Filed to story: Kissing the Wrong Brother
Then use Ben to get to Tim.
I let them have their moment. The game I’m playing is a long one. No need to rush things.
As I go to grab a bottle of water, my eyes inadvertently fall on mouthy, messy Aria Walsh.
I pause.
Gone is the snarky, don’t give a shit Aria who’d been hollering smart-ass remarks just a couple minutes before.
Her eyes are locked on her sister’s boyfriend, and the look on her face is painfully familiar.
I know that look.
I know that look better than I’ll ever admit to anyone.
Aria Walsh is in love with her sister’s boyfriend. I’ve got a pretty damn good idea how shittily that’s going to work out for her.
Aria rips her eyes away and stares unseeingly down at her book. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I shift my gaze back to the couple, who are now kissing in earnest, and the anger starts creeping in, mingling with the jealousy and causing a hot stab of resentment to lodge in my chest.
Objectively, I know that I’m watching Kylie and Ben, not Ethan and Olivia.
But it’s the same, isn’t it?
The perfect fucking couple, completely blind to the people around them.
Only this time, it’s not the guy who’s like my brother who has the girl.
It is my brother.
My eyes flick back to Aria.
Maybe Kylie’s not the only path to Ben after all.
Aria’s POV
I’ve been in love with Ben Carson since I was eight.
And I know what you’re thinking …
That I didn’t have hormones when I was eight, so it wasn’t real love, or even real attraction.
You’re wrong.
I love him.
And I know he could love me back, if only he’d look at me.
But ya know? I can’t even blame Ben for not seeing me.
It’s probably hard for him to be aware of his surroundings when my Disney Princess sister has her tongue in his mouth.
I mean, why would you want the funny sidekick when you can have the heroine?
And that’s the type of person Kylie is. Or at least thinks she is. She’s the heroine in every story.
Even other people’s.
As if he reads my mind, Ben slowly pulls back from his reunion kiss to join the land of the living where the actual people do not have eyelashes the size of small bats and a waist the size of a toddler’s.
But, actually, it’s not fair to pick only on Kylie for her blinding good looks.
Of the four of us here on this godforsaken tennis court, I’m the only one that’s not outright beautiful.
Take Ben, for example. Blond. Blue-eyed. Chiseled jaw. Tall, but not too tall, muscular but not bulging. Yummy.
As for the new tennis instructor … I don’t even know what to make of him.
My first thought? Beefcake. It’s obvious why he was hired, and it’s not because he can make contact with a tennis ball ten times out of ten.
Nope, it’s definitely the way his biceps strain the requisite Cambridge Country Club polo, and the way his tanned skin contrasts perfectly with the crisp white fabric.
That and the sulky bad-boy gaze that I’m pretty sure he’s aware of. Maybe even practiced.
New guy is definitely gorgeous. And Kylie’s definitely noticed.
I shift my gaze to where Ben is tucking a lock of Kylie’s ever-silky hair behind her ear. We both have curly hair, but Kylie’s is the kind that can be blown out into all kinds of satiny shine. Unlike my corkscrews, where each curl is like its own rebellious teenager.
It’s clear which version Ben prefers.
And Beefcake, too, given the way he was practically undressing Kylie with his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.
I liked that about him. The way he didn’t let her know he was looking. He was playing games, but by his own rules.
But, anyway, who cares about tennis boy.
Tall, dark, and brooding isn’t my type.
I like them blond, smiley, and kind.
I like them like Ben Carson.
Did I mention I love him?
Ben’s torn himself away from Kylie’s pink lip-glossed mouth long enough to shake hands with Miles. Any other dude would be sizing up the competition-I mean, not three minutes ago, Kylie was totally giving the tennis instructor all kinds of come-hither. But Ben has a friendly smile for the guy who was staring at his girlfriend’s ass.
I wonder if it even occurs to Ben that his girlfriend isn’t immune to Miles St. Claire’s dark,
I pop cherries for a living kind of appeal.
Nah. Ben knows how perfect he is. He’s not going to be worried about some bad-boy tennis pro with too-big biceps.
I pretend to read my book while Ben informs Miles that despite Kylie’s modesty she actually plays tennis for her college team, and Kylie blushes prettily and pretends that it’s no big deal, like she hadn’t already told Miles about her illustrious tennis skills in excruciating detail.
Kylie likes to pretend that her tennis “career” is the reason she didn’t graduate in four years, and the good ol’ parents never seem to wonder if it has something to do with the fact that she changed her major seven-yes, seven-times before settling on French.
The only French Kylie is good at is kissing, but she’s so freaking pretty that nobody seems to notice. Or care.
Meanwhile, I’m on schedule to graduate early with a double major in biology and econ. Not an obvious combo, but, hey … a girl’s got to have options, especially when an MRS degree isn’t exactly right around the corner.
My dad is proud of me.
My mom … well, she’s proud, too. I think she just wishes I were a skinny double major.
You and me both, Mom.
Anyway, none of this really matters.
What matters is that I’d been counting on having my upcoming senior year to myself. Davis University is a small college, and having the beautiful, charming Kylie a year ahead of you in school and light-years ahead of you in popularity has gotten, well, old.
But then sister dearest dropped the bomb that she was two dozen or so credits short of graduating.
My parents hadn’t even blinked.
Me? I’d consumed an entire pint of H?agen-Dazs, and I’m more of a Ben & Jerry’s kind of girl.
That’s how bad it was.
“Ari?”
I snap my head up from the book I hadn’t actually been reading to see Ben moving toward me.
My heart flips.
I know.
It’s bad.
I’m ashamed.
