Love Story by Jennifer Echols

Author:Jennifer Echols
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon and Schuster Audio
Published: 2011-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

AS I’D PREDICTED, AFTER THE RACES the fraternity boys were too drunk to drive. They celebrated their victory with another beer apiece while the losing bettors milled out of the stands. They downed more shots of bourbon back in the limo. Hunter slipped effortlessly into the driver’s seat. The boisterous boys piled into the back. With Manohar and Summer inseparable, that left me in the front beside Hunter.

“Where are you going?” I asked as he passed the entrance for the Cross Island Parkway.

“The bay,” he said. “A little seafood joint I’ve missed.” He glanced over at me. “My treat.”

He must have guessed what I was thinking: dinner out was not in my budget. But I’d be damned if I’d accept it from him, after that business about plagiarizing his life. “No thanks,” I said. “I don’t need your charity, or my grandmother’s, either.”

Shouts of laughter came through the window from the backseat. “The guys owe you dinner out of their nine thousand dollars,” Hunter said.

“Maybe, but they’re too drunk to realize it.”

“Well, you’re not sitting in the limo while we go in and eat.” His voice grew tight. “Somebody will buy your dinner and you will eat it, or I will tell Gabe I am the stable boy.”

I huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve just solved this problem with Manohar. I’ve paid my dues. You can’t hold the stable boy over my head and make me do anything you want.”

He pulled the limo to a stop at a light. “Yes, I can.”

We eyed each other for a few heartbeats. I glared angrily at him. I was mad at him for manipulating me, and madder at myself for letting him see I was angry. He half-smiled back at me, eyebrows raised in question. Then he glanced at his Rolex, a gesture strategically planned to look casual. I knew it was staged and the message was clear: I have your grandmother’s credit card, and you don’t.

Then he cocked his head to one side. The smile fell away, and he lowered his voice to an offended growl. “It’s only dinner.” Horns honked behind us, but he held my gaze for a few more seconds before pulling the limo forward. Then he asked, “How much weight have you lost since you’ve been here? The freshman fifteen refers to gaining fifteen pounds, not losing it.”

Normally Hunter was the politest person I knew—on the surface, anyway. He’d only made this rude comment about my weight because he was already angry with himself for rudely forcing me to go to dinner. I waited for him to hear himself and feel even guiltier. My most effective response to Hunter was to say nothing at all—if I could stand it. He expected a retort from me. He didn’t expect silence.

“You look great,” he said quickly. “You always look great. I just mean …” His voice trailed off.

I watched him from under the brim of my hat.

He scowled at the road, swinging the limo into as tight a turn as he could manage at an intersection crowded with restaurants and hungry Long Islanders.

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