Page 74 of Devil's Bargain

“My parents are out of town this weekend. I thought we could go to my place?”

“Okay.” I watch his handsome profile as he taps his fingers on the wheel. I’m in the car with Rick, the town’s star quarterback. It feels surreal. “Who’s your favorite character?”

He scratches the side of his jaw. “Sailor Mercury. She reminded me of myself.”

I nod along. “I can see it.”

He laughs, and the rich sound makes my heart beat faster. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not?”

I shrug. “It depends. But I meant it as one.”

“I’ll take it,” he says, smiling.

We park in his driveway. I step outside and close the door behind me, staring up at the tall colonial-style house. It belongs in a magazine. “Wow, Rick!”

He looks uncomfortable as he rounds the car and nudges his head toward the front door. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

I follow behind. Everything about his house is immaculate. The grass has perfect stripes, the roses are well tended to, and the house looks like it’s had a fresh lick of paint. Rick’s parents take pride in their home, and it shows.

Rick unlocks the door and holds it open for me. I halt in my step when I see the sweeping double staircase in front of me. “Wow…” I’m lost for words.

“You might make it to my room if you close your eyes,” he jokes, walking past me up the stairs.

I follow behind, taking in the sheer grandeur of this place. “I couldn’t imagine waking up here every day.”

Rick looks at me over his shoulder.

I blush when I realize how my words could be construed.

“If you live here long enough, you’ll become blind to it.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’ve seen my house.”

We reach the landing, and Rick walks ahead. He opens the first door to the right. His room is exactly as I imagined, with navy blue bedding, curtains, and a rug. The walls are painted gray, and there’s a glass cabinet with trophies to the left as you walk inside. The room is masculine and modern, designed by an interior designer, no doubt.

I blush when my eyes fall on his big bed. He sleeps in there, tossing and turning in those navy sheets.

My feet carry me over to the display cabinet to my left. I go to place my palm on the glass but think better of it. “You’ve won quite a few trophies.”

He sits down on his bed. “I suppose.”

I turn, hitching my thumb at the trophies behind me. “You don’t call that a lot? I can count on one hand how many trophies I’ve got.” I pretend to count before giving up. “That’s right, none!”

His eyes follow me as I walk over to his desk and drag my fingers over the surface as I go. It’s a beautiful mahogany desk, just like his bedframe and bookshelf. “I like your room.”

He leans back on his elbows and his white t-shirt rides up to expose a sliver of abs. A dark smatter of hair leads down to the edge of his boxers, visible above the hem of his jeans. I rip my gaze away, my cheeks blazing.

“What do you like about it?”

I pick up a book. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. “I like the colors. It’s masculine but not too mature. You can tell it belongs to an eighteen-year-old boy.”

I place the book back down and trail my eyes over the poster above his bed. “Your favorite footballer?”

He looks at the poster. “Oh, that’s good old Tom. I aspire to be him one day.”

I come to a stop, unsure what to do or say next.

“I likeyouin my room.”

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