Page 38 of The Preacher's Pet

I shake my head and stare at the floor. “I didn’t stay long.”

“No more kissing?” she teases.

I shake my head. “No more kissing. You were right. They are kind of freaky, and I’m here to learn how to be normal.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know… they might be a step too far, for sure. But I like you how you are, and anyway, normal seems kind of boring to me.”

“How can you say that?” I gesture at her perfect hair and clothes and makeup. “You’re as normal as they come.” Then I realize that sounds insulting. “In the best way, I mean. As in, you fit in.”

She gives a soft laugh. “No one is normal in this place, trust me.” She checks her watch. “Shoot, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late to class. We’ll catch up soon, though, yeah? Coffee?”

I smile, relieved I didn’t put my foot in my mouth. “Coffee sounds good.”

Coffee sounds normal. Anice, normalthing to do with a girlfriend, that doesn’t involve candles and dried rabbits’ feet and strange men in masks.

Camile scurries away, and a deep, male voice comes from behind me.

“I can buy you coffee.”

I spin around to find the tall blond who’d warned me off in the cafeteria standing directly behind me. He has his head angled to one side, as though he’s assessing me, and his green eyes hold my gaze.

“I don’t want coffee from you.”

I go to walk away, but he reaches out and catches my arm.

“Hey!” I protest, trying to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go.

“I need to talk to you,” he insists.

“Let go of my arm, or I’ll scream.”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. I hate that he’s attractive, in a way that gives me a little shot of adrenaline every time I see him. He’s clearly a complete asshole, but my word, he’s a beautiful one. I have the crazy idea of running my tongue along the line of his square jaw.

“No, you won’t.” He smirks. “Because you’re trying so damned hard to go unnoticed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He arches an eyebrow. “Then what are you wearing?”

I glance down at my outfit—one of the ones my mom bought and packed for me. She’ll be thrilled that I’m finally wearing one. “Jeans and a t-shirt.”

“Where are your regular clothes?”

“Thesearemy regular clothes.”

“We both know they’re not.”

He still has hold of my arm, and his gaze flicks over my face, resting on my lips before coming back to my eyes. I hate how my face goes red whenever I’m under scrutiny, like I know it’s doing now. I want to flap my hands over my warm cheeks, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. He’s right when he says they’re not my regular clothes. I hate the jeans, and the t-shirt feels way too tight and revealing. I’d told myself that the other night, when I’d worn Camile’s dress, that it was the start of the new me. It means leaving my old, handmade dresses behind, no matter how comfortable or attached I am to them.

“You should wear whatever you want,” he says. “Your dresses suit you. Fuck what anyone else thinks.”

Unexpected tears fill my eyes, but they’re not because he just swore, or that he’s still got hold of my arm. It’s as though he’s just given me permission to be myself, and I discover I’ve wanted to hear that more than anything else.

I’ve spent so many years being molded into the person other people want and expect me to be that I’ve lost sight of myself. I was raised in the commune to one day become the wife of the Prophet, and, when I ran away and was brought home, my parents expected me to be the same girl who went missing that day in front of the ice cream store. Now I’m here, at Verona Falls, and I see all the girls around me, confident in who they are, and I’m trying to take their images, too, to paste over the top of who I am.

“It’s Roman, right?” I manage to say, though I speak through a throat tight with repressed emotion.

He nods. “That’s right.”

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