Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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"Are they still staring?"
I bite back a smile as I look over his shoulder toward his group of friends.
"Mhm." I hum, glancing away quickly so they won't catch me peeking.
"They're not very inconspicuous," he mutters, but I catch the twitch of his cheek when his eyes meet mine. When his hot breath hits my cheek, I can faintly smell the liquor he's been sipping on since we got here. It's the same glass I've been sneaking sips from when no one was looking since I forgot to bring my fake ID.
I've always been a year younger than everyone else in my friend group since the private school I went to in Florida allowed kindergarten students to start a year earlier than the public schools around us. I was a year behind my friends in everything—getting my period, my permit, my license, and now, buying a drink legally is just another thing to add to that list.
"I like them," I admit. "They're fun and relaxed, and not at all what I thought a group of pre-law students would be like." I smile as I run my hand over the smooth material on his shoulder.
Dean is a boyish kind of handsome. He has wispy blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and a barely-there southern accent that has me intrigued by every word, just waiting to see if the slight twang will show itself when he's not paying attention to it.
And now, as his hands tighten on my waist and his movements become a little more confident, I try to keep my mind focused on how the twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling are casting a pretty glow on his face, and not the fact that every time I close my eyes, I can't help but picture Tristan here with me instead.
He tightens his hold on me a little more, and I glance away, letting my eyes scan the room. The decorations are completely different from when I was here for the formal. Rather than the slightly cheesy under-the-stars theme, Carson Hall is now beautifully adorned with white linen accents and hundreds of flickering candles strewn on nearly every available surface.
"You know, I've always hated coming to these things," he says, pulling my attention back to him as his eyes scan the crowd. When they land on the older couple dancing next to us, he smiles. "But somehow, you've managed to make this one of the best nights I've had in a while." His eyes drift back to mine, and I don't try to hide my smile.
"Even better than our night of bowling, beer, and cheese fries?" I tease, raising a brow.
"The cheese fries were good." He nods. "But I have to say, the highlight of that night for me was your victory dance. How many pins did it take for you to break out into dance? Three?" he teases, tightening his hold on me as the song changes into something a little livelier.
"Four," I correct. "I dance at four pins, thank you very much."
"If that's all it takes to get you to pull out the finger guns, I'm going to have to take you again soon."
