“Hi, Daddy!” Reagan squeals, leaping into his arms.
He lifts her off the ground, chuckling as she places a kiss on his cheek. “There’s my baby girl.”
I slide into Connor’s outstretched arm for a hug as I watch Reagan and her dad, a twinge of envy sparking in my chest.
“You look beautiful,” Connor murmurs, placing a chaste kiss on my lips.
“Thank you. You look great too.” And he does. He’s always dressed well, but now he’s wearing dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt. As he smiles at me with that dimpled grin, air slowly leaves my chest in relief. I’m noticing I’m more relaxed when Connor is around. He just has an air about him. Easy, calm, supportive.
This is right.
“How was the hospital today?”
I tilt my head side to side as if I’m undecided. “Good. Hard but good.”
He gives my forearm a light squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine. You’ll do great.”
I force a smile as I turn back to Reagan and her father, glad that someone has confidence in me.
“How has your first month been? Nothing too wild, I hope?” Reagan’s dad asks her.
“Nope, my roommate keeps me in check.” Reagan turns to point to me. “This is Livie Cleary, Daddy.”
The man turns to regard me with kind blue eyes. He offers his hand. “Hello, Livie. I’m Robert.”
“Hi, sir . . .Robert. I’m Livie Cleary.” I fumble over my words. A nervous giggle escapes and I shake my head. “Sorry, Reagan just told you that.”
Robert chuckles. I see his eyes shift to a focal point behind me. “Oh, thank you,” he says, reaching to accept a drink.
A tall, dark figure appears to take a spot next to Robert. One with impossibly long eyelashes and piercing brown eyes that make my heart stutter. “You’re welcome,” he says politely.
Ashton is always gorgeous, even in the most basic of clothes. But tonight he has clearly respected Coach’s dress code. His hair is styled in a way that looks neat and tidy while still sexy. Instead of jeans and sneakers, he’s wearing black tailored pants and dress shoes. Instead of a threadbare T-shirt, he’s in a midnight-blue shirt, perfectly fitted and pressed. Watching him take a sip of his drink, I see the worn leather band peeking through. That’s the only thing that resembles the Ashton I’ve known up until now. He looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ magazine.
And I don’t know if it’s because of this transformation or because I’ve finally accepted that I’m attracted to Ashton, but the discomfort that I’ve always felt around him is beginning to fade—or morph—into something entirely different and not at all unpleasant. Although still completely distracting.
Robert’s jovial voice interrupts my thoughts. “I can feel it, boys. We’ve got a winning team this year.” He slaps a large hand over his captain’s shoulder.
Ashton responds with a genuine smile, full of respect. One I’ve never seen on him before.
Turning to me, Robert says, “So, Livie, you’re one of Princeton’s newest crop along with my daughter.”
My eyes meet Ashton’s before I manage to turn and focus on Robert and it makes my heart jump. “Yes, sir,” I say, clearing my voice.
“And how are you liking it so far?” His gaze shifts to my waist. And that’s when I remember that Connor is standing with his arm loosely around me. “None of these scoundrels bothering you, I hope?”
I smile shyly at Connor, who gives me a sly grin back. “No scoundrels,” I reply, sipping the last of my drink. How did I finish it that fast? Before I can stop myself, my eyes flicker to Ashton to see his focus settled on my chest. I instinctively cross my arms, earning a wide grin from him as he brings his glass to his lips. Maybe one scoundrel.
“Good. They’re fine young men,” Robert says with an affirming nod. Then we hear a holler as Ty stalks around back in his kilt, and Robert adds, “Maybe a bit wild at times, but then what college kid isn’t. Right, Grant?”
I swear, either Grant has empty-drink radar or he’s watching us like a hawk, because he suddenly appears from behind to hand Reagan and me fresh Jack and Cokes. “Right, Coach.”
“No alcohol in that drink, right, Cleaver?” Robert’s full eyebrow is halfway up his forehead with the question.
“Not a drop,” Grant says, his goofy grin replaced with a mask of sincerity.
“Of course not, Daddy,” Reagan echoes sweetly.
Robert looks down at his doting daughter, who can pull off the innocent, virginal schoolgirl act better than any real one I’ve ever met. Better than . . . well, me, I guess. I can’t tell if he believes her. All he’d have to do is lean in and sniff her drink to know that it’s more booze than mixer. But he doesn’t press it. “So what will you be majoring in, Livie?”
“Molecular biology.”
By the way his eyebrows spike, I can tell he looks impressed.
“Livie’s going into pediatrics,” Connor chirps proudly.
“Good for you. And what made you choose Princeton?”
“My father went here.” The answer rolls off my tongue with ease. It’s as good an answer as any. In truth, I could easily have gone to Harvard, or Yale. I had acceptance letters from all of them, given my school counselors made me apply. But there was never any debate over which one I’d choose.
Robert nods as if expecting that answer. I guess he hears that a lot. It’s not uncommon for several generations to attend Princeton. His brow creases as he ponders this. “What year?”
“1982.”
“Huh . . . I was ’81.” His hand moves to scratch his beard as if he’s deep in thought. “What did you say your last name was again?”
“Cleary.”
“Cleary . . . Cleary . . .” Robert repeats over and over as he rubs his beard with his fingers, and I can tell he’s racking his brain. I take another long sip of my drink as I watch. There’s no way he knows my dad, but I like that he’s trying.
“Miles Cleary?”
I choke on a mouthful of liquid and my eyes widen in surprise.
Robert seems proud of himself. “Well, how about that!”
“Seriously? You knew him? I mean—” I try to temper my excitement.
“Yes.” He nods slowly, as if memories are quickly filling his brain. “Yes, I did. We were both Tiger Inn members. Went to a lot of the same parties. Irish fellow, right?”
I feel my head bobbing up and down.
“Friendly, easygoing.” He chuckles lightly, and I see a hint of something like chagrin pass over his weathered face. “We dated the same girl for a short period of time.” Another chuckle, and his creased cheeks flush with whatever memory that brought up. One that I’m sure I don’t want to hear about. “Then he met that gorgeous dark-haired gal and we didn’t see much of him anymore.” His eyes narrow just a touch as he peers at my face, studying my features. “Looking at you, I’d say he married her. You look like her.”
I smile and nod, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment.
“That is so cool, Livie!” Reagan squeals, her eyes wide with excitement. “We should have them over next time they’re in town!”
Robert is already nodding in agreement with his daughter. “Yes, I’d love to reconnect with Miles.”
“Umm . . .” Just like that, my brief balloon of excitement is deflated by reality. Yes, it would have been great to see my dad and Robert together. To have my parents over here. To watch my dad’s easy laugh. But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I feel Connor’s arm squeeze me, pulling me tightly to him. He’s the only one who knows. Now everyone will know. “Actually, he and my mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”
There’s a standard “face” for that news when you deliver it. Shock, followed by some paling of the skin, followed by a lifted brow. Usually a single, small nod. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Robert’s
face follows precedent to a T, with an additional why-didn’t-you-know-that-about-your-roommate glare in his daughter’s direction. It’s not her fault, though. I never told her. I didn’t avoid telling her; it just didn’t come up in conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that, Livie,” he offers gruffly.
I try to console him with a gentle smile and reassuring words. “It’s okay, really. It was a long time ago. I’m . . . good.”
“Well . . .” There’s that awkward silence, the reason why I generally avoid sharing this about myself in groups of people. Then Grant, who’s still lingering, saves the day by switching topics to the upcoming race, freeing me from being the center of attention. Freeing me to glance up at Ashton for the first time since the conversation about my parents began.
I expect that standard face. But I don’t find it there. I find his eyes locked on me with the most peculiar expression on it. A tiny smile touches his lips; lightness floats in his gaze.
There’s no other way to describe it other than . . .
Peace.
“So this is what all the fuss is about.”
Grinning proudly, Connor clasps my hand as we walk along Prospect Avenue—or “the Street,” as it’s known by everyone in Princeton—and up the steps to the impressive Tudor-style building with brown clovers decorating the front. It’s Thursday night. A line already snakes outside the entrance, but Connor flashes his club ID card and gets us past with no trouble.
Pushing the heavy door open for me to pass, he gestures dramatically toward the interior. “Welcome to the best eating club!” Sounds of laughter and music hit me immediately.
“I imagine you all say that about your respective clubs,” I tease, taking in the floor-to-ceiling dark wood paneling and antique furniture as we move through. Last Saturday, after Robert had confirmed that my dad was a member here, Connor promised to give me a tour. My nerves have been swirling ever since. “It’s nice.” I inhale deeply, as if the act will somehow help me sense Miles Cleary’s presence lingering within the walls.
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Connor smiles and holds a muscular arm out. “Tour guide at your service.”
Connor shows me around the various floors of the newly expanded and renovated club, highlighting the stunning dining hall, a library, and an upstairs lounge. He saves the basement for last—an open, dimly lit garagelike space called “the taproom.”
“It’s not too bad in here, now,” Connor says, clasping my hand as we take the stairs down. “By midnight, we won’t be able to move. This is the biggest and best taproom at Princeton.” He grins, adding, “And I’m not just saying that because I’m a member.”
“Not doubting you,” I murmur as I take in the scene. Plenty of laughing, smiling students—both male and female—mill around with beer in hand. A few are carrying plastic swords and masquerade ball masks. Connor says they were likely at a theme party elsewhere earlier.
The only furniture I can see are a few large green-and-white wooden tables with the eating club’s logo. Somehow, I’m not surprised to find Ty at one, yelling to someone as he pours beer from a pitcher into plastic cups laid out in two pyramid shapes on opposite ends of the table.
“Hey, buddy!” Ty slaps Connor on the back with his free hand. Dipping his head toward me, he bellows in his fake Scottish accent, “Irish!” making me giggle. There’s just something about Ty that’s so easy. He’s crass, loud, and sometimes downright perverted, but you can’t help but like him. I can picture him getting along well with Kacey. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable around him. In some strange, kilt-flashing way, Ty reminds me of home.
Connor gives Ty’s shoulders a tight squeeze. “We all come here to eat most days but Ty practically lives here. He’s part of the officer corps. Probably why this place is so wild. I don’t know how he passes a single class.”
Jutting his chin toward a textbook that’s laid out open on a chair nearby, Ty’s face is a mask of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I get some of my best work done here.” Tossing the empty pitcher to the ground, Ty holds up two Ping-Pong balls. “Ready?”
Connor shrugs, looking to me. “You in?”
Scanning the table again and the balls, I ask, “What is this . . . beer pong?”
Ty bangs his pint glass down to announce with a grin full of mischief, “A Beirut virgin! I love it!” He jabs a pointed finger at me. “Never call this beer pong. And no wussing out or I’ll kick that beautiful butt through the door!”
“Why do I have the feeling that I’m screwed,” I grumble, taking in all those cups of beer. But I also know that Ty’s threats are not idle, and trying to escape will likely involve humiliation in front of the entire club.
“Crazy Scotsman,” Connor mutters under his breath, but his eyes are twinkling. Roping his arm around my waist, he starts chuckling. “Don’t worry. I’m good at this game. You’re safe with me.”
I give his forearm a light squeeze before he lets go, an ounce of relief washing over me with the reminder. I know I’m safe with Connor. If I were with Ashton, it would be a very different story. He’d probably lose just to get me plastered. Either way, my gulps will be the smallest sips known to mankind.
“What is this, two-on-two? Who’s your partner, Ty?” Connor asks.
“Who do you think?” comes the giddy response a second before a wagging honey-blond ponytail and a grin appears.
“Reagan! Thank God. Save me from this.”
“No can do, roomie.” She pats my back with a lazy hand while accepting a full pint from Grant with the other, shooting him a playful wink. I’m thrilled to see Reagan here tonight. Since the conversation at her parents’ house, she’s been unusually quiet around me. She may be mad at me for not mentioning my parents. I can’t tell and she hasn’t brought it up. But tonight she seems normal, and I’m glad.
Everyone’s here except . . . Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I discreetly survey the room, looking for that tall, dark form.
“He has a big test tomorrow,” Reagan murmurs with a knowing smirk. “He’s not coming.”
“Oh.” I leave it at that, though I can’t ignore the disappointment creeping through me. And then I silently scold myself. I’m here with Connor. Connor. Connor. How many times do I have to repeat that name before it sticks?
“Okay, Gidget!” Ty calls out. “Get over here. Connor and the virgin are goin’ down tonight!”
My face flushes as heads turn in my direction. “I’ve never played this game before!” I clarify in a loud voice, though Ty’s not wrong in any regard.
“Heads, we start,” Ty announces as a coin flies up into the air. They win the toss and a crowd quickly forms. Apparently, Beirut is a spectator sport. I soon find out it’s because you get to watch people get really drunk. Really fast.
Connor explains the basic rules—if your opponents sink a ball or you completely miss the table with your ball, you drink. Well, there are two problems with these rules for me. One: our opponents are outstandingly good, and two: I am outstandingly bad.
Even with Connor’s talent at sinking balls, it’s not long before Ty and Reagan are in the lead. And when alcohol-induced relaxation spreads through my limbs, my aim gets even worse, to the point that people step away from the table when it’s my turn, to avoid a ball to the groin.
“You really aren’t getting better at this with practice, are you?” Connor teases, pinching my waist.
I stick my tongue out in response, slyly studying Connor’s ripped arms and perfectly shaped backside in a rare pair of jeans as he assesses the table, a look of concentration on his face. Almost brooding, but not quite. It’s attractive. Enough so that I’m annoyed when it’s interrupted momentarily by a cute blond placing her arm on his bicep. “Hey, Connor.” Her smile is unmistakably flirtatious.
“Hey, Julia.” He flashes those winning dimples at her but then he’s immediately
back to the game, studying the shot, obviously disinterested in her. Obvious enough for me and certainly for Julia, who appears crestfallen.
By the time we reach the last cup—Ty and Reagan winning—I’ve given up on following along. I just drink when Grant—the self-appointed referee—yells the order at me.
Connor lays a kiss on my cheek and murmurs, “You’re a trooper. I think you need to get outside for some air. Come on.” With an arm wrapped around my waist, partly for affection but also for support, I’m sure, Connor leads me up the stairs and through an exit to a quiet space.
“This is nice.” I inhale the cool, crisp air.
“Yeah, it’s getting hot and sweaty down there,” Connor murmurs, his hand pushing my hair off my face. “You having fun?”
I’m sure my grin speaks for itself but I answer anyway. “Yes, this is a lot of fun, Connor. Thanks for having me here.”
Planting a kiss on my forehead first, Connor then turns to lean against the wall next to me. “Of course. I’ve been dying to bring you. Especially now that we know your dad was a member.”
I smile wistfully as I lean my head back. “Was your dad a member?”
“Nah, he was part of Cap. Another big one.”
“Didn’t he want you to join that one?”
Slipping his fingers in between mine, Connor says, “He’s just happy that I ended up at Princeton.”
“Yeah.” Just like I’m sure my dad would be . . .
Connor appears deep in thought. “You know, I never appreciated how good I had it with my dad growing up until these last few years.” There’s a long pause and then he adds, “Until I met Ashton.”
I had been so distracted by Beirut and the girl hitting on Connor that I’d actually managed to stop thinking about Ashton for a while. Now he’s back and I feel uneasy. “What do you mean?”
Connor sighs, his face twisting as if he’s deciding how to answer. “I’ve been around Ash when his dad comes to see a race. He’s a different person. I don’t know how to explain it. The relationship is just . . . strained. That’s the impression I get, anyway.”