You must have been busy today. You never sent me a note and now I miss you even more!!!

Me:
I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t believe the day I had
.
And why are you up so late?

Cecelia
: Waiting for Matthew to get home. He had a dinner meeting with his agent and I’m up waiting so I can eat his leftovers. He promised me steak. What’s your excuse? Why are you up?

Me
: Reading and NOT waiting to eat my boyfriend’s table scraps.

Cecelia
: Like I’m going to pass up steak niblets. Don’t roll your eyes at me.

Me
: I wouldn’t dare ;)

Cecelia:
Everything is situated in the new condo—all is well in Chicago. When are you going to come down and visit?? Or should I come up?

Me:
Maybe we should plan an overnight somewhere during my break. Not ALL of us are done with college, Ms. Master’s Degree showoff.

Cecelia:
Break would be a good time to come up in the fall. Matthew has a bye week in December and I know he’d love to see everyone. So maybe early first semester?

Me
: Okay. But I also really want to see your new condo. Before we get to all that tho… I have a confession to make. I did something stupid.

Cecelia
: You???? Abby and ‘I did something stupid’ do NOT belong in the same sentence. MATTHEW and something stupid, on the other hand… Or Jenna and ‘something stupid,’ but never Abby.

Me
: Well, then aren’t YOU in for a treat. Are you sitting down? This one is a doozy…

***

As I move around my bedroom, piecing together my outfit and getting ready for class, I stop to pause in the mirror, studying my reflection with renewed interest.

I’ve already thrown on jeans, a navy fleece, fleece vest, and navy Bean Duck boots. My long brown hair is in a loose ponytail, and since it’s both cold
and
rainy, I toss on a ball cap for good measure.

Shifting to my dresser, I watch myself in the mirror as I insert small gold hoops into both ears and clasp a thin gold necklace around my neck. Like I do every single morning, my hand reaches robotically into the jewelry bowl for the ring my parents gave me for high school graduation. Dismayed, my fingers touch the cold white ceramic and feebly feel around, but they turn up… nothing.

My mouth turns down, perplexed. Huh
.
That’s odd.

I crouch down a tad and get eye level with my old oak dresser, eyeballing the surface and moving a few things around. I lift my jewelry bowl, looking under a few notebooks and a blinged out coffee mug.
I could have
sworn
I put it back in the bowl
…

I stand in front of the dresser, staring at its surface, chewing on my lip and racking my brain.
Where the heck is that ring
?

Getting down on my hands and knees, I peer under the wooden dresser, next to it, and under the bed, feeling my way around the thin, threadbare carpet. I grab my phone and open the flashlight app, shining the bright beam under all my furniture.

No luck.

Frustrated, I stalk over to the bed, yanking back my quilt and sheets, flapping them up and down like a parachute, for any trace of the gold band that I’ve worn every day for the past three and a half years.

“Ugh!” Why do I even take it off? I’ll tell you why; I can’t smear moisturizing lotion all over my hands when I’m wearing it without getting cream in all the intricate crevasses and gooping up the small vintage stone.

But still, I’ve never misplaced it before. Never, not once.

I continue my crusade for a few more minutes, until I run out of time and have to leave for campus, missing breakfast and the opportunity to put together a snack for later in the day.

Sighing, I grab my laptop, notebook, and messenger bag, abandoning the rescue mission for now and heading out the door.

CHAPTER 5

Caleb

Balancing my six-foot-three frame up on a chintzy six-foot ladder, I lean precariously to the side, brace my forearm against the wall, and grasp the bucket of plaster in another.

Having already patched the large, gaping hole in the foyer, I carefully spread the paste on the old wall over the patching tape, using the putty knife to smooth the edges before the plaster begins to dry.

Some putz on the hockey team named Cubby Billings thought it would be a fantastic idea to take the NCAA National Hockey Championship trophy that’s normally displayed in the dining room of the Omega house, and hoist it up in the air.