A boy had asked to meet her behind the school to show her something, and she’d figured he wanted a kiss and, well, she’d been curious, too. But instead he showed her some kind of weird insect, and she got the feeling he’d been planning to kiss her but chickened out, and she hadn’t been sure how she felt about that. Relieved? Disappointed?
Thathadbeen Mason.
Before she could comment, he was leading her behind the high school. Out front, the great divide was taking place, students splitting into dual streams—the “haves” heading for the parking lot and the “have-nots” for the buses.
Gemma had a hand-me-down car from Grandpa Thomas, but she never drove it to school, because if she did, she’d be expected to stuff it full of friends, and it’d end up being a longer drive than busing. So she pretended her parents wouldn’t let her take her car. The monsters.
Gemma’s family was what Dad called “comfortably middle-class” meaning they had a three-bedroom house with a yard and enough money to insure that hand-me-down car for Gemma. Mason did not have a car. His family lived in an apartment, and any extra money went to a private hockey coach, which Gemma thoughtproved how much his parents must love him… until Mason said his dad called those lessons his retirement plan. Mason was their great hope, their only child, expected to do amazing things and repay their investment.
While Mason might not have a car, that didn’t mean he took the bus like a commoner. Kids vied to chauffeur him, even if it meant arriving early for his practices or staying late for his games. Being Mason Moretti meant you rose above categories like “have” and “have-not” or even “popular” and “unpopular.” Mason existed in a stratosphere of his own, which was always hard to reconcile at moments like this, following him as he loped along the back of the school.
Mason found what he was looking for—a recessed pair of steel doors that provided extra privacy. There he pulled a folded white sheet from his pocket and held it out, grinning like a little kid passing her a secret note.
She unfolded it, and then she was grinning, too. “You got a B plus in English? That’s amazing.”
“I have a B plus goingintothe exam, but I think I can hold it at a B. And it’s not even inflated for the newspaper work. I actually earned this.” He waved the paper. “My last essay was an A minus and the one before that was a B plus. Thanks to you.”
“I only coached you. I didn’t write them.”
“Which makes it even better, right? My first B in English.”
He grinned, and it was his real grin, so bright she couldn’t look away. She wanted to hug him. He’d worked damn hard for that grade, and he hadn’t needed to. He’d been promised a passing grade for his work at the newspaper. But he’d gone further, and now he was grinning like he’d scored the Stanley Cup winning goal, and she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and—
Mason kissed her. It happened so fast she wasn’t quite surehowit happened. It was just a quick kiss, a little awkward from his having to bend over so far, and when he pulled back, his cheeks flamed and he mumbled what sounded like an apology.
“Was that a thank-you kiss?” she said.
His cheeks burned even brighter. “No, no. I just… I…” Another kind of grin sparked, this one a little bit devilish. “I wanted to do that. Been wanting to do it for a long time.”
She reached up, taking hold of the front of his shirt in both hands. “And isthatwhat you had in mind? It was very… quick. Not that I’m stamina-shaming.”
He let out a whoosh of a laugh. “Oh, I can go longer than that.”
“Can you?”
His eyes danced. “Are you calling me out, Gemma Stanton? If you want a longer kiss, you could just ask.”
She pulled herself up on her tiptoes, hands wrapping more in his shirt. “Could I?”
He nodded mutely, a strange expression in his eyes.
“Hmm. Okay.” She let go of his shirt. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
There was a split-second pause, as if he really thought she was going to walk away. Then he caught her grin and grabbed her, and the next thing she knew, she was clear off her feet, her back against the wall, his hands on her ass boosting her as he kissed her, and holyshit, the boy could kiss.
Her first thought wasDamn you, Mason.
She would admit she’d been curious about what it’d be like to kiss him. If she was being perfectly honest, she’d hoped to bedisappointed. That would mean she’d never have traitorous thoughts about his lips and hands on her again.
Instead, it was like touching a flame just to see what it felt like, and being engulfed in an inferno of “holyshit!” Which is not what she wanted, and at the same time, it was exactly what she wanted. His lips on hers, his tongue tasting hers, the heat and fire of him devouring her. His hands on her ass, fingers digging in, but staying there, making no move to do anything else or go anywhere else and—
“Mace!”
Gemma pulled back as the voice echoed around them. Then another called, “Yo! Mace! Game time!”
“Ignore them,” Mason whispered as his mouth found hers again.
“Mason!” someone shouted. “I saw you come back here!”
