“OUR WEB SCANNERS flagged another search,” Damian says.
I can practically hear his teeth grinding. Letting go of Mom, I stand up straight to defend my friend.
“It wasn’t Cesca this time,” I say. “I’m certain.”
Mom looks back and forth between us like she has no clue what’s going on. Maybe Damian hasn’t told her anything.
“The scanners also caught a blog post titled Secrets of Serfopoula. ”
A muscle just below his left eye starts twitching. “We suppressed the post, but the entry was… imaginative.”
“How?” I ask.
“What’s going on here?” Mom asks.
Damian answers my question. “The author proposes that Serfopoula is the secret base of operations for an elite force of superheroes.”
“Well,” I say, relieved, “at least it isn’t accurate.”
“No,” Damian replies, “but it suggests that the origins of the superheroes date back to ancient mythology.”
“Oh.” That’s a little closer to home. “Well, I know it’s not Cesca, because she doesn’t have a blog. Besides, that’s a huge leap of imagination from supernatural powers to Greek mythology. Maybe this is completely unrelated to my slip-up.”
Mom stands up and smacks her hand on the desk. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Damian raises his brows at me-a clear indication that I should be the one to tell her. Taking a deep breath, I explain, “I let half a detail slip in an IM chat with Cesca last week.” Turning to Damian, I add, “Not enough for her to jump to this conclusion. Besides, Cesca wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Her computer literacy does not extend far beyond turning it on and opening IM.”
“The fact remains,” he says, “that someone is looking into the island and that is jeopardizing our security.”
Mom gasps. “Are the children in danger?”
“Not yet,” he assures her. “But if the perpetrator outwits our web scanners, they could be. We all could be.”
“Well,” I insist, “it’s not Cesca.”
“I know that.” Damian unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket.
“The author of the blog is using the name JAM Freak. ”
Oh no! I gasp and both Mom and Damian turn to look at me.
“Do you know who that is?” he asks.
My mind racing, I can only nod.
“Who is it?” Mom asks.
I shake my head, not believing it.
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Damian hands me the paper.
Blog entry: Secrets of Serfopoula
Results: suppress
Location: Los Angeles County
Author: JAM Freak
He did.
Crumpling up the paper, I drop it on Damian’s desk. I can feel my ears overheating and I see red all around the edges of my vision.
“If we know who the author is,” I ask, “can we, like, erase his memory, or something?”
“His?” Mom parrots.
Damian takes a step closer. “Yes.”
My lips spread into a Stella-worthy evil grin. This boy is going to regret ever messing with me, my family, and this stupid island. I feel excitement bubbling up inside. I’ve been waiting two years to say, Payback ain’t pretty. “Justin Mars.”
Damian writes down Justin’s name on a sticky note.
“I’ll dispatch someone immediately to shroud his memory of the island and anything peripherally related.” He looks at me, questioning. “He might forget you, as well, Phoebe.”
I smile bigger. “Good.”
That dark stain on my dating record is going to pay for trying to harass me from two thousand miles away.
The only question is: How did he find out about my IM slip-up?
Remembering some of the strange phrasing in Cesca’s last e-mail, I’m afraid I know the answer.
“Mom,” I say, “I need to make a phone call.”
She looks confused, but nods. “All right.”
When she and Damian make no move to leave, I add, “In private.”
Damian seems to understand what I’m about to do. He takes Mom by the shoulders and leads her out. “Come, Valerie. Let’s leave Phoebe to her phone call.”
He waggles his eyebrows at her. She giggles in return and they hurry out of the office-headed for their bedroom, no doubt.
I wait until my gag reflex relaxes before dialing Cesca’s number-burned into my memory since she got her private line in sixth grade-careful to add the international dialing code first.
She answers on the third ring.
“Hi, Cesca.”
“Phoebe?” She sounds shocked. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Mom felt sorry for me,” I say. “She approved an international phone call for therapy purposes.”
Which would be partly true, if I had asked for a therapy call.
The other part is my having to find out if my suspicions of who she told about my “immortal powers” comment are right. And if my suspicions about why are way off base-which I hope they are.
“What’s wrong?” Now she sounds more nervous than shocked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you. To ask you a question.”
“Oh.” Nervous, nervous, nervous. “What’s that?”
I take a deep breath, hoping I’m wrong. “Who did you tell what I said about immortal powers?”
Silence from the other end.
Then, “I thought you couldn’t talk about that.”
“I’m talking about it now.”
“Oh.” More silence.
“Cesca?”
“No one,” she whispers into the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
Now, I can tell when Cesca’s lying-not that she does it very often-and she isn’t lying to me now. She honestly didn’t tell anyone about my comment.
“Are you sure?” I ask, just in case I missed something.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Why is she whispering, I wonder“Who you talking to?” a male voice asks in the background.
A male voice I recognize.
“Just, um…” Cesca’s voice is muffled, like she’s holding her hand over the receiver. “… a friend.”
“Who?” he repeats.
“A fr-”
“He’s there,” I demand, “isn’t he?”
“What?” She’s talking to me again. “Who?”
Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.
“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true. “Why is he in your room?”
“He, uh…” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you.
Really I did.”
“But?” I ask.
“There just never seemed a good time.”
“For what, Cesca?”
“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”
My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding-that I was totally wrong-vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are dating.
“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”
“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”
“I…” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “… I know. I just don’t know how to end it.”
“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”
“I didn’t.”
“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in his blog.”
“Well, I didn’t-” She gasps, then shouts-thankfully not at me“Why you rotten, sneaky bast-”
“What?” I interrupt.
“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files, didn’t you?”
“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”
Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.
“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”
Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.
That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking Justin out of her room.
“You still there, Phoebe?”
“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all right?”
“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stupid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be friends with someone so stupid?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity crown.”
We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.
“So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”
“No, not major.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this is all about, but-”
“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone else’s, either.”
Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal-and so open to interpretation. We chat awhile longer-not too long because I know international calls can be astronomically expensive-before hanging up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.
Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just had some stuff to talk through.”
“I know how much you miss your friends.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.”
Not soon enough.
“At least they’re flying out for the wedding,” she adds.
I force a grin. “Only three months away.”
“Don’t worry.” She gives me a good squeeze before releasing me.
“Your friendships will survive the hurdles of time and space.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, not meaning it.
Three months and seven thousand miles is more than I’m willing to put between my friendships.
“Nervous?” Nicole asks as she slides in next to me at our lunch table. “The big race is only days away.”
“Nah.” I shrug.
On the inside, I’m boiling with nerves at the mere mention of the race. Sure, I’ve competed in dozens, maybe hundreds of races in my lifetime. This one is different.
There is more riding on the outcome. I’m used to racing for myself, trying to beat my time or beat my opponent. This time I’m racing for my racing future. Not just my slot on the team is at stake. If I don’t race well this year then no scholarship. No scholarship, no USC.
Talk about pressure.
But there’s more to this race than staying on the team. In all my years of running I’ve had a pretty easy time. Make a little effort andwin the race. This time I’m going to have to exert myself-run allout. I’m racing against some of the best high school athletes in the world, grounded powers or not. This is my first real opportunity to see what I’m made of on the racecourse.
I’m afraid to find out I’m made of nothing more than some talent and very little grit and determination.
Like my T-shirt says, NO GUTS , NO GLORY .
Still, I’m not about to let anyone know how nervous I am.
“No big deal,” I say, then take an I’m-totally-calm bite of my hamburger.
Troy walks up while my mouth is full and drops into the seat across from me. Ever since he finished Chemistry tutoring he’s been in the dumps.
“Hi,” he says.
I try to say, “Hi,” around my hamburger, but it sounds more like, “Mrff,” so I add a wave.
“I can’t stand this vortex of gloom anymore, Travatas,” Nicole blurts. “What’s your problem?”
“Yeah,” I say after taking a big gulp of pineapple Fanta to wash down the hamburger. “You seem so, well, not you.”
He shrugs, “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that, ever since I passed that test my dad has been pressuring me to apply for the Level 13 pre-med program.”
It kills me to see Troy so torn up. He obviously doesn’t want to be a doctor, so I don’t know why his parents are forcing him to try.
Music is his passion and they should support that. Just like Mom supports my running.
“You have to tell them,” I venture.
“Tell them what?” he asks.
“About your dreams,” I explain. “That you want to be a musician.”
He laughs out loud. “Yeah right. I like my powers, thank you very much, and I’d prefer to keep them.”
“They can take them away?” I ask. Maybe, if I push Stella enough, Damian will strip her powers.
“No,” Nicole answers, rolling her eyes at Troy. “Only the gods can revoke powers.”
“But my parents could ground them until I’m twenty-one.”
“Come on, Travatas,” Nicole says. “Grow some courage and confess. I hear it’s good for the soul.”
“I appreciate that you guys care,” he says in a way that suggests he doesn’t appreciate it at all, “but I have to handle this my way.”
“Fine,” Nicole says with a shrug. “Don’t say we didn’t try. Now, can we talk about how we’re going to get back at Blake and the evil twins?”
I knew this was going to come up again. Ever since I told her what happened she’s been pressing me to go after revenge-a revenge that I know wouldn’t be just about me.
But revenge is hollow. I’d prefer amnesia.
“I don’t want revenge,” I tell Nicole for like the fiftieth time. “I just want to forget about it and never talk about them again.”
Just because I live in the same house as Stella doesn’t mean I have to talk to her. The last few dinners have been blissfully silent.
It doesn’t hurt that I threatened to tell Damian what she did. The thought of another week without her powers is apparently enough to keep her quiet.
Though she did leave an empty latte cup outside my door.
“I can understand not bothering with Stella and Adara…”
Nicole lifts up her hamburger bun and gives the contents a wary look. “… they’ve been hideous harpies since the day I got here.”
She drops the bun and pushes her plate away.
“Longer,” Troy adds. “Those two have been up to no good since they were five. We can’t expect them to change now.”
“But Griffin,” Nicole says.
“Yeah.” Troy’s eyes light up. “Blake deserves to be taken down a notch or two.”
“I could do a few heinous things to him without losing sleep.”
Nicole clearly harbors serious feelings of resentment over whatever happened between her and Griffin in the past. I’m not about to let her thirst for revenge push me into action.
“No,” I say definitively. “I don’t want to do anything to any of them. No revenge. Got it?”
Humiliation is bad enough. I just want to forget about it and move on.
I look at each of them, waiting for verbal consent.
Reluctantly, Troy nods his head. “Fine.”
Nicole, on the other hand, is cagier. “No promises.” When I stare her down, she adds, “But I’ll leave you out of whatever I do. Okay?”
I say, “Okay.”
Still, I’m a little worried.
Nicole can be unpredictable-if she can zap away my ankle without a second thought, who knows what revenge she’s going to exact on Griffin. If he weren’t the scum of the earth-and I didn’t know she couldn’t actually kill him-I might feel inclined to warn him.
I manage to steer clear of Stella until dinner on Tuesday before the race. Since she finally decides to dine with the rest of us and I’m focused on properly fueling my body for the week, I guess there’s no way to avoid sharing the meal with her.
“Evening, Daddy.” She plants a big kiss on his cheek. “Valerie.”
She nods to Mom. Then sits down, not acknowledging me.
Damian glances at each of us over a spoonful of bean soup.
“No greeting for your sister?” he asks before finishing his bite.
“Good evening, Phoebe.” She smiles falsely. “I’m not sure I can eat a bite-I had a big latte for lunch.”
That’s it. Pushing back from the table, I knock my chair over as I lunge across the table. “You little-”
“Phoebe!” Mom shouts, jumping up and clearly prepared to stop me.
I freeze, my knee poised over the table, ready to launch into Stella’s smirking lap. Knowing they’ll never let me actually get away with throttling her at the dinner table I lower back into my seat.
“What is this about?” Mom asks once I’ve calmed down.
“Why don’t you ask the ice queen over there?” I snap.
Stella schools her features into a look of pure innocence. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Listen, girls,” Mom begins. “Whatever’s bothering you, it will be better if you talk it out. We will all be living in the same house for the next year, and-”
“Nine months.” I think it’s important to be clear when it comes to details.
That earns me a mom look. “There is always a period of adjustment when families combine.”
“Her face could use an adjustment.”
“Phoebe,” Mom gasps.
Stella crosses her arms across her chest and raises one eyebrow.
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Stella,” Damian warns, “do not make the situation worse.”
“Damian,” Mom says, moving behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. “Why don’t we leave the girls alone for a few minutes,” she suggests. “I’m sure they would rather discuss their problem without an audience.”
Damian looks like he wants to argue, but lets Mom lead him to the kitchen anyway. Just before they disappear out the back door, he looks over his shoulder and gives Stella a stern look that clearly says, “Work this out. Now.”
Hey, I was willing to forgive and-well, not forgive, but forget anyway. But she has to keep throwing it in my face with the whole I’m-so-full-on-my-latte thing.
“I have no idea what your problem is,” she says, casually taking a sip of her water. “Your attitude is really quite awful.”
“My attitude?” I gasp. “You’re the one who-”
“Still crying the same old song, Phoebe? Let it go.”
“Let it go?” She is so full ofI stand up slowly and calmly and say in as steady a voice as possible, “Listen. You made that awful bet with Adara. You tricked me into helping you win that awful bet. You let me believe-”
Oh no, I can feel the tears tightening up my throat. Not good. Itake a calming breath. I’ve decided on brutal honesty at this point, there’s no stopping now.
“I actually started to believe that Griffin liked me- me, the lowly little nothos -when no one else in your high and mighty cliques would do more than look at me with scorn.” I blink against the tears now filling my eyes. “And the worst part is that I was actually starting to like him, the real him. Or at least what I thought was the real him. And come to find out he was only playing a part, too.”
That’s what hurts the most. Not the bet or the deal or any of that.
It’s that they’re right about me. I really am so weak that I would fall for a guy who’d done nothing but treat me like scum since I got to this stupid school without even putting up much of a fight.
I’m pathetic, and that’s what really hurts.
“Phoebe,” Stella says, an unnatural softness to her usually icy voice.
I’m prepared for a scathing comment.
Instead, she walks around the table to stand right in front of me, and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much-” She shakes her head and starts again. “I know how much unrequited love can hurt.
If I had known you had any real feeling for him…”
I am floored beyond belief. Stella is exhibiting real honest-togoodness sympathy, an emotion I believed her incapable of.
That, and she’s apologized.
I almost feel like checking out the windows for flying pigs.
“If it helps any,” she says quietly, “it wasn’t my idea.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, mostly because I’m not surprised. Sure Stella’s right up there with the evil bi’atches in history, but she doesn’t hold a candle to Adara.
“And I don’t think Griffin-”
“No,” I interrupt, not wanting to even hear his name. I’d rather forgive Stella. I still have to live with her. “Look, I-I accept your apology. Just don’t mention him again, okay?”
Then, to my total shock and amazement, Stella pulls me into a big hug. At first I’m kinda startled and I just stand there, awkward.
Eventually I realize she’s waiting for me to participate, so I lift up my arms and pat her gently on the back.
Apparently that’s enough because she releases me and steps back.
“Just don’t think this is going to change our relationship. I still don’t like you.” Her eyes are shining a little brighter than usual.
“Right back at ya.”
I’m blinking in astonishment at the fact that she’s wiping away tears when Damian and Mom walk back in.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” Stella says, moving back to her chair.
Mom looks at me, her eyes questioning. I shrug and take my seat.
I don’t have any more of a clue about what happened than she does.
I have a feeling, though, there won’t be any more bets made on my anticipated behavior in the near future. And I guess that’s all any girl can ask for.
“This is our last practice before the big meet. No practice tomor row, so I expect you all to rest up and eat complex carbs. On Friday we compete for the Cycladian Cup. The victors get to display the coveted trophy at their school for the next year.” Coach Z gives us all a stern scowl. “The losers get nothing but dust in their teeth.”
This is apparently the big pep speech for the meet.
I’ve heard so many of these in my lifetime I just tune out.
Instead, I glance over the crowd of teammates listening avidly to Coach Z’s threats and promises. Adara and her blondes, Zoe included, are right up front, watching Coach Z with rapt attention.
There must be some sort of gender war going on because there’s not a single guy sitting with them. My gaze flicks briefly to Griffin, surrounded by Christopher, Costas, and the rest of the Ares jockheads. He looks up, like he feels my eyes on him, and I immediately look the other way.
Eye contact is too much contact as far as I’m concerned.
He doesn’t take the hint.
No, he stands up, weaves his way through the crowd while Coach Z is still speaking, and sits down next to me on the grass.
“Phoebe, I-”
I get up and move away.
He follows me.
“We haven’t seen the trophy at this school in five years,” Coach Z says, scowling at Griffin’s disregard. “I want that trophy back in our front hall this year.”
Everyone cheers.
I keep evading Griffin, who is shadowing my every step.
“Now break up into your events and get in a good practice,”
Coach Z says, dismissing the group to our individual coaches.
I head for Coach Lenny, hoping our workouts will separate us.
“Today we’ll be working out in pairs,” Coach Lenny explains. “I want you to push each other to perform at your highest level. The pairs are as follows-”
He starts reading names from his clipboard. As he works through the roster, I’m starting to get worried-he hasn’t read my name or Griffin’s yet.
No, I tell myself. Coach Lenny wouldn’t do this to me.
Then he does. “Phoebe Castro and Griffin Blake.”
He gives us a brief rundown of our workouts then turns to walk out of the stadium. I jog up and tap him on the shoulder. Griffin, of course, is right behind me.
“Something wrong?” Coach Lenny asks when he sees the sour look on my face.
“No, sir,” Griffin answers.
I glare at him. “Pair me with someone else, Coach.”
“He’s the only one capable of pushing you, Phoebe.” Coach Lenny gives me an apologetic look. “Work with him.”
“No. He’s an a-”
“For the sake of your running,” Coach Lenny says. “It’s just for one day.” Then he gives Griffin a threatening look. “Follow the workout, push her to do her best, or you’ll answer to me on race day.”
“Yes, sir,” Griffin replies, the picture of a perfect gentleman.
Ha. What a put on.
The second Coach Lenny walks away he starts in. “Phoebe, I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be-”
“Thanks for the permission,” I say.
I stalk across the inner lawn, find an empty spot with lots of room, and settle in to do my stretches. Griffin, right on my tail, sits down next to me, mimicking my actions.
“Hey, how is my being part of that bet,” he asks, “any worse than you making that deal with Stella?”
I clamp my jaw and don’t say a word.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, that wasn’t how I wanted to start.”
I reach for my other foot, leaning away from him.
“I’m not going to let you shut me out,” he says, reaching for his toes. “You have the right to be mad, but I have the right to explain myself.”
I exhale deeply into my stretch. “I don’t have to listen.”
“No, you don’t have to.” He leans out over his left leg, stretching his quads. “But you will.”
He’s right. Purely driven by curiosity I at least want to hear whatever lame excuse he’s come up with. Then I can file it away under too-stupid-to-believe and move on with my life.
My time is too precious to waste on the likes of Griffin Blake.
“It started out as a bet,” he has the nerve to admit. “Not my bet, but a bet nonetheless.”
I give him a look that says I know this much already.
“That’s why I agreed to meet you that Sunday.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Glad to know I’m such a prize you need extra motivation just to go for a run-”
“I’m sorry, all right.” He reaches so abruptly for his right foot I’m surprised he doesn’t tear a tendon. “How many times do I have to say it?”
“About a million more times would be a good start.”
He sits back, giving up all pretense of stretching. “It started out as a bet,” he bites out, “but it didn’t end up that way.”
What a load of hooey.
“If I had been honest with myself-” He starts tugging up little clumps of grass. “I would have realized that the bet was just an excuse. A reason for me to spend time with you. One I didn’t have to explain to anyone.”
I continue with my stretches, working through all my leg muscles and ignoring his little heartfelt speech. Ignoring the fact that my deal with Stella served pretty much the same purpose-a reason to go after Griffin without guilt over how Nicole felt about him.
“Even though I was a total jerk, you still gave me a chance.”
“Stupid me.”
“Second chances are a rare thing around here.” He inches closer on the grass. “When I was seven my parents got on Hera’s bad side.
No one has seen them since.”
That makes me pause. That would have been about the same time Nicole’s parents got banished.
He’d said his folks weren’t around-and I remember thinking how vague he was. I hadn’t even considered they might be dead.
I’d just thought they left him with his aunt while they traveled the world or something.
I never thought his parents being gone had anything to do with Nicole’s.
My heart melts. Just a little.
“Here I was, carrying you in my arms because I had to, and you were trying to get me to open up. You wanted to know me. Despite how horrible I had been to you.” He leans in and whispers, “That’s when the bet ended for me.”
Another few drops of ice melt away.
Not ready to get burned twice in one week, I tell myself not to fall for his lies. He could be making every last word of this up, too.
And even if my initial motives for meeting him that Sunday were barely better than his-though I think a deal is way less offensive than a bet-at least I admitted to myself early on that I was really going after Griffin for myself.
Rising, I start twisting at the waist to warm up my upper body.
Griffin scrambles to his feet.
“Last Saturday after your practice,” he says, pleading. “That was real. The rest doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
I stop moving long enough to meet his sad stare.
Clearly, he’s not sure what to say. Which is fine with me because I’ve heard enough lies to last a lifetime.
“Let’s just get this workout over with,” I snap, fed up and thinking of all the homework I have waiting for me.
Our first segment is a two mile run at moderate pace.
I walk toward the regular starting line, but Griffin has other ideas.
“Why don’t we run a different course today?”
I eye him suspiciously. Certain he has something underhanded up his sleeve-even if he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt-I want to argue, but honestly it will be a relief to see anything other than that shrubby course.
“Fine,” I relent. “But if you try to pull anything I’m telling Coach Lenny about the shoelaces.”
He just rolls his eyes at me and says, “Come on.”
Griffin heads out of the stadium and circles around to the right.
Not wanting to follow behind him like a second-place dog I settlein at his side, matching him step for step. He must be pulling his stride because his legs are like twice as long as mine.
Neither of us speaks or looks at the other while he leads us down a steep path behind the far stadium wall. It looks like just another wooded cross-country course until we break through the trees. We’re on the beach.
“I figured that with all your extra training,” he says, “you haven’t had time for many beach runs. Which I think you love as much as I do.”
I shrug, secretly loving the way the sand squishes beneath my feet. With every stride I have to work harder to push myself forward.
This is my personal heaven.
Now, I love the L.A. beaches-especially when I get permission to drive up to Malibu and watch the surfers while I run-but nothing compares to the beach on Serfopoula. The sand is pristine. Gleaming white.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the footprints we made disappearing as the sand pours back in on itself.
The sand in California is so full of gunk it keeps your footprint until the tides wash in.
“Was I right?” Griffin asks.
I scowl at him for interrupting my daydream. I’m still mad at him, after all. “About what?”
“The beach.”
“It’s okay,” I lie.
He grins with that cocky smile. “Considering how pissed you are at me, I’ll take that as a hell yes.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes.
But he’s right.
We run half a mile in silence. My eyes trained on the horizon, my mind trained on the rhythm. Step, step, step, breathe. Our footfalls are perfectly timed. Step, step, step, breathe. From the corner of my eye I see his chest rise and fall in time with my every breath. Step, step, step-“You’ll get over being mad at me.”
“Not likely.”
Step, step, step“I promise not to gloat about it when you do.”
“I won’t.”
Step, step, step“Because I want to be with you so badly I don’t care if you’re screaming at me the whole time as long as I’m with you.”
I stop dead in my tracks.
Two steps later, Griffin notices I’ve stopped and jogs back to me.
“We have another mile to go,” he says, as if I’ve stopped because I think we’re done. Then his face wrinkles up in concern. “Did you hurt your ankle again? I thought you said it was completely…”
“Did you mean that?”
“… healed. What?”
“Did you mean what you just said?”
“Of course I did.” He kneels down and inspects my ankle. “Now tell me-”
I grab him by the arm and pull him back up. “My ankle is fine.”
He looks at me funny for a second before that cocky smile comes back. “Oh. Good.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Good.”
“I am sorrier than you can imagine,” he says.
“Yeah-” I take a deep breath. “I know.”
“Does that mean I’m-”
“Forgiven? No.” I smile when his face falls. “Not yet.”
His smile returns.
“But you will be.”
With one small step he closes the distance between us. My heart starts racing as he lifts his hand to my cheek. His fingertips hover over my temple. I can feel his heat even though he isn’t actually touching me.
Then he leans forward-like in slow motion-until his face is micrometers from mine.
The smile in his bright blue eyes vanishes. My eyes flutter closed-the anticipation is killing me. I haven’t kissed anyone since that jerk I used to date-what was his name?-and I feel like I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss Griffin Blake right now.
His lips brush mine. Barely. Just a tickle, really.
But it’s more than enough.
My entire body sparks like the fireworks from bonfire night.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not kissing me anymore.
I reluctantly open my eyes to find him inches away. His smile is back.
“Come on,” he says, taking me by the hand. “I promised Coach I’d give you a good workout.” He tugs and I stumble after him.
“We’ve got another mile left on our warm-up. Then the real work begins.”
Hand in hand-okay, so it’s not the best training technique-we finish our run. And the rest of the workout.
All I can think the whole time is, “When did my life get so good?”