Page 1 of Stepping Up

PROLOGUE: CARLY

About Five Years Ago

Iwas never one for breaking my habits, and maybe that’s why the one time I did, my entire life epically derailed itself.

It was my sophomore year of college and my first ever frat party. The ostentatious campus frat house was loud and dark and smelled like sweaty bodies, belying the neoclassical fanciness on the outside, the columns that caught my eye when I passed them on the way to class. A tang of cheap beer on my lips and the thump of a huge speaker blaring against my ears completed the full scene. Sure, it wasn’t my scene, but there was something about the night that felt like a movie. Maybe it was just that it was my first ever college party. The first time in the past two years I’d followed my roommate’s advice and taken a break from school work to have what she deemed the true college experience.

Funny, and I thought college was about education.

My plans for the evening had involved working on art projects until my eyes crossed. People underestimate the amount of time and effort it takes to complete all the work for a visual art major, and my friends who were pre-med or pre-law were constantly surprised by how little time I had for socializing. Especially now that it was finals week. I had a semester-long drawing project that still needed perfecting, a photography portfolio to compile, and a paper to write for my art history class to boot. But Danielle had used her future-lawyer powers of persuasion to drag me out of our dorm for a wild night.

So far, though, it wasn’t very wild. I’d spent most of my time at the party watching Danielle dance and flirt and have fun while I stood in the corner of the room, clutching a barely-touched cup of jungle juice and mentally strategizing how I’d still be able to get some work done after I had to drag Danielle’s drunk ass home. Even at barely twenty, I’d never felt young, always putting responsibility before the desire for fun or adventure. It was just my nature—and okay, being raised by a flighty teen mom who wasn’t great at remembering things like deadlines and overdue water bills probably contributed, so there was some nurture in it, too.

My last boyfriend had complained about my seriousness even more than Danielle did. The whole six months or so that we were together, I couldn’t count how many times he’d said I was “just no fun”. It wasn’t a surprise that we broke up over it, though his calling me a stick-in-the-mud mid-dumping still stung. The whole thing was a pity—not because I wished we were still together but because I knew he wasn’t smart enough for me from the start, and it was a hit to my pride that he was the one to end things.

“Serious face for a party.” A voice cut into my thoughts, unfamiliar and honey-smooth. Oh, God. Not this again. A fair handful of guys were initially attracted to my stoic exterior, seeing me as something of a “challenge”, and I could usually tell from the first few seconds of an interaction whether they’d lose interest too quickly to get past my walls. But I turned toward the voice and met a soft set of bottle green eyes that disarmed me. They lived in a handsome face, wholesome in its openness. I’d never seen him before. And there was no hint of that shallow vibe my ex and a number of other stupid college guys had in the way he smiled.

“I’m not much of a party girl,” I told him automatically. No matter his appearance, the walls didn’t come down for anyone. I wasn’t sure there was anything beneath them at this point. Maybe I was a Russian doll of walls and other barriers that peeled away to reveal yet more ways to keep people out.

“Me neither,” he said, and we both laughed, though I couldn’t tell whether he’d said it as an intentional joke or not.

“Funny how there’s no such thing as a party boy,” I mused aloud. One of the green-eyed boy’s eyebrows quirked up at a picturesque angle. It wasn’t sardonic, but innocent, like a puppy cocking its head to the side at the prospect of a treat. Adorable, and yet he was tall, solid as a man.

“Isn’t there?” His eyes swept our surroundings, landing on a frat brother drinking beer through a soda hat, his organization’s letters painted across his chest. “That guy sure looks like the type.”

“It’s not a real term, though. Party boy. At least, if it is, it’s not used as commonly,” I said, then paused. “Or as… derogatorily.”

He let out a short laugh. Almost a bark—a puppy again. “Let me guess. English major?”

“Art,” I corrected him through another laugh. He had me laughing quite a bit, this out-of-nowhere boy-next-door.

“Oh, wow.”

“Why the surprise?” It came out a little defensive to my ears. A result of years of being misjudged as someone too rule-following, too boring to be a creative type. But the green-eyed boy didn’t balk. A good sign.

“I just thought artists were supposed to be…”

“Party girls?” I finished with a smirk. A sweet strawberry blush dusted his fair cheeks, but there was a seductive quality to the strong shrug of his shoulders even then. A mess of contradictions, this boy. Every one of them made me want to understand. To know him—perhaps biblically.

Basics first, my inner critic said. And she was right. There was a proper order to follow in these types of scenarios. I couldn’t let the party and the few milliliters of (admittedly strong) jungle juice get to me so easily.

“If it helps, I consider myself a photographer more than a painter.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Sounds right. Much less whimsical.”

“Exactly.” I grinned. “What’s your major, then?”

“Nothing so interesting.” He evaded the question. A red flag, maybe. But the green of his eyes still told a different story.

“Business, then?” I guessed, teasing him. I even nudged his shoulder with my own. Maybe I could be a bit of a party girl—or at the very least, a flirt.

“Do I come off that cliché?” the handsome stranger asked.

“I’m not sure yet. You could be anything, really. Accounting major?”

“Very sexy,” he said, miming himself taking a dagger to the heart.

“Pre-med, then,” I corrected myself, and though he still didn’t answer the question directly, didn’t confirm or deny, his attempted mysterious shrug made me think I’d guessed right. I could see this sweet boy as a doctor. I was only a photographer, hardly an expert in medicine, but I thought something about his calm confidence could lend itself well to being a brain surgeon.

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