Isn't She Lovely (29 page)

“Ehhh …”

He’s slowly shifting away from me, guilty-like. I make a grab for his shirt, but he’s already blending in with the crowd, all of whom are staring at the newcomer.

But the newcomer is staring only at me.

He stops in front of me, and even though I hate him, even though he hurt me, and even though he’s barely recognizable in this ridiculous get-up, my stupid heart still gives a ridiculous flip of joy.

“Ethan,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Tell me this is a bad dream. Tell me that you didn’t seriously hunt me down in North Carolina looking like you got separated from the rest of
the Hell’s Angels.”

He grins, and his smile is so familiar that I want to weep. “You like?”

“You look ridiculous.”

His eyes skim up my body, taking in the boots, the dress, the jewelry … the changes. “You look wonderful,” he says.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Careful, someone might think you’re actually interested in someone like me.”

“Stephanie, I—”

“Ethan, don’t you think I’d have answered my phone if I wanted you to find me? How
did
you find me?”

“Stalked your brother,” he says, not looking the least bit guilty.

I knew it
.

“But if it’s any consolation, the guy totally put me through the wringer. Made me send him a reference from Jordan, and send a picture of my ID,
and
prove that I know you personally, which of course was as simple as saying the words ‘totally scary’—”

I put up a single finger to stop his rambling. “You have about thirty seconds to walk yourself off the property before I call my dad over and ask him to remove you.”

“I finished our screenplay,” he says, as though he didn’t hear me.

I blink a little in surprise at that. “No,
I
finished our screenplay. I’m emailing it to Professor Holbrook tomorrow.”

“Too late. I already handed my version in.”

I feel my jaw drop. “Tell me this isn’t part of it. Tell me it doesn’t end with Tyler showing up at Kayla’s house dressed like a Halloween character.”

“That scene’s in there. But it’s not the end.”

There’s something in his eyes then as he searches my face. It’s vulnerability.

Don’t ask him how it ends
.

“How does it end?” I ask. Damn it. My voice is all breathy.

He swallows, then takes a step closer. He raises his hands as though to touch my shoulders, but drops them immediately when I shift back a step. He has the nerve to look hurt at my rejection. As though he’s not the one who shoved me away. Who walked away from me because I wasn’t wearing the right thing.

“The screenplay, Price,” I say. “How does it end?”

He starts to rub a hand across the back of his neck but stops, glancing down at his fingerless gloves. Yeah. He’s wearing some.

“After the guy spends eight hundred dollars on leather pants, you mean?”

I suck my cheeks in to stop from smiling. “Let me guess. They’re designer? From Saks?”

A corner of his mouth turns up. “Guilty. I didn’t know where else to go.”

I shake my head. “You wouldn’t. Go on. What happens after Ethan-slash-Tyler spends an obscene amount of money on clothes he’ll never wear again?”

“Well, see, turns out he’s not done swiping his credit card. Because
then
he has to go buy a last-minute plane ticket from JFK to Charlotte.”

I roll my tongue around in my cheek. “Business class, I assume.”

Ethan tilts his head. “I didn’t realize there was any other way to travel. Not when the private jet’s in use.”

“Okay, so our big-spending movie hero is in Charlotte because …?”

“Honestly, Kendrick, it’s like you’ve never been to the movies. He’s in Charlotte because his
girl’s
in Charlotte.”

“Well if she’s
his
girl, why is she in Charlotte?”

He takes a tiny step closer, and this time I don’t back away. “Because he was an ass. And he fucked up. Big time.”

He doesn’t bother to lower his voice, and a quick scan behind him reveals that every single person at this party has gone perfectly still and is watching this unfold. I wonder if Ethan has any idea just how movie-like this actually is.

“And he thought the apology would go over better with a little leather?”

Ethan moves then, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve to show me his biceps. “And this.”

I gape. “You got a tattoo? Of a pigeon?”

“Well, I wanted to do a raven, but then I felt like that wasn’t very original.”

“Ethan, pigeons aren’t even birds. They’re like giant sky-rats.”

“Well, they’re very New York. And I think he’s cute. I named him Goth.”

I put my hands over my face, trying to figure out if I want to laugh or cry. “You should go, Ethan. Please go.”

He grabs my hands, pulling them away from my face and tucking them against his chest as he draws me closer.

All signs of the lighthearted Ethan are gone now, and his eyes are urgent as they scan my features. “That’s not how it ends, Kendrick. First he has to apologize. Then he tells her how wrong and stupid he was. He tells her that he doesn’t care if she decides to start wearing a velvet cape to dinner at his parents’ house. He doesn’t care that her boots belong in a Civil War museum. He doesn’t care if she wants to wear sweats to the opera or black to a wedding, or if she wants to draw black permanent marker around her eyes. And he tells her how wrong he was for saying that she lacked guts, because the truth is he wasn’t willing to meet her halfway.”

“Ethan—”

He presses his fingers to my lips, closing his eyes briefly. And when they find mine again, I feel sucker-punched at the emotion I see there.

“I wouldn’t change a single thing about you, Stephanie,” he says, dropping all pretense that this is about the movie. That it’s anything less than the two of us.

I dip my head, afraid to meet his eyes. “It’s easy to say that now,” I say softly. “When nobody here knows you, and none of your friends and family can witness this weird leather thing you have going on.”

He shifts slightly, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “I knew you’d say that. Which is why I did
this
. And this. And this …”

I gape as he swipes through the various social media apps on his phone, my brain barely processing what I’m seeing. “You changed your profile picture to a photo of you dressed like
that
?”

“Yup,” he says proudly. “I also stopped by my parents’ house. Thought they deserved to see it in person. And I’ve gotta tell you, these pants are damned uncomfortable, but I’ll wear them every day, to every class, to every frat party, if it means you’ll come back to me.”

“Why?” I ask quietly. “This isn’t you.”

He gives me a small smile, running a thumb over my cheek. “I’m still the same guy, no matter what I wear. And you’re the same girl.”

“You didn’t want me,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes briefly. “I
did
want you. I still do. I was scared and small-minded. Stupid.”

He opens his eyes.

“I love you, Stephanie. Just the way you are. You can wear pink, or black, or fucking feathers, and it won’t change how I feel about you.”

Just like that, I feel my heart explode. In joy. In fear. In hope.

“Your people won’t accept me,” I whisper, throwing up the last defense I can think of.

He shrugs. “Then we’ll find new people.”

“But your parents …”

“My parents like you. And besides, they have their own issues to deal with.”

His hands are cupping my face now, and I’m relieved to note that even though he doesn’t look like my Ethan, he still smells like him.

I let my fingers curl into his shirt. “My screenplay doesn’t have a happy ending.”

His fingers tighten, and his brown eyes flash in panic. “No?”

I shake my head.

He rests his forehead on mine, his gaze beseeching. “So which ending do we choose? Indie angst, or romantic comedy?”

“Depends,” I say, my voice raspy. “Is that tattoo real?” He avoids my eyes, and I grin. “I thought not. And the earring?”

He clears his throat guiltily. “Clip-on.”

Thank God
.

I lay my hand against his cheek. “In that case … I choose the happy ending.”

I see a flash of smile, and then his mouth is on mine and my arms are around his back as he lifts me and swings me around.

When my feet touch the ground again, I’m aware that everyone is grinning foolishly at us. The only way it could get more cheesy is if they started clapping, but they don’t, for which I’m thankful. I can’t say I ever imagined a scenario in which I’d be in North Carolina and the center of attention along with a guy who I’m pretty sure has a polo mallet in his hall closet. But I’m loving it.

Chris catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up sign, and I grin at him before my eyes find my dad and Amy. She’s self-consciously dabbing her eyes as she gives me a watery smile, and my dad gives me an inept “A-okay” sign. Classic awkward father.

Family
. My eyes water.

Ethan squeezes my hand, and I know he understands. Understands that he’s given me my life back.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Kendrick, please. Like I didn’t know.”

I’m about to say more. That I’m sorry too. That he was right about me being a scared little moron, and that I’d worn all my black crap that day to drive him away because it was easier than facing my issues.

I glance at his profile, and he winks at me. And then I realize. He already knows all that. And he forgives me.

Because he loves me.

I grin back at him. “I stand by what I’ve been saying all along, you know. You’re a
horrible
Pygmalion. In no part of the myth or any of the movies based on the myth does Pygmalion himself get compromised with leather and whips and shit.”

“Well, probably because none of the
other
Pygmalions knew just how comfortable leather pants are. Nor did they look this good in them.”

I laugh, knowing I’ll never get tired of him. Never get tired of us.

His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out as I head to the cooler to grab Ethan something to drink. Everyone is giving us space, although I know it’s only a matter of time before Amy swoops in to ask for the details, and my dad starts asking Ethan about his intentions.

Ethan accepts with a distracted thanks the beer I hand him, and I raise my eyebrows at the
bemused expression on his face as he continues to stare at his phone.

“Let me guess,” I say. “The country-club set
loves
your new look.”

He looks up. “We got an email from Martin.”

It takes me a second to follow. “Professor Holbrook?”

“Yup. He’s read the script and loved it. Took the liberty of showing it to his agent, who also loved it and wants to shop it around for us.”

My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”

“Looks like Tyler and Kayla might be headed to the big screen, baby.”

“On one condition,” I say, standing on my toes to brush my lips against his.

“Yeah?”

“It’s got to open with ‘Based on a true story.’ ”

“Okay—that can be your request. Me, I’m pushing for a cameo.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’ll be too busy trying to get those leather pants off. What are they, like painted on—”

He kisses me to shut me up.

And it’s better than any movie kiss. Ever.

Acknowledgments

As always, I owe so much to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for introducing me to New Adult books, for gently insisting I write one, and for holding my hand the entire way. You’re the best.

To Sue Grimshaw, who had faith in this book from the very beginning, even if it was little more than a skeletal chapter and a seed of an idea: thank you.

And for the fantastically eager readers out there who love New Adult as much as I do: Your undying enthusiasm for the genre kept me going.

About the Author

L
AUREN
L
AYNE
graduated from Santa Clara University with a B.S. in political science that she has yet to put to good use. After dabbling in an e-commerce career in Seattle and Southern California, Layne moved to New York City, where she now writes full-time. She lives with her husband and their plus-size Pomeranian in a tiny Manhattan studio.

Read on for an excerpt from Cassie Mae’s

Friday Night Alibi

Chapter 1

I’m naked in the same room with Alex Finnigan. This is so not good for business.

Of all the places I thought someone would first see the fully grown boobs, I definitely didn’t picture the girls’ locker room at one of Georgia’s many Christian country clubs. But here we are. Alex must have some kind of superpower that pops off dead bolts because I could’ve sworn I locked up.

“Kelli Pinkins.”

Not even a quaver in his voice. He must be used to seeing bare chests. Why should I be any different?

“What do you want?” Yes, I’m confident, too. I don’t even reach for a towel, just continue rinsing the shampoo from my hair. It’s just business with him, after all.