Darian begins addressing the group—reminders for where to be tomorrow and when—but I dismiss her instantly. With Christa as my bunk mate, I basically have a walking, talking agenda anyway.

“You do not have a turtle farm,” Kyle mutters.

“I didn’t say I did.”

“Yeah, you . . .” His words drift as he realizes his own error.

“We have two snapping turtles living in our pond at home. They’ve been there since April.” My mother has tried to have them relocated, but they’ve somehow eluded the animal control guys so far. “But thank you for the idea. I never would have remembered them.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, and a soft curse slips from his lips.

“So . . .” I swallow away my nervousness. “Was that shocking enough for you?”

Kyle leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees again, making it impossible for me not to look at him, short of turning away. “Well, let’s see . . .” He uses his fingers to count out. “The most fucking convenient truth, if I’ve ever heard one . . .”

I giggle.

He hesitates. “ . . . a pretty ballsy admission . . .” But by the soft smile touching his lips, I’d say one that he’s pleased with. Is that a slight flush in his cheeks? “ . . . and then your lie.” A frown touches his brow. “So who was he, then?” He tilts his head to meet my gaze, and for the first time I see a genuinely somber look.

My breath hitches at the beauty of it. “Captain of the rugby team,” I admit. “How’d you know that part was true?”

He shrugs. There’s a long pause. “Sounds like he was a real dick.”

“You’re perceptive.” Please don’t be a dick, like him.

Kyle’s face splits with a wide smile. “So I’ve been told.” His gaze dips to my lips.

I feel the overwhelming urge to find out if Kyle is as good at kissing as he seems to be at guessing lies, and the brazenness to make sure I find out on my first night at Wawa. “Hey, so do you want to—”

“Miller! Rematch time!” a guy yells out, pulling Kyle’s attention away from me. A group of guys are jogging toward the nearby field, where a bright overhead light has been turned on to illuminate the grass. A guy bounces a soccer ball off his knee.

“Oh, you mean Eric. I don’t play soccer!” Kyle hollers back.

“What? You scored five—umph!” Eric’s words cut off when Kyle elbows him in the ribs.

“These guys don’t know what they’re talking about,” Kyle dismisses, then stands and stretches, his T-shirt lifting to give me a glimpse of a narrow but chiseled waist and dark hair trailing south of his belly button, his jeans sitting below the elastic waistband of his navy-blue Calvin Kleins. “But you know, I should, uh, head over there to, you know, console all those crybabies.”

I laugh. “Right.”

“I mean, I don’t play.”

“No, of course not.” I mock-frown.

He begins walking backward, away from me, grinning. “Because I’m not a crybaby.”

“You’re not. And by the way, did you want those ten sour apple Fun Dips with breakfast or lunch tomorrow?”

He gives me a gritted-tooth smile. “Canteen opens at ten thirty.”

“Mid-morning sugar rush it is.”

“Can’t wait.” He saunters away, Eric jostling him playfully.

“Oh my God!” Ashley squeals, sliding down to me. “I can’t believe you actually said that in front of everybody!”

“I know. Me neither.” And a quick glance around the group, namely at Avery’s and Olivia’s tight expressions, tells me they aren’t exactly pleased by it. But I guess when the new girl strolls in and basically stakes claim to the boy everyone else wants on the very first night, that’s bound to happen.

Crap, did I just guarantee myself enemies for an entire summer?

“I knew you liked him, by the way.” Ashley playfully jabs my ribs with her finger. “I could just tell.”

She could tell, but she doesn’t seem bothered or annoyed by the fact that I lied. She seems genuinely . . . giddy for me. It’s at that moment that I decide Ashley is a friend I need to have this summer.

Christa sits next to Ashley. “Seriously? Kyle Miller?” Her voice drips with disapproval. Her expression isn’t much better.

I’m immediately on the defensive. “And what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Not to me, he isn’t.” I give her a knowing look. Judas.

“He’s irresponsible, he lies, he thinks everything’s a joke,” she says, listing Kyle’s supposed faults on her stubby fingers. “He shouldn’t have been allowed back here.”

“But he was.” I flash Ashley a wide-eyed “What the hell?” look.

“Something bad is going to happen one day, and it’ll be because of him. Mark my words.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Mark your words? What are you, ninety years old?”

“So . . .” Ashley leans forward to effectively block Christa’s face from mine and end a brewing confrontation. “What did you two talk about?”

I struggle to shake off my growing irritation with my new roommate. “Just . . . stuff.” As if I’m going to divulge anything within Christa’s earshot. “We made a bet, to see if he could guess my lie.”

Her eyes flash with excitement. “Who won?”

I look to the field in time to see Kyle peer over his shoulder at me, the sly smile touching his lips as infuriating as it is sexy. Ashley was right, he’s just . . . different, and I can’t put my finger on exactly how.

But I’m quite certain that I’m done for.

“Definitely me.”

Chapter 5

 

NOW

“Five copies, single-sided, two staples in each, a half-inch apart.” Mark’s voice is thin as he relays David’s scrupulous instructions sent to him last night.

“Ignore it. He can email the presentation to them.” David has had weeks to hire a new assistant and he’s dragging his feet. There is no way in hell I’m letting him dominate mine anymore.

I pause mid–pen stroke as the red light on my office phone flashes, indicating an incoming call. I muted the ringer long ago, the sound of it grating on my nerves.

“A. Calloway,” the display screen reads. It’s just like my mom to still dial the office line instead of my mobile. She’s no doubt following up on her email from last night to discuss the merits of damask versus brocade window treatments. She got the summer house in the divorce settlement and has taken to redecorating every three years. While I always enjoy talking to her, now is not the time for that thirty-minute conversation. Not when I have no valuable input to offer anyway.

Not when I’m anxiously waiting on an update on the city planner meeting from Tripp, hoping my power play has paid off.

I let her call go to voicemail.

“You know Tripp always has Jill call me to check your schedule, right?” Mark hovers over my desk, smoothly collecting one check requisition after another as I sign and approve payments to the various suppliers and contractors. “That way he can wait until you’re tied up in a meeting and just leave a message.”