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17
Rena
“How many teamsare at this thing?” I ask Beck as I drum my fingers on the steeringwheel.
“Six. Each debate is thirty minutes with breaks inbetween.”
I do the math in my head. “So, if youwin…”
“We’ll be there untilten.”
I groan inwardly as I find parking near Baden that’s not fifty bucks an hour. I grab the bag in the back seat and shift out of thecar.
Beck raises a brow. “What’sthat?”
“Dinner.” I hold open the top to show him the brownboxes.
“Aww, you brought mefood.”
“For luck.” I hand him a box, and he tries to open it as we walk, nearly succeeding in dropping it on thepavement.
“You’re not here for me. You’re here for Wes,” he says, and I slap him. “Ow.”
“Don’t call him that. He’s your teacher, and he has like ten more years of school than you will everhave.”
“I said I’m going to be an actor. I’m still going to college,” he retorts, glancing at my outfit. “Did you wear that onpurpose?”
“What’s wrong with what I’mwearing?”
“Nothing. You lookgood.”
I smooth down my fitted jeans and reach back to tug on my ponytail. My ankle boots are the same ones I wore Friday night, but Beck doesn’t knowthat.
We navigate the hallways to the main auditorium. I follow a few steps behind Beck as he beelines for a group of students in Baden colors in one corner by thestage.
A familiar voice says, “Come on, let’sprep.”
I catch Wes’s gaze over the teenagers’ heads, and I wave. He grins back at me, and I resist the urge to press a hand to mychest.
Oh, boy. He’s wearing a suit, charcoal with a matching tie that makes his eyes look more blue than gray. He made an effort to tame his hair but gave up, and I’m glad he did because he looks like he just wokeup.
My fingersitch.
I feel as if everyone can tell I’m checking him out as I take a seat in the frontrow.
By the time Wes drops into the seat beside me a few minutes later, setting his book bag next to him and loosening his tie imperceptibly, I’m craving his company. “You mad I came?” Iask.
“Figured I couldn’t stop you. No point being upset aboutit.”
The half-smile he sends my way isn’t the same one he flashed the teenagers a secondago.
This one feels grownup.
Andours.
My heart skips. I think I might bebroken.
He brushes a finger over my cheekbone, and it takes a shallow breath for me to realize he’s tracing the scratch. “Better?”
