Robin Wasserman - Envy

When they reached the bar, Chip ignored Adam, who was attempting to order. Beer for Harper, soda for him-he was too conscientious to drive drunk. Such an adorably good boy. Chip eventually nodded absentmindedly in response to Adam’s request, and filled a glass with beer, never taking his eyes off Harper.

“How you doin’, beautiful?” he asked, grazing his fingers along hers as he handed her the glass. His eyes dipped down from her face to her cleavage, blatantly enough that even Adam noticed-she could tell by the way he stiffened next to her. She loved it. He was priming himself to defend her honor. Perfect.

“Better, now,” Harper replied, taking a demure sip and smiling up at Chip through lowered eyes.

“You’re looking better than ever, I’ll tell you that much.”

Harper flicked her hair away from her face and giggled. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Can I get that soda now?” Adam cut in.

Chip studiously ignored him. “So, when you gonna let me take you out again, gorgeous?”

“Sooner than you think,” Harper said playfully, noting the horrified look Adam shot her. “When Prada goes on sale at Wal-Mart” would have been a more accurate response-Harper shuddered, remembering the hot blast of Chip’s garlicky breath on her neck-but that was no reason to spoil all the fun.

“Seriously, my soda?” Adam growled.

“Dude, tell your friend here to chill out,” Chip complained. “What are you doing with him, anyway? Sweet piece of ass like you shouldn’t be wasting your time with Joe Quarterback.”

Adam jumped off his stool and took a menacing step toward the bar, where he loomed over the twerpy Chip, who, even in his pseudo-hip platform sneakers still looked about as tall as his name implied. “What did you call her?” Adam asked dangerously.

Chip seemed too stoned-or too stupid-to notice the tone. Harper smiled and sat back, ready to watch the show.

“What, you telling me you don’t want to hit that?” Chip asked, gesturing toward Harper. “I know I did-and let me tell you, once isn’t enough.”

Adam opened his mouth and shut it again, whirling on Harper.

“Are you telling me that you and, and this-” He turned back to Chip, groping for the right words. Harper could have supplied a few choice ones, all accurate-pipsqueak, mouthbreather, pencil dick-but this was Adam’s show.

“Look, asshole, say something like that about her again, and I’ll-”

“Like what?” Chip sneered up at him. “Like what a luscious body she has? How good she looks in those jeans? Or how good she looks out of them?”

“That’s it. We’re getting out of here.” Adam pulled Harper off the stool with one hand and grabbed his wallet with the other. He tore out a five-dollar bill and threw it down on the bar.

Chip slid it back toward him roughly.

“Oh no, my treat.”

“Take it,” Adam growled, pushing it back toward him.

“I said , it’s on me.”

“You know what? Have it your way.” Adam grabbed the bill back and lifted Harper’s half-full glass of beer in a mock toast. “It’s on you.” And he dumped the beer on Chip’s head, grabbing Harper and pulling her out of the bar before the dim-witted loser’s reflexes had time to kick him into motion.

“What the hell did you just do in there, Ad?” Harper asked, gasping with laughter, once they were safely out in the parking lot. “I can never show my face in there again!”

“He was asking for it,” Adam said, stone-faced. “And you!” He shook his head. “I know you’ve dated some losers in your time, but this guy?”

“Well, Chip’s an idiot,” Harper admitted, “but he’s got a few other things going for him.”

“Stop.” Adam lightly covered her mouth with his hand. “Please, I don’t want to hear it.”

She batted her eyelashes up at him. “What? Jealous?”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “Just get in the car.”

She laughed, and did as he said. She didn’t have to press the point-because she knew she was right.

He’d fought for her honor.

He’d been jealous, jealous of the idea of her with another guy.

Which meant that somewhere in that thick and oblivious head of his was buried the knowledge that she really belonged to him. That somewhere beneath all those layers of puppy dog love for Beth and all that “just friends” bullshit he reserved for Harper, he wanted something more.

He wanted her.

She knew it.

He just needed a little push in the right direction. And he was about to get it.

Kaia skipped lunch on Monday. It was no big loss. After a month in this hick-filled hellhole, she’d learned that the less Grace-produced food ingested, the better. Besides, Kaia had other things on her mind. One in particular.

He wasn’t in his classroom, but she found him a few minutes later in the so-called “faculty lounge,” really a dark, oversize closet with a few threadbare couches and a malfunctioning coffee machine.

Students weren’t allowed in the room-it was to be a sanctuary for the underpaid burnouts whose snoozing students failed to see the applicability of algebra to a future career in tractor-pulling, or the ability of Shakespeare to improve their application to the beauty academy. Two years ago the teachers had gone on strike, demanding shorter hours, fewer students per class, more pay; they’d received a faculty lounge.

Kaia didn’t know any of that, of course, but if she had, she wouldn’t have cared.

She did know she wasn’t supposed to go inside. The boldfaced NO STUDENTS sign on the door was a good tip-off. The sharp glare Mrs. Martin shot her as she scuttled out of the lounge was a better one. Teachers-only territory. No trespassing.

Kaia didn’t care about that, either. She pushed through the door into the dark space, and there he was, Jack Powell-adorable, and alone.

At first he didn’t see her. He was sprawled on one of the couches, reading by the dim light of a halogen lamp-the overhead lighting was about as much use as a half-dead flashlight when it came to lighting up the room, much less the page. He’d kicked his legs up on the makeshift coffee table and was poring over a thick hardcover, his face scrunched up in thought. He was completely absorbed, and failed to notice when the door swung open. It was left to Kaia to break his concentration.

“Greetings and salutations, Mr. Powell,” she said in a low voice.

He looked up with an expression of absentminded bemusement; it disappeared as soon as he paired the voice with her face. He snapped the book shut in anger and quickly stood, backing away from her.

“Did I not make myself clear the last time we spoke, Ms. Sellers? Get out of here.”

“Don’t trust yourself alone with me?” she taunted him. “Worried about what you might do?”

“I’m not the one who’s worried-thanks to you, I’ve got half the school thinking I want to play Humbert Humbert to your Lolita. But I’m sure you know that already, since it’s exactly what you wanted.”

“All I ever wanted was you, Mr. Powell,” she said sweetly. “Didn’t I make myself clear?”

“Crystal. Now, did anyone see you come in here?”

“Only Mrs. Martin,” she admitted.

“Well, that’s just great.” He shook his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “She’ll have half the town ready to lynch me if she figures out we were in here together. You have to get out of here. Now.”

“You’re sounding a little desperate there, Mr. Powell-it’s not very becoming.” That was a lie, actually. The sharp edge of desperation in his voice made the whole hard-to-get act even sexier.

He paused and gave her a piercing look. It was the same intent gaze he’d given her in their very first encounter, just before explaining that even if she hadn’t been “trouble dressed up in a miniskirt,” he made it a policy not to get involved with students. That had been before she caught him trying to get “involved” with Beth, of course-it turned out the only students he stayed away from were the ones he saw as potential threats. She was too hot to handle, apparently-which was infuriating. And flattering.