His Wicked Christmas Wager. Annie Burrows
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trouble as it is.
She recovered quickly and snatched her hand away. I made myself smile, polite but reserved, then asked if she was okay. Her response sounded as forced as my politeness, like she was trying to cover that hint of raw passion.
Why was she hiding it? I wondered.
I wanted to know.
Damn.
I felt a nearly unfamiliar pull on my heart, and tried to think of something to say to make her stay.
She shook her head at me, then walked away stiffly. I watched her go, mesmerized by the smooth, curved line of her backside as she moved. She was quick, and in a second she was gone.
She’s going to get away. I jumped to my feet.
I jogged to the end of the corridor and shoved open the door. The hall on the other side split in two and I didn’t know which way she’d gone, or even if she’d taken the stairs or the elevator. Feeling desperate, I pushed aside a potted plant and pressed my face against the window.
I peered outside. My heart lifted when I caught a flash of red moving across the commons, but when I blinked, the flash was gone.
Damn, I thought again, followed by another, far less pleasant mental exclamation.
I made my way back into the hall full of bedroom doors, an unusual sense of loss hanging over me.
Feelings, too closely linked to my past, struggled to find their way to the surface of my mind. Why now? What was it about the seconds-long encounter with the redhead that had brought them out? I ran my fingers through my hair, a dangerous recklessness coursing through my veins.
I tried to shove it down.
She was just a girl. A pretty, sexy, damned-near-perfect-to-look-at girl, but just a girl nonetheless.
I immediately wondered where she was going, and if she was meeting someone. I wondered what kind of guy got a girl like that to pay attention to him. I was envious of him, whoever he might be.
You’re being ridiculous. You’re getting jealous over the fictional boyfriend of some girl you’ve never met.
I felt angry at myself and at the girl. I knew that I had to find her, even if it was just to prove I was wrong about what I was feeling, or maybe about the fact that I was feeling.
With a sigh, I strode to the door that belonged to the girl who had booted me out the night before. I knocked, then waited. After a few seconds with no answer, I knocked again, more loudly.
“What time is it?” muttered a feminine voice from behind the door.
“Early,” replied another.
I tapped a third time, attempting to make it sound worth answering. I heard some shuffling, and the door squeaked open a few inches. A tired blue eye peeked out at me.
“Hi,” I greeted with a smile.
The girl opened the door a little further and eyed me curiously from behind a mess of blonde hair. I didn’t recognize her, but I continued to smile anyway.
“Hi,” she said back hesitantly.
The door swung open all the way, and a tall brunette stepped into view. She glared at me. Her angry expression was familiar enough, but aside from that, I didn’t recognize her any more than I did the blonde. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d forgotten a face, either.
“This is a girls’-only dorm,” the brunette snapped. “What do you want?”
“Probably to talk to me,” said a voice from across the hall.
I spun around, relieved to finally see a girl who I did recognize.
“Morning, Patty,” I said.
“It’s Peggy,” she corrected.
“Easy mistake?” I offered.
She tossed my keys at me, and I grabbed them out of the air before they could hit my already aching head. Peggy slammed the door.
I turned back to the other girls. “I don’t suppose you want to help me?”
The brunette rolled her eyes, but the blonde hesitated. I turned on my best smile, and the girl’s mouth went up tentatively at the corners, too.
“With what?” she wanted to know.
“Just some information. Do you know a redhead who lives in this dorm?”
“There are three of them,” called the brunette.
The blonde shrugged apologetically. “She’s grumpy, but she’s right. You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
“She’s…” I paused.
I’d been going to say she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, but that probably wasn’t the best way of getting another girl to help me find out who she was. Even if it was true.
“She’s what?” the blonde prodded.
“Short,” I replied lamely. “She was wearing mismatched shoes. She had an army-green backpack.”
“He means the hippie!” the roommate yelled.
The blonde frowned. “Seriously? That’s who you’re looking for? Why?”
The brunette was back at the door, scrutinizing my appearance. I looked down at my white T-shirt and sports shorts. Judging from the brunette’s face, my clothes definitely fell short of whatever her expectations were. It wasn’t my finest look, but I didn’t think it was that bad.
“I doubt you’re her type,” she told me. “She’s probably into guys who hug trees and wear hemp pants.”
“So you know her well?” I asked.
“No,” both the girls said at once.
“I don’t think she even talks to anyone else in the dorm,” the blonde informed me.
“Unless she’s crusading for a cause,” the brunette added.
My shoulders dropped. The blonde put her hand on my arm sympathetically, and her roommate quickly swatted it away with a warning glare before she slammed the door shut.
This is a hint. I turned to walk away. It’s the universe’s way of reminding you that you’re not right for a girl like that.
* * *
As I made my way out of the dorm, my spirits dipped even lower. For the first time in ages, I had actually felt motivated to do something for myself rather than for my dad’s prearranged schedule.
Something besides throwing a Joey pity party, you mean.
For once, I hadn’t been focused on the past and all the pain that I associated with my memories. Not being able to accomplish the goal—not finding out who the redhead was—brought the sick feeling back with a vengeance.
On most of my days off, I spent the morning thinking of how everything had started on the sixth. I woke up with the familiar guilt and dread in my chest. It hung on for the day, and I saw her face in my mind. Then my own voice, hurling angry accusations at her. I pictured her, not ever denying what I said, grabbing her scarf and hat and storming out of the house. Even if I could brush those things off, I would remember the sound of the sirens, and the smell of lilies, and the sight of the pale faces.
Sometimes the day would go better than others. I might reach the point of emotional hangover by noon, if I could get through the rest of the day unscathed.
I had a feeling today was going to a bad one, though. I thought it might even carry over to Saturday. I doubted I could force my way through, drinks or no drinks, girls or no girls.