Page 55 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“So what do I get if I win?” I ask.

“I mean...” She sways a little, her skirt swishing against her legs. “If you win, I’ll be the one begging.”

I blow out a breath. “Holy shit, Moira. You really know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

I’m starting to wonder if any of the classrooms might be unlocked, so we can start our ‘date’ right here and now.

She does another cute and infuriating little shrug. I don’t know where this side of her came from, but I like it more than I care to admit.

“And you know this really is a bad idea, right?”

It’s such a bad idea I should have said no before she even suggested it. I have a scholarship to win. I have more demands on my schedule than there are hours in the day. I don’t date, period, never mind dating girls I’ve been feuding with for over a decade.

Girls who seem like they were born with everything I crave already clutched in their hands.

It’s not really a date, though. It’s a bet, and maybe it’s just what I need to make sense of whatever the hell is going on here.

Maybe I just need to remember what it feels like to beat Moira Murray.

CHAPTER 13

MOIRA

The rest of November and December are so filled with finishing papers, writing exams, and getting through the rush of the holidays that I don’t end up with a single day to spare for my date with Kenzie until the middle of January.

Based on her texts, Kenzie has been just as busy, but that hasn’t stopped us from sending the occasional taunting message. I had to stop and ask myself what the hell I was doing when I realized I was about to send her a cleavage-filled bikini selfie at the hot tub equipped cottage Lydia and her eternally confusing crew of friends, roommates, and lovers rented for New Year’s Eve.

I thought about it for approximately one second before I sent the photo with the caption ‘Ready to beg?’

I never sent Savannah photos like that. When it came to sex, it always sort of felt like I wasn’t quite what she wanted. I was close, but it was like there was something missing and if I could just figure out what it was, we’d go from ‘pretty good’ to ‘fucking amazing.’

When we talked about it, she said moving in together would help. When I moved in, she said that might be the problem.

At the time, I thought I was just shy about sending nudes, but I can see now I was really afraid of rejection.

There’s no trace of rejection from Kenzie. She responded to the photo with a very expletive-filled text and then sent a photo of herself wearing ‘pajamas’ in bed.

Apparently Kenzie’s pajamas consist of a skimpy white tank top that gives an excellent preview of her nipples and a pair of black ‘shorts’ I’m pretty sure are actually just underwear.

I force myself to stop staring at that particular photo and put my phone down to finish getting ready for the date.

I have an Arctic Monkeys album streaming through my speaker, and I swivel my hips to the sultry reverb of the bass as I pull a white t-shirt over my head. All we’re doing is meeting at a bar downtown, but after I glance in my full-length mirror, I start to worry my outfit isn’t enough.

The black skinny jeans I have on are the ones I like to call my ‘magic pants,’ namely because they hug my waist and thighs while still being the right length to achieve a tapered fit at the bottom. Finding pants like this is no small feat when you’ve got my combination of luscious legs and toned dance muscles.

The t-shirt has a relaxed fit and a deep enough neckline to show off some of the purple lace of my bra when I lean forward, which I plan on doing a lot of tonight. My hair is hanging in long, loose curls that took way too long to create.

I feel like I’m suiting up in a kilt, visualizing exactly how I’m going to upstage Kenzie during a sword dance, only in this case, the ‘dance’ in question is even more fun, and my outfit involves a lot less tartan.

I drop into a seat on the stool in front of my vanity table, which also serves as my desk. I move my laptop and a few textbooks aside to make room for my elbows as I reach for the glass jar holding the few makeup products I own. Some eye shadow, lip gloss, and a swipe of mascara later, I’m all ready to go.

My mum knows I’m heading out tonight, but I still do my best to pad silently down the stairs in an attempt to leave the house without her noticing. There’s no way I’ll be able to maintain my lie about ‘meeting up with friends’ if she sees me all done up like this.

I can hear her banging around in the kitchen, cleaning up the lasagna we had for dinner. My dad is down in the basement watching whatever his latest TV craze is, and my brother is sleeping at a friend’s tonight.

I get my coat and boots on, and I’m about to make it to the door undetected when the sound of my name ringing out through the house makes me wince.

“Moira, are you leaving?”

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