Awkwardly Ever After (15 page)

I
paused to stare at the family photos lining one of the hallways.

There were hardly any of Spencer.

I mean, sure, he was in all of the professionally taken family portraits, but nothing that felt remotely like
him
was up on the wall. Every hair was combed neatly in place, and his frozen smile was stiff as he stood next to his older brother and an impeccably dressed, distinguished looking man I assumed was his dad. The photo belonged in a presidential library or an election campaign. I had no trouble picturing an overworked intern creating a promo piece with it for Spencer's older brother.

It wasn't hard to imagine Spencer being forced to hand out pamphlets and shake hands with strangers. Okay, and he'd probably flirt with some intern at the same time . . . or maybe a politician's equally bored daughter, until they were discovered together in a supply closet at the campaign headquarters. His hair would be mussed and there'd probably be some tell-tale lipstick stains smeared in a downward trail. And he'd be busted with an enormous smile on his face.

Even a photo of him like that would be better than the row of bland portraits. At least that would be honest. The lock-jawed guy on the wall looked like Spencer's painfully boring doppelgänger. The charismatic Notable next to me was really good at messing with my head . . . and my nerves, but there was still no doubt in my mind that he was infinitely more interesting than anyone who would fit his family mold.

“Any insights now, Freud?” Spencer quipped. “Or do you need to start all the way back with my baby pics to get a major revelation?”

“Now that you mention it, that sounds like fun. I'd kind of like to see for myself if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

Spencer laughed, but it wasn't the rich, throaty sound I'd become accustomed to hearing. This one sounded decidedly upper crust, like a stereotypical rich person's chuckle before they said something obnoxious like,
“Oh, how droll of you.”

“The spoon was sixteen-karat gold and passed down from generation to generation. The King family never does anything halfway.”

I pursed my lips thoughtfully and then tried to steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. I'm not sure why I bothered; without the aid of my glasses he looked like a decidedly blurry lump. But I didn't have to see him to sense the tension that suddenly filled the empty corridor.

“Do pizza toppings fall within the scope of the family motto? Because we
definitely
shouldn't skimp on those.” I wanted to get him to smile and relax again. I wasn't sure if it was the subject of money or his family or . . . something else entirely that had him look ready to bolt, but I felt guilty for being nosy.

Our deal was that I could ask anything, but it was still rude to pry into parts of his life that were private.

It worked. Laughter danced in his eyes as he lightly tugged the sleeve of my jacket and led me into a new room; the term “entertainment center” didn't do it justice. There was a flat-screen TV, surrounded by leather couches, and in the middle of the room stood a regal-looking pool table. I half expected Spencer to open a secret compartment and offer me a glass of bourbon and a cigar.

“Definitely. We take pizza very seriously. What toppings do you like?”

“Everything except anchovies,” I said without hesitation.

Spencer nodded, pulled out his phone, and gestured at the couch in a silent,
Well, what are you waiting for?
Coming from Fake or Bake, I would have flinched with embarrassment at my obvious display of uncertainty. Then again, the girls would have said something snotty.

Spend time with humans much, nerd? Apparently not.

Listen up, loser. You don't have to stand at attention until the food is delivered.

Alex Thompson would definitely have gone for the direct approach:
Yo, fat-ass. Down in front.

I sank into the buttery soft leather of the couch and tried to block out the barrage of imaginary insults. Spencer
hadn't
meant the gesture that way. I knew he hadn't. The same way I knew that he hadn't meant anything with his slow, appreciative once-overs.

It was simply a reflex for him.

“Yes, I'd like a large pizza with anchovies. Lots of anchovies. Pile 'em on there for me, will you?”

I jerked upright in the sofa, or at least, I
tried
to move. I suspected it would take a harness, a crane, and maybe the help of a Navy SEAL team to tug me free from the couch.

“What?!”

Spencer's smile widened. “Payback for the frozen yogurt.” He turned his attention back to his phone call. “Hi, I'd like to order a large pepperoni pizza with olives, tomatoes, and green peppers. No garlic, please.” He pointedly raised an eyebrow at me, and I knew that he was thinking about the idiotic statement I'd made in his bedroom about girls stripping off their clothes for him.

I burst out laughing.

“Never going to happen,”
I mouthed slowly.

Spencer rattled off his address, ended the call, and then claimed the sofa cushion right next to me. “In the wise words of Justin Bieber . . .”

“Don't say it!” I instinctively lunged forward to cover his mouth with my hand.

Spencer did his best to evade me, but I had no intention of giving up easy and he began laughing himself as he tried to clearly enunciate, “I will never say—mmph!”

I tackled him.

It wasn't intentional. Not really. It just seemed like the fastest way to shut him up, and technically . . . it worked. Spencer stopped talking real quick.

His grin faded away and that intense look came back into his green eyes, the one that made me feel as if he could see every single inch of me. It both unnerved and excited me, especially now that I was acutely aware of the way my body was plastered against his. I knew he felt every curve of what my mom called my “generous” figure pushing him deeper into the cushions.

I tried to prop up some of my weight with my arms, but the movement didn't help the situation. Instead of putting distance between us, I'd somehow managed to awkwardly straddle his knees, and for a brief moment, I panicked. There was no trick I could use to appear slimmer. Sucking in my stomach wouldn't do anything to alter my weight.

But then I looked into Spencer's eyes and I forgot to care about my body mass index or the number on my bathroom scale. None of that could change the power—the sheer exhilaration—I felt as our limbs tangled and the heat between us sparked higher.

He wanted me.

The full force of that shook me to my core. It didn't matter that Spencer was probably interested in any girl who sprawled across him. That for him this might be nothing more than a normal Thursday night. That he might not even bother adding me to his list of high school conquests.

In that moment, I wanted him right back.

His pupils were dilated, his breathing was shallow, and then his gaze dipped briefly to my lips and rose back to my eyes in an unspoken question.

Are you going to kiss me?

Yes.

I didn't give myself time to think through all the possible repercussions so that I could reason myself out of making a mistake. And, yes, I knew it was going to be a mistake. I didn't doubt it for a second. Launching myself on top of Smith High School's biggest Lothario wasn't exactly the way I had daydreamed my first kiss would happen. I thought it would take place at Comic Con with some adorably nerdy guy who wore glasses and enjoyed discussing the nuances of political discourse as presented by the third season of
Battlestar Galactica.

Not some . . . hotshot.

I was supposed to be smarter than this.

But apparently everyone, including myself, had been deceived about my level of intelligence, because I tilted my head slightly so that we wouldn't bonk noses and . . . kissed him.

It wasn't slow and the only thing sweet about it was the hint of alpine vanilla that still lingered. Neither of us was gentle either. My hands gripped his arms as our lips met in a heated battle that I suspected wouldn't have a winner. Or maybe it had two winners. Or a billion. I couldn't think straight and never before had that seemed more perfectly, gloriously right than in that moment, because my body was doing just fine with my brain off-line. There was no reason for me to overthink it. Not when I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so alive.

I wasn't entirely sure I had
ever
felt so alive.

Spencer's hands gripped my waist and the world began tilting while I struggled to catch my breath before diving back in for more.

I wanted so much more.

And he seemed to be on the exact same page because his hands slid lower and gripped tighter right before the world tilted. My glasses slipped off entirely and I wasn't sure which direction was up, but that seemed irrelevant since our bodies were still pressed together.

“Belle.” Spencer's voice was hoarse and held an urgent
I want to keep you pinned against me like this for a week
undercurrent that made my heart feel like it was humming, and not just because my nickname sounded thrilling coming from him, but it proved that Spencer knew he was kissing me.

Isobel Peters.

Smith High School's biggest geek. The girl most likely to be asked to fake a relationship with a hockey player in order to
lower
his social standing.

That thought silenced my stupid heart midway through its musical audition.

Instead of feeling sexy and strong and powerful and very
I am woman hear me roar,
I suddenly felt like I was spiraling out of control.

“Don't . . . stop,” I managed to say as Spencer lightly nipped my neck and I choked back a moan.

He lifted his head to stare at me. “Was that a
don't stop, this feels so good
or—”

I tried to shove him away but only succeeded in nearly rolling off the edge of the couch, which probably would've been disastrous for my glasses had I landed on them. But I didn't tumble off because Spencer steadied me before he raised his hands as if he were following instructions from a cop.

“Okay, I guess I know the answer now.” He raked one hand through his hair while I took a deep breath to compose myself and retrieve my glasses. “What's the problem here, Belle?”

Everything. The problem was everything. His golden boy looks and frat boy charm, and
incredible
kissing skills that temporarily had the power to turn me stupid—all of it was the problem.

But I couldn't tell him any of that.

I scooted back until I was as far away from Spencer as the couch would allow. “That was a mistake.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his face impassive. “Okay. Want to be a bit more specific? Was the mistake sticking your tongue in my mouth or was it letting me grab your ass? Because, honey, you sure seemed to be enjoying all of it.”

My cheeks flamed red. “That's not . . . I'm not . . . I'm not that type of girl!”

“You know, I've never liked that phrase. It's vague and judgmental, if you ask me. It's a shorthand way of distancing yourself from an imaginary slut without having the bad taste of the word in your mouth. So tell me, Belle, exactly what kind of girl are you?”

I gaped at him openmouthed and I wanted to be able to brush off his comment like it was nothing more than a mild irritant. Something vaguely annoying that was best ignored. Except not only was he absolutely right, but that particular observation? It was really smart.

Which only succeeded in rattling me even more.

I mean, I've always had to search for people who could keep up with me, who didn't care if I saw the world a little wonky, who forced me to reevaluate some things I might take for granted, because people like that were in short supply.

But I didn't want Spencer King to be one of them.

It would have been so much easier if he'd said something obnoxious like, “We both know you can't do any better than me, Isogeek.” Then I could have stormed off in a huff before confiding all the details to Jane. And then, depending on how much his retort stung, I might've tried to plot some kind of revenge with Sam. Hell, if he had acted like a full-fledged Notable jerk, I'd have considered letting Sam put her most outrageous plan into action . . . even if that landed both of us in detention.

I knew how to respond to being mocked and belittled by Notables. At the very least, I knew how to keep the scoreboard in the single digits. No dramatic scenes. No tears. Not if I could help it.

Nothing that Fake and Bake had thrown at me had ever prepared me for this, though.

Because with Spencer meeting my gaze head-on, no games, no bullshit—just straight up asking me to spell out what I wanted—my chest felt so tight I couldn't breathe. I wanted to be the kind of girl who cut through all the high school mind games and didn't care what people said about her. The kind of girl who
never
worried about being in someone else's league because she was perfectly happy being herself.