Spider

Good grief, Rose, stop the fantasy!

Right. I’m a virgin, and I don’t have much of an idea of what happens after that anyway. Sure, I’ve had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing serious. I don’t have much in common with the boys in Highland Park.

“You’d make a good nurse,” he says softly, his long black lashes fluttering softly against his chiseled cheekbones.

“Doctor of Psychology,” I correct him.

“From NYU?” His voice is inquisitive, and I guess he’s over the jealous thing with Trenton and I at NYU together.

“Oscar and I both want to go. It’s . . . everything to me.”

“Your dream?”

“Yes.” Although right now I’m dreaming of him . . .

“I know that feeling. That’s how music is to me.” His golden-brown eyes watch me as I reach over to the medicine cabinet for more antiseptic and antibacterial cream, my chest perilously close to his face. I swear my nipples are reaching for him.

“Why psychology?”

I nod, pretending like I’m not all discombobulated. “My granny mainly. She loved to read people—literally. She ran a little palm-reading business out of her home before she died. All the old ladies of the neighborhood would come to talk to her. She’d make them coffee and they’d just . . . talk, and then she’d tell them what they needed to hear while I sat on the floor next to her and listened. There wasn’t any magic involved of course.” I laugh. “But . . . she was incredibly intuitive. She just got people. If someone twitched or looked left or right while they were talking, she’d have a reason for it and she’d tell me all about it after they left.”

He smiles. “How on earth did you get to Highland Park?”

“Through foster care, until Anne.” I toss the cotton ball I used to dab at his eye into the trash.

“What happened to your real parents?” There’s softness in his gaze, as if he’s felt the pain of being alone.

I sigh. “Well, Granny raised me, but she died when I was ten. The lady who gave birth to me had gotten pregnant by a man who ran off a few months later, so I’ve never met my real dad. The last I heard, he was in prison in Florida. The only guy I knew was Mama’s boyfriend Lyle. One night he hit her a little too hard and broke her neck.” I inhale sharply at the memory. “The cops pulled him over for questioning, and he pulled a gun on them. One of the cops shot him and he died too.”

His face has hardened as I speak, and I clear my throat. “I’m not a victim, so don’t get that in your head. Granny raised me to look for the good in everyone and to never let the past get me down. She said it didn’t matter where I was from, just where I was going—and I’m going places. I’m getting out of this town if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I think I would have loved your granny.” He curls an arm around me, tugging me close until my chest is a hair’s breadth away from his face. I recall our epic kiss on the plane. I feel the pressure of his taut thighs and my breath quickens as desire unfurls inside me, wrapping me up and inching me closer to him.

“I don’t doubt for an instant that you’ll be a doctor someday,” he murmurs. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder, which means you’ll fight tooth and nail. You’re a tad bitter and have people to prove wrong. I see it on your face.” He smiles wryly. “Obviously you’re not the only one who likes to analyze people.” His full, sensuous lips curve into a smile.

A hum warms my blood. I want him—desperately.

And it’s entirely foolish.

He’s my stepbrother.

He doesn’t call girls back.

“How do you know so much about me?” I ask, feeling myself gravitating closer.

He thinks about it, pushing a piece of hair out of my eyes. Cupping my nape, he pulls me in tighter until our noses meet. The back of his hand caresses my cheek and the heat from his touch burns, yet there’s a tautness in the roped muscles of his arms, as if he’s holding himself in check.

“Because I am you,” he says softly. “We’re so much alike, it’s staggering.” He pauses and stares deep into my eyes. “With one exception: you’re better than me. I tossed away my teenage years on drugs and booze.” He bites his lip. “I’m still doing it. I can’t stop, Rose. Some days I want to stop—fuck, I really do—but I’ve never had anything that was enough to give me the strength to do it. Does that make sense?”

I nod. I can’t think. He’s so close to me, his eyes burning into mine as he tries to get across what he means.

He closes his eyes and exhales. “I want you, Rose. You’re intoxicating.”

I suck in a sharp breath, our lips inches apart.

Is he going to kiss me? I want him to.

His eyes open after the silence has gone on too long, a smirk forming around his mouth. “You scared of me, Rose?”

Never.

“I’m scared you’ll rip my heart out.”

He stares at the LOST tattoo on his hand. “I probably will.”

He stands, and my small bathroom shrinks even more. Inhaling a steadying breath, I stuff everything back in the cabinet and lead him into my bedroom.

He looks around the space, still bare-chested, taking in my small corner room. His gaze lingers on the full-sized bed then moves to the desk and my wall of books. Pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Empire State Building are my only art.

“No roommate?” he asks as he picks up a photo of Oscar, Lexa, and me at the Friends of the Library mixer last year.

“No. It’s private, one of the perks of having Anne on the school board.”

He runs his fingers along my collection of paperbacks. “Which one’s your favorite?”

I move to stand next to him and pull out the dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë then press it into his hand. “You should read it.”

His brow arches. “Maybe I already have.”

I get excited. “Really?”

He laughs. “No, sorry. Am I not as cultured as you thought now?”

“It doesn’t matter. Read it now. Take it, please, as a gift from me to you.”

He cocks his head as he thumbs through the pages, some of which I’ve highlighted and underlined. “Why? What’s it about?”

“An orphan girl who searches her whole life for love. It’s about how she finds it, finally, in the arms of a man she’s been told she can’t have.”

His chest expands as he looks from me to the book. “You have a lot of attachment to this character?”

I nod. “She’s poor and struggles with other people’s low opinion of her social class.” I pause, feeling unexpected emotion tugging at me. “I-I guess I want what Jane gets at the end of the book: happiness in spite of everything she’s been through. She deserves it. I deserve it.”

He studies me, awe in his gaze, the emotion so apparent that right then, I lose my heart.

“You’ll find it,” he says. “Someday, Rose. I promise.”

I swallow. “Perhaps I already have.”

His expression changes, becoming torn.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.

I touch his arm, letting my hand drift down to his fingers. I’m tired of pretending. “Spider . . . there’s something here between us. You know it.”