He laughs. “Nah, it belongs to my aunt and uncle. My folks have a place down on Marco Island, but since I’m doing the marine bio thing, I’m crashing here. I’m Kent, by the way.”
“I’m Claire.”
“Where’s your drink, Clara?” he asks. I don’t bother correcting him. I have no plans to become besties with Kent, so I really don’t care if he knows my name or not.
“I don’t drink from plastic cups at parties given to me by people I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m exactly as smart as I look.”
He laughs, but I’m not joking.
“Okay, okay,” he says, still chuckling as he holds his hands up. “Come into the kitchen. You can pour your owndrink. We might even have individual bottles. Is that good news or is it bad for the environment?”
I roll my eyes. “Depends on the bottle.”
Kent looks at me like he’s not sure what to make of me, but since I get those kinds of looks a lot, it barely registers.
The kitchen is every bit as high-end as the rest of the house. It’s all white marble and stainless steel. It’s cleaner than I expect it to be, but then again, there’s probably a cleaning service that comes by daily. Or hell, maybe there’s a live-in maid.
Kent opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer like it’s a trophy and sets it on the pristine counter.
“Here, I can?—”
Kent doesn’t need to finish his sentence. I’ve already opened my beer using the handy-dandy little beer-top thingy on the side of the island.
“A woman who can take care of her own needs,” he says, nodding his head. “I like that.”
I have the distinct feeling he doesn’t actually like that at all, but he’s not wrong. I can take care of all my own needs. Or at least, I could, until this afternoon. Until Pete Fucking Santos.
So, Clara,” he says, drawing out the name he thinks is mine and letting his eyes roam slowly over my body. My cut-off shorts and navy tank don’t scream seduction, but that’s not stopping Kent from going for the pitch. “What’s your major?”
I want to say Women’s Studies so bad just to see his reaction, but the truth flies off my tongue before I can stop it. “Journalism, with a minor in photography.”
His smile reveals gleaming white teeth. His orthodontist should be pleased. It doesn’t measure up to a certain person’s smile, but that’s not important right now.
“That’s really cool. Have you read our school’s paper? There’s actually some good stuff in it.”
He’s leaning against the counter now, and I suspect that he’s going for cool and casual. His broad chest fills out his fitted white tee-shirt. He’s not overly muscled, but it’s clear he knows his way around the gym. I wonder if insulting a girl’s major usually works as a pick-up line. I mean, really. Did he think that conceding thatThe Howlermanages to crank out some “good stuff” was going to have me swooning? And if I’m majoring in Journalism, isn’t it pretty much a given that I’ve read our school’s newspaper?
He mistakes my silence for an invitation to keep talking. “I actually have a buddy who works at the paper. He’s a junior like I am. His name’s Mitch Silvis. I can put in a good word for you.”
Puzzle pieces are falling into place. Mitch the Bitch Silvis is by far the most annoying junior staffer. And since he writes editorials, he’s in my section and under my supervision. It’s on the tip of my tongue to put Kent in his place and tell him Bitchy Mitchy is the reason I sometimes hate my job, but my mind is quick enough to stop my mouth this time. One of the things that writing for a newspaper has taught me is the value of staying quiet. I’ve found that the less I say, the more people talk.
“When we get back to campus, I could take you over to the newspaper office and introduce you to Mitch. Just a thought.”
“I would love that,” I answer, because good lord, is it the truth.
“I’m a Finance major. I’ll probably get an internship with my uncle’s firm this summer. It’s in Manhattan.”
“The uncle who collects dick sculptures?” I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“My aunt’s the art collector, but yeah. Have you ever been to New York City?”
“I went on a school trip to see the Statue of Liberty once,” I say, the half-truth rolling off my tongue. I really did take a trip to Staten Island in seventh grade. Granted, it only took an hour from my house in White Plains to get there, but Kent never asked where I’m from.
Kent starts droning on about all the places in the city he’d love to take me to, half of which are total tourist traps, so I zone out for a minute, absently running my fingers across the cool marble of the kitchen island.
“It’s nice, huh?” he asks, smoothing his palm over the surface I just touched. “My folks’ place is even nicer. It’s a little more modern than this place.”
“You’re not exactly slumming it here, Kent,” I joke. “How are you allowed to stay here, anyway? I thought all the marine bio students had to stay in the dorms at the academy.”
