When I turned back to Gray, his eyes gleamed with amusement. I was hyperaware of the mass exodus of Sacred Heart, the urgent rush of girls on their way home and the passing seconds of silence between us. I missed Maddie and her quick quips already. Why was I just standing there? Mute?

Gray’s smooth voice broke the silence.

“So, Wren. Do you have to go home?”


Grayson opened the passenger door for me and I slid in, picking up the book on the front seat. Plato’s The Republic. I fanned through the pages. There were highlights and ink scrawls in the margins of the first half.

“Light reading?” I asked, handing it to him as he got in.

He tucked the book into the front pocket of his backpack then hoisted it to the backseat. “For a class.”

“Really? Where?” I asked. Could he possibly be a college guy?

“Saint Gabe’s.”

Grayson wore faded denim jeans and a well-fitted white Henley tee under his jacket that I caught myself admiring for too long—not the usual St. Gabe’s khaki-and-button-down uniform.

“Well, the class is at Saint Gabe’s,” he continued as the engine grumbled to life. “I go to Bergen Point. They don’t offer philosophy.”

The car was immaculate—no wrappers or soda cans. He even had a Yankee Candle air freshener, Home Sweet Home, dangling from the rearview mirror. I spun it gently with my index finger.

“Let me guess: Mom?” I asked, smiling.

“Nope. All me. Can’t a guy have a good-smelling car?”

“Sure, why not?” I didn’t have much experience with guys and cars, but my brother, Josh’s, could probably be condemned it was so gross, and Trev’s . . . ugh, why was I even thinking of him?

He pulled out of the spot, driving slowly until we hit the first red light about a block away. I’d forgotten to roll my skirt after school and it sat at dweeb length, an inch above my knee. I crossed my legs, hoping to subtly show a little more skin. Grayson noticed.

“So what were you saying—you go to Bergen Point but take a class at Saint Gabe’s? I didn’t know you could do that,” I said, thoroughly enjoying snagging him.

He flustered, ran a hand through his hair. “Um, oh, philosophy . . . yeah, you can’t. I was supposed to take the class this year. Figured I’d just go through it on my own.”

“So you were at Saint Gabe’s?”

Yep, up until my junior year.”

“Maybe you know my brother. Josh Caswell? He graduated last year.”

He nodded. “Everyone sort of knows everyone at Saint Gabe’s, right?”

“Why’d you leave?” I asked.

The light changed to green, but he hesitated, gripping the wheel, until an insistent beep from behind got his attention.

“They kind of asked me to leave. Listen, why don’t we go somewhere? It’s not the kind of thing I want to talk about while I’m driving. I can’t see your face,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance that made me bite my lower lip.

“Okay,” I said, trying to calm the hormonal rush that had just surged through my body.

“How about that coffee? We could grab one and hit the park. It’s warmish. Any place you like?”

“Starbucks at South Cove?”

He grunted.

“I don’t do pretty coffee. I know this hole-in-the-wall deli with the best French roast around. You’ll love it.”

“Sounds good,” I lied. Coffee—pretty, French roast, or otherwise—tasted like battery acid to me, but I didn’t feel like mentioning it. Especially after he told me about leaving St. Gabe’s. Awkward. I wasn’t sure if the torqued-up feeling in my gut was attraction or a warning sign. I just knew I didn’t want to go home yet.

A tinny-sounding bell announced our entrance as we walked into the deli. The guy behind the counter beamed at Grayson.

“My man, where’ve you been?”

“Spiro, how’s it hanging?” Grayson answered, walking behind the counter to pour our coffees. Spiro clapped Grayson on the back, gave me a once-over, and whispered something to him. They both chuckled. Heat nibbled my earlobes. I waited, expecting some sort of introduction, but Gray handed me the to-go cup.

“Cream and sugar’s over there if you need it,” he said, turning back to Spiro. I added enough cream and sugar to my coffee to make it taste like Häagen-Dazs and tried to catch what I could of their hushed convo. . . . Tough break . . . brinker . . . a friend. Grayson joined me at the counter to put a lid on his coffee. When I reached into my bag for some cash, he stopped me.

“Wren, please, a coffee for a life. It’s the least I can do,” he said, pulling out a few bills from his pocket.

“Thanks,” I murmured, concentrating on clipping my messenger bag closed. My brain completely fogged over with the way his voice wrapped around my name. I stuffed the feeling down. Whether he was hot or not, I still had no clue what he wanted from me.

“So what should I tell Lenny if he asks for you again?” Spiro asked, handing Grayson the change. Gray shoved it in his pocket and ushered me toward the door. The bell jangled as he held it open for me.

“Tell him I’m out of the game,” he said, the door closing behind us. When our eyes met, Grayson simply said, “Business.”

Out of the game? Business? What sort of business could he possibly have at a deli?


By the time we reached the park, the sun was already setting, casting an orange glow across the horizon. Gray found a spot by the boat pond, and we shuffled through fallen leaves to a vacant bench. Two squirrels quarreled noisily and chased each other up a tree. After their chattering died down, the park was silent except for the occasional footfall of passing joggers.

“So how did you know where to find me?” I asked, determined to keep my thoughts straight.

“I have my ways,” he said low, raising his eyebrows a bit. My expression must have showed the ripple of uneasiness I felt, because he laughed.

“That sounded creepy, sorry. Your mom gave us her card. That’s how I got your last name. I asked around. Not exactly differential calculus,” he said, leaning back and slinging his elbow over the top of the bench so he was partially facing me. I huddled my hands around my coffee cup, letting the steam tickle my nose, wanting to know why he was “asked to leave” St. Gabe’s but not sure how to bring it up casually.

“You’re too polite. Don’t you want to know why I got kicked out of school?” he asked.

“I guess,” I said, surprised he’d read my thoughts. “Wasn’t sure if it was too personal a question.”

“Wren, you’ve already had your arms around me from behind. I think we’re past the ‘too personal’ stuff.”

“Ha, good point,” I said, burning up at the thought of how intimately I’d already touched him. I blew on the rim of my cup, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, then why’d you get kicked out?”

He closed one eye, wrestling with the best place to start his story, then took a deep breath and said, “I was a term-paper pimp.”

I coughed, nearly choking on the coffee. “Pimp?”

He smirked at my reaction. “No, seriously. I was a middleman. Matched people up with the right guys—I had specialists in chemistry, history, creative writing; some at Saint Gabe’s, some elsewhere. Some I did myself. I got sloppy. Someone tipped the principal off. A guy handed in a term paper that was too good. They threatened him with expulsion and nabbed me.”

“Didn’t anyone else get in trouble?”

“A few of my customers got suspended, but I didn’t rat out my suppliers. I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “That’s why they really kicked me out—because I wouldn’t rat.”

I didn’t know what to say. Here I was, afraid to be even one second late for school, and he was so willing to admit—to brag, even—about his total disregard for what anybody with a shred of conscience would know was just . . . wrong. He studied me, waiting for more of a response. He didn’t seem embarrassed or regretful at all.

“Didn’t you worry you’d get caught?” I asked.

“At the time I didn’t really think about it. I had a lot going on.”

A lot going on, like what? I wanted to ask, but did I really want to know? Maybe I would have felt differently about our chat if I hadn’t been obsessing about my own crappy school record lately. The unfairness of it all bothered me.

“But . . . you knew it was wrong.”

“Wrong is such a subjective term, don’t you think?”

I tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “No. Pretty black-and-white.”

“It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but . . . think of it like this—in the real world, people outsource all the time. Some of my customers had jobs on top of their school workload. There was a demand; I filled it. Simple. Econ 101. At least that’s how I defended myself. They didn’t quite buy it, hence getting the boot.”

Grayson’s argument was so convincing, I was almost swayed.

“Well, it is different than outsourcing,” I said.

“Wren, Saint Gabe’s is a wild place. There are guys whose parents make more money than we’ll see in our collective lifetimes, and then there are guys on scholarships whose families are barely scraping by. The ones who can’t buy their way into college? Good grades are the strongest weapon they have. They needed a business like mine. I felt like I was helping people.”

“I guess it’s just something I would never do. I’ve waited until the last minute to write term papers, but no matter how shitty, at least they were mine.”

“Wow, you’re such a Girl Scout.”

He’d turned into the hot-dog-tossing tool again . . . or maybe he always was and his quirky car and inviting smile duped me into dropping my guard. I wasn’t that far from home; I could walk. I stood up and tossed my coffee into a nearby trash can.