“Yeah, just opened it a few minutes ago.”

“Is this a different type of ‘Harvard’ or something? Why don’t you seem excited?”

“The same reason you’re not excited about ESPN calling you the ‘number one high school quarterback’ in the country.”

“Noted.” He sets the letter down. “I was looking forward to tutoring today, you know.”

“Why? We’re on break, and you have an A. Actually, you have an A-plus, a higher grade than me.”

“She only gave me the extra plus because the team is still undefeated.” He looks around the room. “Where is your canvas and paint?”

“In my room.”

“And where is that?”

“Somewhere you’re not invited to be.”

He smiles. “I was going to offer to bring it to my car. I want you to come to my house.”

“What?”

“Oh, right,” he says. “You need me to ask you, so you can pretend that you’re not interested.” He clears his throat. “Will you come with me to my house, Mia Gray? My dad’s gone for the day and I really need some good company.”

“I’m not having sex with you.” I blurt out and immediately blush. I didn’t intend to say that aloud.

“Who said anything about sex?” He smirks.

“No one. No one said anything about sex.”

“Hmmm.” He steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You think I want to have sex with you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

He smiles. “You should, actually...Because I do.” He trails his finger against my lips. “But I would never push you into that, and that’s not why I want you to come over.”

He’s saying more words, but my brain stopped working the moment he said, “Because I do” and I haven’t been able to focus on anything that came out after that.

By the time I come to my senses, he’s walking upstairs searching for my room. I stand still, watching as he comes back with my canvas and takes it to the car.

When he returns, he heads toward the steps again. “Where’s all your paint?”

“Green box. Under my bed.”

“Okay.” He goes upstairs to get it and slips his arm around my waist when he returns. He walks me out to his car and as usual, acts like the perfect gentleman.

“Where are your football friends?” I finally manage to get words out of my mouth when we’re down the street.

“They all went to Michael Easton’s place. He’s having a huge party today.”

“Why didn’t you want to go?”

“You know why I didn’t want to go.” He looks over at me—grinning, and I swear to God he has me right then and there.

I send a quick text to my mom—Out with Dean. I don’t have to read her immediate response to know that she doesn’t mind, that she’s probably more excited than I am.

As Dean drives way past the last subdivision on Main Street, I look over at him. “I thought you said we were going to your house? You told me you only lived ten minutes away from me.”

“I do,” he says. “Ten minutes plus thirty.”

“What?” I sit there in shock. If that’s the case, it means that all those times he’s taken me home and picked me up from school, have been way out of his route. “Why would you lie about that?”

“Because I knew if I told you the truth, you’d make it ten times more difficult than it needed to be.” His hand clasps mine behind the gearshift. “Besides, I was willing to work however hard and do whatever it took to get you.”

I take back what I said earlier. He has me right here. Right here.

He turns up the radio and we let our conversation go silent until we make it to a colossal black gate that stretches for blocks.

He pulls out a key-card and holds it against a small, metal machine and the gate slowly opens—exposing me to a world of grand, immaculate houses and freshly manicured lawns.

Driving past a golf course, a lake, and what appears to be the makings of a small ice skating rink, he pulls into the driveway of a blond-bricked house that’s three stories tall.

I stare at the house in awe. It’s literally five times bigger than my own house, and I’m pretty sure my bedroom could fit inside one of the windows. I’m still staring at it when he opens my door and walks me inside.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, when we step into the massive, all-white kitchen.

“A little. You know how to cook?”

“I do, but I was referring to the microwave.” He takes out a few containers of Tupperware from the fridge. “I made Spaghetti earlier. Would you like some?”

I nod, taking a seat on a barstool.

“Do you want to paint downstairs or in my room?”

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll paint downstairs.”

He laughs, sliding me a plate of food. “I meant what I said, Mia. I’m not going to come onto you while you’re here.

“And I’m just going to make sure it’s next to impossible for you to do.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be right back.” He disappears for a few minutes and returns with my canvas and my paint. He sets it up in the living room and opens all the blinds. “Is this going to be enough light for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He gives me a quick kiss, and leaves the room once more. This time he returns with an acoustic guitar and looks at me, softly saying, “Thank you for coming over.” Then he sits on the couch and holds his pic against the strings, strumming the first few notes of one of my favorite songs.

I put away my plate and step in front of my canvas, using his melodies and inspiration to paint as he plays.

For hours, we exist in our own artistic worlds, not speaking to each other, even though we’re steps away. I even manage to start a new sketch as the first draft of my panting dries, all without talking to him or looking his way.

After he’s played through all the songs from the album of one of our shared bands, I set down my pencil and walk over to the couch, sitting right next to him.

His fingers stop strumming and the music comes to an abrupt end. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you keep surprising me,” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you’re short-selling your reputation and talents at school. Maybe if you kept your shirt on more and kept your abs to yourself, I would’ve taken you a lot more seriously before.”

He smiles at that.

“You’re now making better grades than me, and you also play the guitar really well. Why aren’t you in Jazz band? They win awards all the time.”

“A football player in the Jazz band. Yeah, okay. I can think of about twenty reasons why that won’t be happening senior year.”

“You care about what people think? Why?”

“No, and at the moment, I only care about what one particular person thinks.”

“Which person?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. At that moment, his dad walks through the front door.

The spitting image of Dean, his salt and pepper colored hair shows under the bright lighting, and he presses his lips into a firm line. He slowly looks between the two of us and throws his keys onto the counter.

“I thought you were going to Michael Easton’s party, Dean,” he says.

“I changed my mind.”

His dad crosses his arms, and the mood in the room begins to shift immediately. There’s now a palpable tension in the air, a tension so thick, I feel like I could cut it with a knife.

“The whole team and coaching staff are there right now discussing the upcoming game.” He glares at Dean. “And four hours ago, did you not call and tell me that you were on your way there?”

“Did you catch the part where I said, I. Changed. My. Mind?”

“So, you lied to me?”

“I didn’t lie.” Dean sets his guitar down and I can feel anger radiating off of him. “I just didn’t update you.”

“You’re starting to get worse and worse about that.” His father clenches his jaw. “You’re still a fucking teenager living under my fucking roof, and you still have to follow my goddamn rules, whether you like it or not.”