I smile at Mitzy and throw an arm around Kennedy’s shoulders. This means solo time with Kennedy. “It sounds like a lot of fun, Mrs. Randolph.”
• • •
“Kennedy, are you awake?” I whisper.
I listen outside the door of the Randolphs’ suite, but I don’t hear any movement on the other side. Disappointment drops in my stomach. Because we spent the entire day with our parents, walking and talking and frigging talking some more. We had a late dinner in the “fabulous” restaurant downstairs, then our parents pretty much sent us to bed. While they hit the casino.
Ageism is a terrible thing.
But now it’s just after midnight, and I have an awesome idea.
Which only works if Kennedy is still awake.
I knock again, louder this time. “Kennedy?”
The door opens halfway, and Kennedy peers up at me. Her glasses are off and her eyes—I never noticed before, but they’re spectacular.
Thick, long lashes frame sparkling, golden-brown orbs. Soft and so . . . warm. The kind of eyes a guy would want to look down into while he’s moving above her—the kind you’d hope she’ll leave open while you kiss, deep and slow.
The rest of her? Well—I’ve always kind of noticed that.
Ever since she started wearing a training bra and I discovered the delicious sin of masturbation.
And I’d have to be blind not to notice her now. A thin-strapped silky pink tank top that’s kind of draped across her chest. It doesn’t show any cleavage, but if she moves just the right way, we’re talking a prime view. The bottom half is matching pink shorts that are swishy around her thighs, showing off killer toned legs.
And I’m not the only one noticing things.
Kennedy’s eyes slide across the chest of my sleeveless shirt and down the ridged muscles of my biceps. My skin is surfer-boy tan from outdoor workouts and afternoon practices. Then her eyes cut across to my waist, maybe picturing the six-pack beneath it, and then . . . lower. And I wonder if she notices how hard I’m reacting to watching her watch me.
The tinge of pink on her cheeks tells me she just might be.
Her gaze settles on my smiling face. She licks her lips and says, “Hey. What’s up, Brent?”
I hold up the keys to my father’s 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California. Also known as the Ferris Bueller’s Day Off car.
Less than a hundred were made and, just like in the movie, it’s my father’s pride and joy. And it’s parked downstairs right now.
I found out today that Kennedy doesn’t have her driver’s license. With her family’s chauffeurs, her mother didn’t see the point.
And I’m going to rectify that.
“Ready for your first driving lesson?”
• • •
“. . . then you ease your foot back at the same time.”
We’re in the big empty parking lot of a darkened building a few miles from the hotel. Kennedy listens to my instructions intently, brow furrowed, adjusting her glasses. She seems excited, determined, and totally adorable.
“Got it?”
“Got it.” She nods.
And she goes for it.
There’s a grinding sound as she moves the stick shift, and I mentally thank the clutch for his brave sacrifice. We start to move forward, bucking, inch by inch and I tell her, “Now gun it. Hit the gas.”
And then we’re moving.
Kennedy’s smile is huge and bright, like Christmas morning and the Fourth of July rolled into one.
The car gives a slight stutter as she shifts into second gear, but smooths back down after her foot is off the clutch. With one hand on the wheel, she grabs my arm with the other.
“I’m doing it, Brent!”
It’s awesome, and I chuckle. “Yeah, you are.”
• • •
“You need a nickname. Kennedy is kind of a mouthful to say.”
We’re parked at a picnic area high above the lights in the town below. It’s still and quiet. The top of the car is open, but the sky feels like a dark canopy above us, dotted with countless bright stars.
We didn’t crash into anything and the car is still running, so in my mind, Kennedy’s driving lessons were a roaring success. She said she wasn’t ready for the open road, but I’ll get her there eventually. The look on her face when she really got the hang of shifting—it was pure elation and gratitude. Seeing that expression felt just like when I block an opposing team’s goal—like something I was born to do again and again.
“My name is too long? Do you often have difficulty with big words?” she asks with a smartass smirk. “Maybe you should see someone about that.” Then she asks, “What’s your nickname?”
“BC.”
She frowns, trying to figure it out. “Because your middle name is Charles?”
I shake my head and tell her with the straightest face, “Big Cock.”
Kennedy laughs. “Did you think of that all by yourself?”
“The guys on the team gave it to me. It’s a lot to live up to—don’t want to disappoint the younger classmen. But in the immortal words of Spider-Man, with great power comes great responsibility.”
“Uncle Ben, actually.”
“What?”
She tilts her head. “Uncle Ben said that, not Spider-Man. Remember?”
I do. But the fact that she remembers . . . is pure fucking awesome. It does things to me—deep, thoughtful, serious emotion type of things.
But I’ve never been the serious kind of guy, so I tease, “How about Randy? Randy Randolph. Can I call you that?”