Never Gonna Tell (4 page)

And just like that, class resumes, students going back to what they were doing and neither teacher saying another word to Marco. And Marco? He too acts like he didn’t just have an old-west-style showdown and threaten a teacher. He’s tossing the Ping-Pong ball in the air and catching it over and over again.

“Well, he just lost my vote for Teacher of the Year.”

Okay … if everyone else is pretending that
didn’t
just happen, then I will too.
“He’ll be crushed.”

“I bet. I have no choice other than to hand my vote to Mrs. Carmichael.”

I unsuccessfully stifle my laughter as Coach Jenkins glares at me. Mrs. Carmichael is the school librarian, who is about a hundred, can barely walk unsupported, and is often found asleep behind the circulation desk.

“She does so much for the school, I can see why you’d vote for her.”

Marco nods in agreement. “Of course. Why, just last week she lent me her copy of
Fifty Shades of Grey
. She even dog-eared some of her favorite passages. I guess I know now why her favorite color is red.”

I can’t control my giggles at the idea and bend over in laughter.

“Reagan!” Coach Perkins yells.

I straighten up and pick up my paddle. “Sorry!” I yell, trying to get the image of Mrs. Carmichael in the red room out of my mind.

We begin to volley back and forth again, both of us getting in several hits while trying to take the other down. He is extremely competitive, and I struggle to keep up.

“Tell me about yourself, Reagan. I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new here?”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Never fails,” I mumble under my breath.

“What’s that?”

I suppress the urge to say what I really want to say, remembering how he just was with Coach Shaw. Our lighthearted banter almost made me forget who he is. The last thing I need is to get on his bad side, too. “I’m not new. I’ve been here for two years.”

Marco’s head tilts to the side as he looks me up and down. I volley back his serve, but he’s so engrossed in looking at me that the ball just bounces on the table a few times before rolling off and onto the floor. “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure a girl like you would’ve been on my radar long before now if you’d been here for the last two years.”

Now I’m frozen as his words sink in, echoing the threat from Coach Shaw just minutes before. His statement could have been a sweet way of saying he thought I was pretty, but no matter what, “on his radar” is the last place I want to be. Marco may be ridiculously attractive and surprisingly fun to talk to, but he’s dangerous, and I can’t let myself forget that.

I chuckle awkwardly and ignore his statement. Instead, I drop to the floor to retrieve the ball. After stalling for a few seconds, I stand back up. Marco is still staring at me—or more specifically, my bent-over ass. I feel the heat rising up my neck and covering my face with what is no doubt a bright-red hue. Marco smiles ruefully at this.

“What happened, Reagan, to all your witty comebacks?” His delight at making me squirm is obvious, like a snake toying with a rat.

“Fresh out, I guess.”

“Well, that’s a shame. I was really enjoying your wit. There aren’t a whole lot of girls here who can hold down a conversation that doesn’t center on fashion or the latest escapades of Damon and Elana, and those who can are usually too stuck up to bother with a guy like me. In this town, smart
and
pretty is a rare commodity.”

“More like stuck-up and scared,” I mumble under my breath.

His gaze narrows. “Why? Because of my last name?”

Well, crap. I really was being a bitch, wasn’t I? He hadn’t done anything but be nice to me, and I was brushing him off because of rumors. Sure, they were significantly scary rumors with soft evidence to back them up, but I haven’t even given him a chance to prove them wrong.

“I, um.” My words are lost and jumble inside my head as his eyes are fixed on me.

“Forget it.” Funny, sweet Marco is gone, replaced with his brooding, moody alter ego. I open my mouth to apologize when the bell rings.

Coach Shaw blows his whistle, preventing any further discussion. “Return your equipment and hit the locker rooms! See you guys next week.”

I’m paying attention to Coach Shaw, so I don’t notice when Marco steps toward me, so close I catch a hint of his cologne. It’s clean and fresh, like soap mixed with fresh-cut grass or something. His fingers reach up, lightly brushing my shoulder before trailing their way down my arm. I can’t breathe. His fingers don’t stop until they circle my wrist. He clasps the paddle out of my hand and leans in to my ear, whispering.

“I’ll take these back. See you around, Reagan.”

My brain can no longer form words, so I nod, trying to remember how to breathe. And swallow. Or move, for that matter.

I think I may have absently nodded again before he turned, leaving only his lingering scent behind. I stay in the frozen state of “did that really just happen” until Goth Girl bumps into me on her way out the door.

Ability to move regained, I head to the locker room. As I debate the merits of a cold shower, I can’t help but wonder: what kind of trouble have I just found?

A WEEK HAS passed since what I am now only referring to as “The Incident.” Yes, I’m attracted to him. Hell, most of the girls in school are attracted to him. After telling Charlie what happened—in every dreadfully embarrassing detail—he refused to let me deny it for one more minute. But that’s all it is. A superficial attraction that means nothing and will go nowhere.

I’ve seen Marco twice since then. The day after the now-notorious gym class, I’d passed him in the hallway. His eyes met mine and didn’t leave until I walked into AP Government. He’d been stopped by a teacher, demanding to know why Marco hadn’t shown up for detention after school, so he didn’t try to speak to me. I ducked into the classroom, almost running directly into Mr. Girard’s chest because I couldn’t break the eye contact. After class, I skipped lunch altogether for fear of running into him and headed for my cave, glad I had a granola bar in my bag so I didn’t starve until after school. The look in his eyes when he stared at me was so intense, I didn’t want to find out what was behind it.

The second time, there was no way to avoid him. Charlie was home sick with the flu, and Dad had texted me just as school was ending to say that he was stuck in a meeting and asked me to pick up some takeout he’d ordered from Café Rustico.

We’d discovered this gem last summer, and it quickly became my absolute favorite restaurant; it was the only place in a fifty-mile radius that had authentic lasagna with warm bubbly cheese that oozed out of layers of al dente noodles and sauce with fresh herbs and chunks of real tomatoes—not sauce from a jar or something that was frozen and reheated. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

Cafe Rustico is only about a mile from my house, so after trudging home, I grabbed my bike from the garage and sped over. As I pulled up, the scent of garlic bread permeated the air around me. It was early, barely four-thirty, but the line for tables was already out the door. The early birds trying to catch their worms, I supposed. I squeezed by the groups of mostly elderly people waiting, ignoring the dirty looks of those who thought I was cutting the line, and made my way to the host stand. No one was behind it, so I grabbed a dessert menu and contemplated my options while I waited.

“Can I help you?”

Still checking out the menu, I didn’t look up right away as I began to speak. “Yes, I’m picking up a to-go order for Wilcox.”

“And would you like some dessert with that? Something sweet to nibble on tonight?”

My eyes lifted at the words, and I was shocked to see Marco standing behind the counter.

“Um, what?” Did he just ask ... nah, I couldn’t have heard him right.

“Hello again, Reagan.” There were three other people trying to get his attention, and the phone was ringing, but he ignored all of them and continued to stare at me.

My face flushed with embarrassment. “Hi. Um, I didn’t know you worked here.”

“It’s my aunt’s place. I don’t usually work here, but I help out every now and then when they’re busy.”

“I’ve been coming here for a while. I thought the Rizzos owned it.”

“After Mrs. Rizzo died last year, my aunt bought the place. She was the head chef before, but now she does it all.”

“Oh, wow. Her food is amazing. I seriously dream about her pasta carbonara. And the cannolis? To. Die. For.”

The older gentleman behind me tapped his foot impatiently. I could feel eyes boring into my head. “Young man, we’ve been waiting—”

“And you’ll keep waiting,” Marco cut him off, glaring at him until the man stepped aside. Marco turned back to me. “So what did you order? I’ll go see if it’s ready.”

“Um, a few orders of lasagna and a bowl of wedding soup, I think? My dad ordered it, so I don’t know for sure.”

Marco reached his hand toward mine, his fingertips grazing down my wrist and circling my thumb where I held onto the menu. “Can I tempt you into ordering something sweet?” Fire licked my hand where he touched me, and my mouth went dry.

“Marco!” a woman called out, walking toward us with heavy steps. She was plump, with black hair that was graying at the temples, and she smelled of garlic and oregano. Her tone was irritated, but her face seemed kind. “I’m not paying you to flirt with girls. I’ve got a line of people waiting.”

“Aunt Lucille, I was just taking her order.” He blinked innocently at her, and I smiled awkwardly. Technically, he hadn’t lied, and I didn’t want to get him into any more trouble.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Finish up and help the next guest. NEXT!” she yelled, the two of us already forgotten.

The impatient couple behind me stepped forward, pushing me to the side. My ankle twisted and I lost my balance, topping to the floor. My arms flew forward to try to catch myself before faceplanting into the ground, but instead of the ground, my face landed in a strong, hard chest as sculpted arms wrapped around mine, pulling me into him.

“Are you okay?” Marco asked, eyes scanning over me for injuries. I could hear a few other people berating the guy who knocked me down, but with Marco’s eyes on me, the voices drifted into the background. “Reagan?” he asked again.

Am I okay? That was a loaded question. I was a lot of things right now. I was mortified that I’d made a fool of myself in front of a roomful of people. I was irritated at the old man who pushed me, and I was nose-deep in pecs.

And being in Marco’s arms? Smelling his clean scent that even in this place filled with aromas still broke through the others and made my mouth water? Feeling his strong arms wrapped around me protectively? Yeah, that was a whole other box of emotions that I didn’t want to open.

“Yeah. I’m okay. Just a klutz.” I tried to right myself, but pain shot through my ankle and I bent over to grab it. “Oww. All right, maybe not okay. I think I twisted my ankle.”

Marco lifted me up easily and gently placed me in a chair behind the host stand. “I should punch that jackass for being so rude. Here, let me take a look.”

His hands stayed on me and slid down the side of my body—first my waist, then down my thighs, circling my knees, caressing the back of my calves before coming to rest at my feet. I gripped the side of the chair and clamped my mouth shut for fear of moaning at the sensual contact. I was so very thankful that I’d remembered to shave my legs.

Gently, he slipped off my black Chuck Taylors without unlacing them and placed my foot in his hand. His fingers slipped inside my sock and rolled it off my foot slowly, cupping my ankle in one hand as he gently lifted it to inspect, careful not to rotate my now-swollen ankle. I could barely breathe.

“It doesn’t look too bad, but you’ll need ice for the swelling, and you should probably stay off it for the rest of the day just in case.”

Though he was done investigating it, he never let go, the heat of his touch causing my ankle to burn even further. I wiggled out of his grasp. It was too much to deal with, and I needed him to stop touching me before I said or did something I regretted—like blurt out how good it felt or how hot he was.

Instead, I resorted to old faithful: my sarcasm. “So in addition to high school student and host at Italian restaurant, you’re also a medical professional?”

He smiled. “I’m good at a lot of things, Reagan.”

And with that sultry statement, any comeback I had flew right out of my mind.

His aunt peeked around the corner and mouthed to Marco, “Everything okay?” Her eyes were wide with worry when she saw that I had fallen, but with Marco helping me, she was left to deal with the lobby full of customers. I faced Marco again.

“You’ve got people waiting. I should go.”

Marco sat quiet for a minute. “I’ll drive you home.” There was no question or choice in his statement.

“Oh, um, I rode my bike.” Yeah, now I sounded like a twelve-year-old. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.”

“No. You won’t.” He didn’t even give me a chance to refuse before he strode back into the kitchen. He came out a few minutes later with two large bags of food in one hand and a baggie full of ice in the other. “Is your bike outside?”