briefly as I consider what I want to say.
“It reminds me of the end of The Outsiders. ” His eyebrows raise, prompting me to continue. “After Johnny dies, and Ponyboy finds his letter that tells him to stay gold, like the sunset they saw while they were hiding out. That’s like the mandolin. Golden.” I pull on the end of my ponytail, eager to find something for my hands to do.
When I glance at him, I can’t quite make out what passes behind his eyes, but it makes me nervous, big-lump-in-my-belly nervous. I swallow and make a concerted effort to breathe.
“Your room is very nice, Mr. Murphy. I’m impressed with your organization, especially since you just moved in.” I’m relieved to regain my ability to speak.
“I was here all summer interning at the Boston Globe , so I couldn’t move back home.”
An internship before his senior year. Impressive.
“Where’s home?” I ask.
He puts the mandolin back. “Connecticut.”
“But that’s not where you’re from.” I keep hearing it in my head, the Southern way he says darlin’.
One side of his mouth slants upward in a half smile. “I grew up in Austin, Texas, but we moved when I was eight. How did you know I wasn’t from New England?”
“Lucky guess,” I say, not wanting to divulge how closely I’ve been paying attention to him. “Are both parents back there?”
“Yeah, they’re teachers,” he says, answering my next question before I ask it.
“Still together?”
“Yup, and still in love. It’s sweet. And kind of disgusting. They still make out like teenagers.”
I laugh at the embarrassment in his face and wonder what it would be like to have parents who actually liked each other.
“Where are you from?” He hands me my bag.
“Nowhere exciting. Lexington.” A whole forty-five minutes away.
“So you must get home a lot.”
“No, never,” I say as I peruse the books in his shelves. He has several biographies of famous journalists, a book on Watergate, a lot of classics. Spotting a couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald titles, I smile to myself, but then my heart seizes up when I see a half dozen black Moleskine journals standing at attention. God, this guy is perfect.
“Really?” He looks at me quizzically as he takes off his sweatshirt, which makes his black t-shirt rise, revealing that tantalizing six-pack. I avert my eyes so I don’t stare at his bare, muscular stomach with that sexy V that makes me stupid.
I clear my throat. “Haven’t been home in three years. Jax goes back, but my mother has a soft place in her soulless black heart for him.”
He’s watching me, gauging whether or not I’m joking. He must realize I’m not.
“Are you and your brother close?”
Fighting the urge to shut down at the personal question, I make myself answer.
“We’re twins, so I guess we are by default from sharing the same uterus for nine months. He’s kind of busy with soccer and girls, so we don’t hang out much, but I try to go to his games.”
Gavin frowns for a second. “It must be hard being an Avery. There must be a lot of pressure.”
So he does know who I am.
I mean, of course he does. He’s a reporter. He probably thinks I’m some little rich girl.
I wait, wondering if he’ll turn on me and want something because that’s always what happens, but he actually looks concerned, like he cares about my wellbeing. Something inside me relaxes, and I shrug.
“It’s just a last name. It’s not like I’m at the helm of my family’s corporation or ever will be. No thanks.” If my mother had it her way, I’d be trotting around like a prized pony, wearing something from her fashion line and whoring myself out to the cameras.
Looking to change the subject, I ask, “Are you an only child?” Something about how responsible he seems tells me he’s either an only child or the oldest.
“No, I have a little sister who’s a senior in high school.”
He goes over to his desk as he reaches into his pocket for his
“It reminds me of the end of The Outsiders. ” His eyebrows raise, prompting me to continue. “After Johnny dies, and Ponyboy finds his letter that tells him to stay gold, like the sunset they saw while they were hiding out. That’s like the mandolin. Golden.” I pull on the end of my ponytail, eager to find something for my hands to do.
When I glance at him, I can’t quite make out what passes behind his eyes, but it makes me nervous, big-lump-in-my-belly nervous. I swallow and make a concerted effort to breathe.
“Your room is very nice, Mr. Murphy. I’m impressed with your organization, especially since you just moved in.” I’m relieved to regain my ability to speak.
“I was here all summer interning at the Boston Globe , so I couldn’t move back home.”
An internship before his senior year. Impressive.
“Where’s home?” I ask.
He puts the mandolin back. “Connecticut.”
“But that’s not where you’re from.” I keep hearing it in my head, the Southern way he says darlin’.
One side of his mouth slants upward in a half smile. “I grew up in Austin, Texas, but we moved when I was eight. How did you know I wasn’t from New England?”
“Lucky guess,” I say, not wanting to divulge how closely I’ve been paying attention to him. “Are both parents back there?”
“Yeah, they’re teachers,” he says, answering my next question before I ask it.
“Still together?”
“Yup, and still in love. It’s sweet. And kind of disgusting. They still make out like teenagers.”
I laugh at the embarrassment in his face and wonder what it would be like to have parents who actually liked each other.
“Where are you from?” He hands me my bag.
“Nowhere exciting. Lexington.” A whole forty-five minutes away.
“So you must get home a lot.”
“No, never,” I say as I peruse the books in his shelves. He has several biographies of famous journalists, a book on Watergate, a lot of classics. Spotting a couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald titles, I smile to myself, but then my heart seizes up when I see a half dozen black Moleskine journals standing at attention. God, this guy is perfect.
“Really?” He looks at me quizzically as he takes off his sweatshirt, which makes his black t-shirt rise, revealing that tantalizing six-pack. I avert my eyes so I don’t stare at his bare, muscular stomach with that sexy V that makes me stupid.
I clear my throat. “Haven’t been home in three years. Jax goes back, but my mother has a soft place in her soulless black heart for him.”
He’s watching me, gauging whether or not I’m joking. He must realize I’m not.
“Are you and your brother close?”
Fighting the urge to shut down at the personal question, I make myself answer.
“We’re twins, so I guess we are by default from sharing the same uterus for nine months. He’s kind of busy with soccer and girls, so we don’t hang out much, but I try to go to his games.”
Gavin frowns for a second. “It must be hard being an Avery. There must be a lot of pressure.”
So he does know who I am.
I mean, of course he does. He’s a reporter. He probably thinks I’m some little rich girl.
I wait, wondering if he’ll turn on me and want something because that’s always what happens, but he actually looks concerned, like he cares about my wellbeing. Something inside me relaxes, and I shrug.
“It’s just a last name. It’s not like I’m at the helm of my family’s corporation or ever will be. No thanks.” If my mother had it her way, I’d be trotting around like a prized pony, wearing something from her fashion line and whoring myself out to the cameras.
Looking to change the subject, I ask, “Are you an only child?” Something about how responsible he seems tells me he’s either an only child or the oldest.
“No, I have a little sister who’s a senior in high school.”
He goes over to his desk as he reaches into his pocket for his
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