The Secret Life of a Dream Girl (Creative HeArts) (6 page)

Well, besides the fact that she was doing everything in her power to help him hook up with some other girl—which was pretty much the equivalent of a neon sign announcing just how not interested in him she was. Which was totally the reason he was resorting to bad internet advice columns in the first place.

Screw it.

He reached for his backpack with a groan. He so didn’t have time to be stressing out like this. He had calculus he needed to be worrying about right now. Not to mention a detailed plan for his part of the senior project due on Friday.

But three hours—and twenty-five calculus problems later—he was still thinking about Dahlia and how to clue her in to the fact that she was Dream Girl to him. And all of her advice and antics today only made her more perfect in his eyes, not less. He liked how inventive she was, how willing to help him come up with the perfect plan. Plus she made him laugh, which he loved.

Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe instead of being bummed about her plan, he should be happy about it. After all, it had gotten him her phone number and a lunch date with her, which was more than he would have had otherwise…

So the trick was to use tomorrow’s lunch date to get another date and the phone number to keep her thinking about him, especially late at night like the article recommended. When she was in bed. And warm. And a little sleepy. And in skimpy pajamas. And—

He groaned again, then shut that line of thought down before it got out of control.

Reaching for his phone, he pulled up the two measly messages between him and Dahlia. He spent a minute trying to figure out what to send her, then on impulse, he downloaded “Crush” by Dave Matthews Band and hit send. He wasn’t sure how she’d take it, whether she’d think he’d chosen it for her or because he had a crush on someone else, but that was okay. For now, he liked the ambiguity of it. And that—he hoped—would get her thinking about him. And sex. And—

His phone vibrated with an incoming text, and he all but dropped the thing in his haste to pull up his messages.

Dahlia had responded with a link of her own and he grinned like an idiot as he pressed play. A few seconds in he started laughing, because she’d sent back “With a Little Help from My Friends” by the Beatles.

Was it any wonder he was crazy about this girl?

He thought about how good she’d felt on his lap in the cafeteria at lunch. About how much he liked her smile and her laugh. About how quick-witted she was, and how eager to help.

No, it was no surprise at all that he’d fallen for her. And now it was late and she was probably in bed and thinking about him at least a little bit. Whoever had written that last advice column obviously knew what they were talking about…

Now if only he could figure out how he could use this situation to take her from thinking about him to being crazy about him, too…

Chapter Eight

I’m standing by the flagpole waiting for Keegan. The bell rang for lunch five minutes ago, and according to his early-morning text—and how cool is it that he knows enough about music to text me in
songs
—I’m supposed to meet him here. Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what the link to Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitta” meant. Turns out I’m right, because suddenly Keegan is here. He’s got his keys in one hand and a tote bag with a map and compass on it in the other hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says as he wraps an arm around my waist and starts guiding me toward the parking lot. “Calculus is kicking my ass.”

“Are you sure we should go off campus? Won’t we get in trouble?” I know it was my idea, but now that we’re about to sneak off campus I can’t help thinking about the fact that a condition for my emancipation is that I have to keep out of trouble.

“Being the vice principal’s son has very few perks, but one of them is I know the duty schedule, since she’s the one who works it up. And this week, it’s Mr. Robinson, who is a great guy but also really, really slow.” He makes a show of glancing at his phone. “All of which means we have exactly six minutes before he manages to make it up here to do parking lot duty. So let’s go.”

“You should really do something about this closed campus thing. What’s the use of being ASB president if you can’t do anything about it.”

He cocks his head, thinks about it for a minute. “You know, you’re right. I should totally do something about it. Or at least try. Let me think about it, see what I can come up with to present to the administration during the ASB board’s monthly meeting with them on Monday.”

I love that he’s so open to suggestions—and so willing to try to do something instead of just giving lip-service to it.

I’m still a little worried about sneaking off, but it’s hard to think about that when Keegan is holding me to him.

Eventually I decide to trust him—he’s a good guy, after all—and I settle against him. As I do, I try not to notice how warm he is. Or how good he looks in his ripped jeans and faded Waterloo Records T-shirt. Or how natural his arm feels around my waist. Or how hard his stomach is—

I cut the thought off as soon as I have it. Friends can acknowledge that another friend is attractive, but they probably shouldn’t be concentrating on their attractive bits. Like Keegan’s crazy beautiful eyes. Or his too-long hair. Or the golden hue of his skin or—

I’m being ridiculous, and I know it. So overwhelmed by the only human contact I’ve had in weeks that isn’t dancing with Finn (which totally doesn’t count) that I’m going all gaga over a touch that doesn’t mean anything.

So he’s got his arm around my waist. Big deal. I’ve seen him with his friends—he’s pretty hands-on with all of them. A fist bump here, a shoulder bump or pat on the back there. A casual arm around the waist is no big deal, even if he is close enough that I can smell his cologne.

And can I just say, he smells really, really,
really
good.

Not that I care, because I don’t. Of course I don’t. Still, it’s all I can do to keep from turning my head into his chest and breathing him in. In a purely platonic way, of course. Because that’s what this is all about—us being friends. And me helping him get Dream Girl. Obviously. “So, where are we going, Crush Boy?”

He lifts a brow. “Crush Boy?”

“After the song you sent last night, it seems to fit.”

He shakes his head with a disbelieving grin. “Dream Girl, Crush Boy. Do you have nicknames for everyone?”

“Not everyone. Just the people I like.”

“Oh, yeah?” He stops in front of a black Dodge Challenger with two broad silver racing stripes that start at the front of the car, under the hood, and go up and over the roof and down the trunk. It’s gorgeous and sexy and somehow exactly Keegan, though it’s not at all the kind of car I would have guessed he drove. And not exactly what I would pick to sneak off campus, since NextGen is lame and doesn’t have an open campus for seniors. Then again, maybe being the son of the vice principal really did come with perks, like he said. “What’s your nickname for Finn McCain?” he asks.

It’s a weird question, and the look on his face is even weirder. For a second I wonder if he knows more about who I am—and how I know Finn—than he’s letting on. But if he doesn’t know, making a big deal of it will only make things seem weirder… Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any harm in answering. “Finn is Trouble.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

I’m so distracted by the fact that he’s holding the car door open for me that I almost tell him the truth—that I nicknamed Finn that when we were in Paris a couple of years ago because everywhere we went he caused some kind of ruckus.

Then, just for a second, I think about telling him. If Keegan and I are becoming friends, he’s got a right to know who I really am. But then I think about Finn, about the paps who follow him and Willa around looking for a story, and know I can’t risk it. I mean, yeah, I think Keegan would mean to keep my secret, but all he has to do is slip up once with Jacen or one of his other friends and I’m screwed.

It’s that thought that brings me to my senses—no thanks to Keegan’s sexy green eyes—and I say with a shrug, “I don’t know. It just seems to suit him.”

Keegan mutters something under his breath at that, but I don’t quite catch it. Before I can ask him to repeat himself, he’s closing my door and walking around to the driver’s side of the car.

“You never did answer my question about where we’re going,” I tell him as he backs smoothly out of the parking space. It’s hard not to notice that the car is all but purring beneath his hands, and for a moment I think about getting myself one of these. But in fire-engine red instead of racer black, as this car seems to cry out for it.

“That’s because it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise? I thought we were just going to grab a taco at Torchy’s or something.”

He grins at me. “I think we can do a little better than that, don’t you? After all, plotting true love requires
some
secrecy.” He hits the gas then, and we go flying down the road. We make a couple of sharp turns, but lights and traffic are with us and we get to our destination—a parking lot at the end of a long, kind of scruffy-looking road—in only a few minutes.

“What is this place?” I ask as we climb out of the car. Directly in front of me is a huge—like forty-foot-tall huge—statue of an aluminum man looking up at the sky.

“Laguna Gloria.” He reaches into the backseat and pulls out the bag he was carrying earlier.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Sorry. I totally forgot that you’re new to Austin. It’s the outside sculpture garden portion of the Austin contemporary museum of art.”

“Sculpture garden?” I gesture to the very large aluminum man. “I guess that would explain him, huh?”

“It would. It’s called
Looking Up
. It’s made of all kinds of mashed-together aluminum.”

“Mashed together?”

He holds out a hand to me and when I take it, he pulls me closer to the exhibit. “See? Aluminum roasting pans and takeout containers and pie plates.”

I look closer and realize he’s right. “So is this a statement on recycling? A statement on our disposable economy? A statement on astronomy since he’s looking at the sky?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think it’s about wonder. About looking up at something just beyond our reach—or our sight—and wondering what’s out there. Wondering what could be instead of what is.” He tilts his head to look up, just like the sculpture. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? You can just sort of stand here and imagine whatever you want. A world without war, without poverty, without cancer. A world where anything and everything is possible.”

And just like that, my panties actually melt. I mean, seriously. How is it possible to resist a guy who looks like Keegan and is also all deep and thoughtful and smart and
interesting
? I know we’re here because he’s interested in another girl. Just like I know that the last thing a guy like Keegan needs to get drawn into is my messy life. And still I can’t help following his advice and wondering what if…

He makes it easy, especially when he puts a hand on the small of my back and starts guiding me toward a nearby staircase. The day is a little cool and a little windy—not too much since it’s only very early November—and his hand feels warm through the thin fabric of my blouse. More, it feels good.

“Are we going to tour the gardens?” I ask as we go down the stairs. “Don’t we have to pay for that?”

“I’m a member. I get to bring a guest each time I come and we both get in free.”

“That’s cool.” We stop at the bottom of the stairs and look through a copse of trees at a small, picturesque lake. “It’s beautiful.”

“I think so.” He guides me over to a three-foot-high retaining wall. “It’s kind of my spot.”

“Your spot?”

“Where I come to think. Plan.” He glances over at me and grins. “Plot.”

“Aaaah, it all becomes clear now.” I watch as he puts the bag down and starts pulling things out of it.

Two bottles of sparkling water.

A container of strawberries.

A bag of grapes.

A baguette.

A wheel of Brie cheese.

Carrots.

And a box of miniature cupcakes. Cupcakes!

I stare at Keegan’s incredible picnic, a little awed and a lot impressed. This is amazing, perfect. So much better than wrestling through a crowded taco or burger place.

I tell him so, and he just waggles his brows. “‘Stick with me, kid, and you’ll never go hungry again.’”

I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. He just looks so ridiculous trying to be nefarious. “It’s a good thing you’re not in the acting track,” I tell him as I settle down, cross-legged, on the retaining wall. “You do a terrible Scar impression.”

“Hey! I resent that.” He hands me a plate from the bottom of the bag. “I could play an evil lion if I wanted to.”

“No, you couldn’t. You don’t have an evil bone in your body.”

He lifts a brow. “And how, exactly, do you know that?”

I reach for my water and twist the top off before taking a sip. “I’ve met a lot of people in my life. You only have to get screwed over a few times before you start being able to recognize who’s only out for themselves and who’s…not.”

He grows serious quickly. “You’ve been screwed over a lot, huh?”

I shrug. “My fair share, I guess.”

“Is there any such thing as anyone’s fair share of getting screwed?” he asks as he pulls the lid off the strawberries. “Or is that just what we tell ourselves to avoid feeling how much it hurts?”

Ouch. I look down, trying to avoid the sudden laser focus of his gaze. “That’s hitting a little below the belt, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably.” He gives a self-deprecating shrug. “Sorry. Looks like I can be an asshole after all.”

Before I can think up a response to that, he taps me on the lips with a strawberry. When I open up, he pops the whole thing in my mouth, then grins wickedly as I try to chew it without looking completely ridiculous.

By the time I’m done, he’s handing me a torn-off hunk of bread with a wedge of Brie spread across the top. I take it, then watch as he tears off a piece of bread for himself.

He’s got nice hands. They aren’t particularly pretty or elegant—they’re too big for that. The palms too broad, the fingers too calloused and nicked up.

I reach for him before I even realize I’m going to do it, and run my fingertip over one of the many small wounds. He freezes at the touch, eyes on mine and hand halfway to his mouth.

“I’m sorry.” I pull back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, of course not. I was just…surprised. I’m so used to the scratches I barely notice them anymore.”

“How do you get used to that?” I ask, reaching for his hand again and pulling it close so I can get a better look at the cuts. “Some of these are a lot deeper than scratches. How did you get them?”

“I whittle.”

“You…whittle?”

“You know, like with wood? I make things—”

“Yes, I know what whittling is. I just always pictured…” I stop, unsure of how to say what I’m thinking without insulting him.

“Little old men sitting in rocking chairs whiling away their golden years?”

He’s grinning as he says it, so I take a chance and reply, “Well, yes. Kind of.”

“That’s pretty much how it got started in my family, too. My great-grandpa took it up when he retired, and he taught my dad, who was just a kid at the time. My dad liked it so he kept it up, and then he taught me. Now it’s just something we do together, you know, when we’re watching TV or talking.” He shrugs. “I know it sounds boring, but I like it.”

“It doesn’t sound boring at all. You create things and you get to share that with your father. I think it’s amazing.”

“Yeah?” Keegan looks surprised.

“Yeah. I think it’s cool that you have something like that in common with your dad.”

So much better than what my dad and I have in common. We’ve spent years creating things, too, but all it’s done is break us apart. Break our relationship down. Maybe even break us…or at least, break me.

It’s why I’m doing this, after all. Why I walked away from a (very) successful career. Why I moved to Austin for a fresh start, far away from the L.A. scene. Why I’m here, at NextGen, hiding who I am from everyone…including the boy next to me.

It’s the wake-up call that I need. The reminder that no matter how sweet, how smart, how
hot
Keegan is, he’s not the boy for me. Or more specifically, I’m not the girl for him…and I never will be. No matter how much I enjoy his emoji texts and impromptu picnics.

“How about you?” Keegan asks when the silence between us drags on too long. “Is there anything special you do with your parents?”

I slam the door shut before my brain can take me down that not-so-happy path, then grab my water and take a long sip as I try to sort myself out before Keegan notices just how much his simple question messed me up.

It doesn’t work, though. Not because I’m not adept at hiding my feelings, because I am—you kind of have to be when you’re a performer and the show has to go on, no matter what—but because Keegan notices everything.