Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

was feeling too depressed to say yes, but I can get all dressed up and be fabulous for a little while, I guess."

The dress is made of silky panels of bright paisley, and I picked it up on a shopping trip in Venice with my mother just before she jetted off to her fabulous Cabo mansion with her new boyfriend.

It stings that she isn't around, but my mother had been perching right on the edge of leaving for good since I was about fourteen. Honestly, it's a shock she lasted as long as she did.

"You make my heart happy! Send me pictures," Brenna trills ecstatically before letting me go so I can get ready.

I let Granddaddy and Gramma know I'm coming along and try not to feel too pathetic about their incredibly joyful, lit-up-like-jack-o-lantern faces when they realize I actually want to leave the house.

I have time for a bubble bath, so I indulge in a swimmy expanse of nearly boiling water and wildflower smelly stuff. I pin my hair up around my head, put on extra smoky makeup, and when I'm dressed and ready, I know exactly how good I look by the scowl on Granddaddy's face.

"I just don't think it's fair to the paintings, is all. People are supposed to be looking at them, but how could they with Evan looking so damn pretty?" he huffs and his mustache quivers.

I kick one booted foot back and lay a kiss on his cheek. "Is that your diplomatic way of telling me you think I should wear a turtleneck and khakis?"

"Of course not, darling. It's too hot for a turtleneck. But a nice big t-shirt with a neck up here." He holds a flat hand under his chin and Gramma rolls her eyes.

"She'll have plenty of time to dress like a matron when she's an old lady," she fusses, straightening the strap on my dress and holding me at arm's length. "You will steal the show, love. And there will be plenty of eligible young men, probably college boys. I think you're ready to move away from this high school set."

She seethes around the last three words like she's talking about decomposing corpses or imitation handbags.

From the back seat on the ride over, I watch my grandparents chat and laugh. My granddaddy puts a hand across the console and takes Gramma's hand. I can see from the rearview mirror that he frisks a few suggestive looks her way, and when she turns, I catch the profile view of her blush-and-smile combo.

It's so different from the tedium of my parents' marriage, and it gives me hope. Maybe it will be like the level posture or peppery temper I inherited from Gramma, and the true love gene will skip my mama's generation and pierce me through the heart with its arrow.

I can hope. I do hope.

By the time Granddaddy hands his keys to the valet and we walk into the cavernous space, hope silvers the edges of my dismal mood. Or maybe it's stupidity, because I immediately scan this monstrous room packed with smartly casual, perfume-drenched rich bitches for Winch, as if he's going to magically appear with his soft blue eyes and the twitch of all our missed-opportunity kisses on his lips.

"Now there's a good-looking fella. That's Margurite Holinger's grandson. Sweet as pie and so handsome, he'd have to watch out if I were ten years younger," Gramma purrs in my ear, pressing her hand to my hip to propel me in the direction of a good-looking overly-groomed guy leaned against one of the many wrought iron railings that circle a platformed cement landing. "Let me know if you decide to go grab a bite or go out dancing."

I have community service in the morning, but it wouldn't hurt to go have some fun as long as I don't stay out too late. Gramma and Granddaddy are already pulled into a throng of their noisy, rowdy friends, who all seem way more interested in whispering to each other, stealing crab cake hor d'oeuvres from harried waiters, and ordering lots of drinks double and neat, than in soaking up the art that surrounds them.

Margurite Holinger's grandson is hitting on Genevive Marcusso's grandson, so, though I appreciate Gramma's adorably oblivious suggestion, I'm not about to crash in on their flirtation when I would be so incredibly unwanted in every way. I move instead towards one of the paintings and study it as thoughtfully as I can.

It's dark and messy. I don't get a sense of form. There's no random shock of beauty. I wait, squinting my eyes like it's one of those 3-D posters I used to love when I was a kid, but the gorgeousness never pops out of the chaotic lines and scribbles. The heady scent of a strong cologne snaps my attention suddenly to the side.

"You're not a fan?"

He's handsome in a tousled, scruffy way; button-down slightly wrinkled, pants too long, blue-green eyes dancing like he's laughing at me.

"Are you the artist?" I gesture to the painting and purse my lips.

"No." He chuckles softly and clasps his hands behind his back. "Do I look like an artist?"

"Or like a couch-crashing grad student." I raise one eyebrow at him and he laughs.

"I take it my ironing attempts were unsuccessful?"

He holds his arms out at his sides and the wrinkled patches of fabric do show a haphazard attempt at ironing.

"Half-successful," I concede, and that familiar pull grabs low in my stomach.

I love the chase, the dance, the flirtation. It's not the honest punch of breathless attraction I feel when I see Winch, but that's not going to happen, and this just might.

"Half-successful is probably worse than unsuccessful when it comes to ironing. I'm Jace, by the way." He holds out a hand.

"Evan."

We shake.

He squints against the blaring lights over the uninspired painting and twitches as the crush of the ear-splitting, liquor-soaked crowd presses uncomfortably close.

He turns to me and says, "It's getting really crowded here. If you're interested, maybe we could go