She frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Come on. Humor me.”

“Fine. It’s Rose.” She rolls her eyes. “I was named after my grandma.”

“Chelsea Rose.” The name rolls off my tongue easily. I like it.

“It’s lame, right?” She laughs, sounding uncomfortable, and I hate that. I don’t want her to feel that way around me. I wonder how many guys she’s gone out with.

I have a feeling the number is pretty small. That fact would normally send me running far, far away.

Instead, I’m sitting here thinking of all the things I could teach Chelsea. While we’re naked. In my bed.

“No, not at all,” I say. “I think it’s pretty.”

Her laughter dies. “Really?”

“Really,” I say firmly. Has no one ever showed her any sort of attention? She acts sort of starved for it sometimes. Not in a psycho-chick way, not even close. More like she’s a slowly blooming flower that grows brighter and even more beautiful the more you water it and talk to it …

Hmm. My brain is churning.

I think of Drew’s tattoo for Fable. How he always wrote her little poems, spelling out words with the first letter of the first line. Crazy, sappy shit that used to drive Fable wild. Like make her cry and kiss Drew and tell him how wonderful he was.

Memories flood me … the time I punched Drew in the mouth, one of my favorite memories ever. Not because I punched Drew, but because I became this angry, almost inhuman thing who could think of nothing but defending his sister. That I knew I could jump to her defense without thinking twice and be her hero pumped me up. Made me feel strong.

Made me feel like a man.

Plus, I mean, come on—it was pretty damn epic, flattening Drew Callahan to the ground with one punch. I know I had the advantage since he hadn’t expected it, but still. I told everyone at school I knocked him out. Maybe 15 percent of them believed it happened, and I’m being generous with that figure. Everyone was skeptical.

But I know the truth.

“You should probably get to work,” she says, not sounding too thrilled by the prospect. I’m starting to think we might be on the same page more than I first realized. She points at my backpack, which I set by my feet. “Did you bring your laptop?”

“Well, yeah.” I reach down and unzip my backpack, pulling out my laptop and opening it. I bring up a Word doc and stare at the blank screen, at that damn blinking cursor I always want to sock in the face since it feels like it’s taunting me, and I start to type. I come up with something totally stupid.

Real

Open

Sexy

Extra pretty

Frowning, I delete it all. That’s Drew’s specialty, not mine. Besides, Chelsea’s not that open with me. Not yet.

So I try a different approach.

Prickly with thorns, pretty little rose.

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“So? What did you write?”

Her voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance up, startled to find her watching me, her expression open and hopeful. She’s got her elbow propped on the edge of the table, her chin resting on her fist, and she looks freaking gorgeous. Her pretty blue eyes sparkle like a clear summer sky and … yep, I see a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wonder how many there are. I wonder if she’d let me get close enough to count them.

“I really hope you came up with something good. You’ve been working on it for almost a half hour,” she says.

“I have?” I’m shocked as I glance down at the clock on my computer screen to see that she’s right. “Uh … yeah, I came up with something. It’s sort of rough, though. Like, it still needs a lot of work.” More like I need to change the entire thing.

The poem is about sex. As in, I’m talking about fingering Chelsea and making her come.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

You want her. That’s what’s wrong with you.

“Can I read it?” She scoots her chair closer to mine, trying to catch a glimpse of the poem. I immediately slam the laptop shut and she rears back, her tempting mouth turned down in a frown. “Guess that’s a no.”

“It’s super rough.” I smile weakly and she stares at me, as if she’s attempting to penetrate my brain or something, and I hold her gaze. Trying my best to look completely neutral. “And sort of personal.”

“Oh.” She blinks and leans back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I try to soften my rudeness by reaching out and grasping her hand in mine. Her fingers are slender and cold and I squeeze them, hoping I can warm them up. “I’m the one who should say sorry. It’s just … it’s a mess. I need to work on it some more.” Like trash it and start completely over.

“I bet it’s fine. Just add it to your portfolio. Don’t worry about it.” She tries to pull out of my grip but I won’t let her. “You have a printer, right?”

“Yeah, I have one.” This conversation has taken a strange turn. I just wrote about making Chelsea come and now we’re talking about printers and shit. I have to get this back on track. “Chelsea. Go out with me.”