ONE

Mandy hadn't taken the job framing houses so she could stare at tan, bare-chested hotties in low-riding jeans with tool belts slung around their waists. She'd grown up on construction sites—her father's workers and crew were like her uncles.

She was eighteen now, and the young guys glistening under the noon sun looked anything but related to her.

Her mouth went dry.

            There were four golden gods in all. One was her brother Marc. She wasn't looking at him, of course. She was watching his nail-toting, hammer-wielding companions. All three, including her brother—even though she cringed at the admittance—were built better than any sculpture she'd seen. She couldn't take her eyes off their muscle flexing under golden-brown skin.

            The sun was hot, with rays that needled her. Her arms, naked in the tank top she was wearing, felt the heat, though she was sure half of it was due to the sizzling sight. The guys had on shorts, their legs the same rich bronze as their bodies. She'd worn jeans because of the potential hazards on the job, and was sorry now—the sun's fire magnified through the denim. She'd be a walking oven in no time.

            I need to focus, Mandy blinked as if that would cause the exquisite scene before her to vanish. She cleared her throat.

            The sound brought all heads whipping her direction.

            "Hey." At least her voice didn't betray her rattling nerves.

            Her brother scowled and started over to her. He jerked his sandy head her direction and the other guys immediately left their posts and crossed to her.

            When Marc stopped, she recognized the musky odor of his sweat, like a signature.

"This is my sister, Mandy," he announced. The three other guys approached in what Mandy could have sworn was slow motion…in her head she heard a bass thumping, drums pounding, as if the moment was straight out of a music video.

The first guy had a red bandana wrapped around his head. The laugh lines feathering away from his smiling eyes told Mandy that he was probably the oldest of the group, somewhere in his late twenties. He most definitely was the tannest, his skin starting to leather.

He extended a hand. "A.J. Heard a lot about you. Congrats on graduating."

His hand was hot and sweaty, but Mandy expected that. "Thanks."

Next to A.J. stood a buzzed blond with pearl-blue eyes. He hadn't shaved, Mandy noted, and the stubble on his cheeks and neck made him look like he was a surfer who'd just taken a wave and brought home some sand. His light denim, thread-bare shorts were cut off at the knees, the hems frayed. He rubbed his hand on his rear pocket before sticking it her direction. "Larry."

Mandy gave him a nod when she shook his hand. "Hey."

The last one of the crew looked to be about her age, and from the intense focus of his deep brown eyes she knew he was about as happy as Marc to have her there. He wore a blue Boston team baseball cap over hair nearly the same rich chocolate color as his eyes. He was forgoing the friendly handshake by keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

Mandy withdrew her extended hand. Marc had squeezed enough lemons into her life that she never puckered up and backed away from anything. "You going to tell me your name or do I call you Boston?"

His eyes narrowed. "Boston will be fine."

 "Nice to meet you, Boston."

"It's Charlie," Marc said.

Mandy wondered why Boston shifted, like he was embarrassed, at the mention of his name. "Charlie? As in Charles?"

"As in Charlie," Boston corrected.

"I'll stick with Boston," she grinned. "Now, where do you want me?"

The guys exchanged slow glances. Marc sighed, scratched his shaggy hair and looked her over from pony tail to work boots. "You can back out now and I won't tell Dad a thing."

Mandy stiffened. "Forget that."

"Man." Marc shook his head. "I can't believe you're trying to do this."

"I'm not trying, Marc, I'm doing. Now tell me where you want me. Or maybe you'd prefer it if I call Dad and get my instructions from him." She whipped out the cell phone she kept in her belt.

"This isn't his job," Marc snapped. "It's my job."

"Don't worry, I won't step on your boots." She tucked the phone back with a smile. "Just tell me where to go."

The guys chuckled and exchanged low murmurs Mandy was sure weren't complimentary.  "Something you want to say?"

A.J held up his palms. "Not me, sister." He looked at Marc. "I'm getting back to work, boss." With a wink and whistle, he turned and headed to the northern most corner of the partially framed house.

"Uh, yeah…" Larry scrubbed his stubble as he backed away. "That goes for me."

Mandy's eyes widened when he turned and she saw his backside; the denim was so worn it barely held together over grey knit bun-huggers. When he reached back for a deep crack scratch, her face twisted.

She knew better than to verbalize disgust, and when she tore her gaze away from Larry's barely-covered bottom she found both Marc and Boston watching her. Marc wore a smirk, but Boston's expression was dark and unreadable.

Mandy stood erect, one hand poised on her hammer, the other on her drill. "Shall we?"

Marc sighed. "Come on, then." He took off, and she followed, noting Boston's gaze was still locked on her. She stopped.

"After you." Mandy made a sweeping gesture. This guy had a nail stuck in his cheek, it was obvious.

Finally, he uncrossed his arms, and Mandy couldn't help that her eyes were drawn by the gravitational pull of his ripped abs. Before she let her gaze linger, she cleared her throat and looked him in the eyes.

His not-amused expression told her he didn't appreciate being sized up. Lifting her chin, she decided to slip on her boxing gloves. She'd learned a lot growing with a brother who loved to remind her how inferior the female sex was. She could fight as long and hard as the next guy.

Marc's angry voice broke their tight stare down. "Over here, Mand. Now."

Mandy avoided stray blocks of wood, fallen nails, and other potentially hazardous debris as she made her way to her brother. She kept glancing over her shoulder, feeling the quiet heat of Boston at her heels.

"Ready, boss." Playfully, she whipped out her hammer and drill, but the joke only made Marc's face stony.

"You can start bringing over sheers," he told her. "We'll be going up tomorrow."

Seeing that he was finally going to let her do her part, she dropped the antics and nodded, slipping her tools back into the belt.

"Supplies are—"

"I know." Why he was explaining the basics, she couldn't fathom, unless it was to show his team he was good at bossing around. She and Marc had grown up playing in framed houses like monkeys on a jungle gym.

Marc snorted, looked at Boston and jerked his head, and the two of them walked off to another section of the house. Mandy let out a little huff.

She pulled leather work gloves out and slipped them on. No way was she going to ruin a fresh set of acrylic nails she'd just had put on two days ago.

Crossing through the site, she stopped and took in a deep breath. She loved the smell of raw wood, the sound of hammers banging—that magical rhythm that was both passionate and fierce, uncivilized like the melody of a tribal sacrifice deep in the jungle. Ever since she was a little girl that scent had intoxicated her, the act of constructing had enticed her, and she'd decided to set her course for her own construction company someday, just like her father.

"Smell the roses on your own time." Marc's cross voice snapped through her bliss. She cocked her head at him. She'd paused for what, about a second?

"Yes, sir," she said with a salute. A.J and Larry hadn't stopped to take note of their little squabble, but Boston had. She gave him a friendly nod before making her way off the cement foundation and onto the dirt. If these guys thought she was going to cave under a little rough treatment they had another thing coming.

The thigh-high stack of four-by-eight pieces of plywood lay just outside of the framed first floor. She reached over, put both hands on the sides of the top piece and pulled. It weighed a ton, and she grunted, levering the rough wood so it slid off the pile and stood upright.

Her quick glance back at the guys reminded her that she had an audience: all of them had stopped and were watching. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and gripped the cumbersome piece, lifted it about four inches and started over.

The muscles in her arms quivered and sweat streamed down the sides of her face, along her spine. It wasn't as though she couldn't carry the twenty-five pound weight. It was the awkward position she had to carry it: right out in front of her. Most workers hauled sheers over their heads. She'd never be able to do that.

By the time she had the piece near the corner where they were working, she was gasping. Resting it against one of the framed walls, she stepped back and swiped her forearm across her forehead.

"Gee," Marc began, and Mandy knew by his tone he was going to be mean. "That only took you seven minutes. At this rate, we might have the first floor done in, what, about four weeks?"

Mandy glared at him but didn't say anything, just stomped back to the pile and grabbed another one. She tried to hold the sheer up higher in hopes she could cross the site faster, but the awkward position left her waddling like a duck so her knees didn't bump into the sheer. She only made it halfway before she had to stop and give her arms a much needed break.

Refusing to look at Marc or the other guys, she hoisted up the plank again and labored over to the wall then laid this piece against the other.

"Aw, come on." A.J. set down his nail gun, stepped away from the wall he was framing and sauntered over with a grin.

"You – don't – need – to help me," she gasped. "I can do – it myself."

"Sure you can, baby doll." He was over at the pile of plywood before she could say another word. With the effort of plucking cardboard, he had two pieces of the bulky wood off the pile and up over his head. His eyes crinkled into another grin. "You pull 'em off the stack and I'll carry them over, how's that?"

Mandy blinked. One glance at her brother and she knew he'd chide her later. "That's nice of you, A.J., but I can do this. If it takes me all day, I will do this."

"It'll take you more than all day," he winked. "And I know you'll do it. But it's a two-man job, so, I'm your man." He started back into the house, every muscle in his body snapping to attention under the load.

Over in the corner, Marc shook his head and went back to work. Larry started whistling. The look of wary curiosity on Boston's face had Mandy lifting her chin and staying locked in another stare-down with him until he finally turned, driving his hammer fast and hard at a two-by-four.

A stream of frustration ran through her. So this was it? Her dream of working for her dad, of learning his trade was going to be earned with teeth and nails? Power games and politics?

A.J. tossed the sheers into the stack she'd started and headed back her direction. Quickly, she reached over, grabbed onto another piece of plywood and pulled it off the stack, then held it ready. His fingers brushed her gloves and he smiled into her eyes before taking the piece. "What, they didn't have enough room for you at Harvard?"

Mandy flushed. "They did. I just…I've always wanted to build houses."

"That so?" A.J.'s smile deepened. "Guess that's why you're here then."

"That's right." Mandy gave a nod, hoping the others, including Marc, would get over it. "It's been my dream since I was a little girl."

 "Dream, huh? Well, baby doll." A.J. took the sheer and lifted it. Sweat glazed the contours of his chest and underarms. "You came to the right place." He turned and headed across the site. "Didn't she boys?"

"We're it, yeah," Larry piped with a string of nails propped between his teeth before pounding his hammer. He laughed, and the guys laughed with him.

Mandy went back to work.

In tandem, they moved half the pile, until A.J. stopped, yanked the red bandana off his head and swiped it over his face. A crop of caramel-colored hair stuck up on end and he scrubbed it with a groan of pleasure. Mandy pulled her water bottle from the back of her tool belt and took a long drink.

By noon, Marc, Larry and Boston had finished half of the main floor framework.

"I'd say it's about lunch time, wouldn't you, boss?" A.J. addressed Marc.

Marc glanced at his watch. "Yeah, it is."

Though Mandy acted like she could go on until midnight, her arms were ready to fall off and she had a dull ache in her lower back.  One sweep of the toned, sweaty bodies surrounding her and she humbly realized she had a long way to go before her own body could take long days of abuse like this. But she was okay with that. This isn't a race, but a marathon. She didn't care if she was at the starting line and these guys were already half way around the track. She'd catch up. She might even pass them by.

Each of the guys took off their tool belts and started toward the white Homes by Haynes truck Marc had driven them to the site in. They gathered at the rear of the vehicle and laid their belts inside the bright metal box meant to safely store valuables under lock and key.

Mandy joined them. Standing behind a wall of bronzed males she was overcome with the musk of perspiration – hers, mixed with the fading, sweet perfume she'd dabbed on earlier and their natural scents heavy and dirty, but not entirely disgusting. Mandy understood a fair amount of stink came with the job. She cleared her throat, and waited for the wall of flesh to part so she could safely stow her own belt.

A.J. turned around and flashed a glimpse of white teeth. Before she knew it, he had her belt and was setting it inside of the storage box for her.

She caught Marc rolling his eyes. He pulled a red Homes by Haynes tee shirt over his head. She had to defend herself. "Thanks, A.J., but you don't have to treat me any differently than you would one of the guys. Really. I can take care of myself."

"Just helping out." A.J. snatched another red company tee from a pile in the truck bed. His chest rippled in fast, hard waves as he slipped it on.

Larry reached over, snagged a shirt and moved past her to open the door of the cab. "Let's roll, I could eat a horse."

Slamming the storage lid, Marc locked it, then rounded the truck and got into the driver's seat. After adjusting his baseball cap, Boston climbed up over the bed of the truck, and tugged on a shirt before stretching out using the pile of leftover tee shirts as a pillow.

A.J. tilted his head toward the cab. "You coming to lunch, baby doll?"

"Sure." She was part of the crew, why wouldn't she? Mandy followed him to the cab. He held the door open and gestured for her to get in. With two big guys already scrunched inside, there was barely enough room for A.J. Marc's glare almost had her backing out of lunch altogether.

"Sometime today, Mand," Marc bit out.

She climbed up. A.J. shut the door and his muscled body nestled next to hers, nudging her against Larry. Because they were crammed like sardines in a can, A.J. stretched out his arm behind her back.

"See? Little thing like you can fit anywhere," A.J. smiled.

"Thanks for making room."

"You're one of us now." A.J. patted her shoulder. "Where we go, you go. Right, boss?"

"Uh, right." As soon as Marc started the car, Aerosmith blared from all four speakers. Mandy didn't miss the teasing smile Marc shot at A.J. as he pulled the truck out onto the street. A truck full of construction workers and she was the only girl? She had a feeling they wouldn't be dining at Wendy's.

                                           *         *         *

The light was on in John's window, so Jennifer remained in the dark. From what she could see, he wasn't in his room. But she heard his voice. Quietly, she unlocked her window, slowly cranking the shaft so it swung open.

            "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou, her amid, art far more fair than she. Be not…be not…here…be…not her…."

            Peering out over the ledge, Jennifer saw John down on the grass, looking up into his window. She squelched a giggle and stood back in the darkness so that he wouldn't see her.

            His soothing voice salved the cold night air. When his voice had first changed, she'd teased him about it. Then one day she noticed how calming, almost melodic it was.

She leaned against the wall, her hand over her heart as she listened to him. Her lips curved into a smile.

            "Be not her…"

             Jennifer heard the line he was stumbling on in her head and thought about whispering it out the window, but then she'd probably make him madder at her. He'd never been one to hold a grudge, but they weren't kids anymore. The social stakes were higher. He'd been unnecessarily mean at rehearsal, pointing out her cheat to Chip. She almost closed her window, leaving him to his exasperating rehearsal alone.

He deserves it.

            "Be not her…crud."

 But how could every bitter and angry thought that had festered inside dissolve at just the sound of his voice? She leaned out the window and looked down through the darkness at him.

            Night had brought a slight breeze into the valley. The shrubs and rose bushes that slept alongside the Vienvu house rustled, as if refusing to wake from a winter dream. His breath was soft, white, curling upward into the night.

            "You have my lines down at least," she said.

            Startled, John turned and looked up at her. "Yours and everybody else's but my own," he said on a sigh.

            "Thought you could use some prompting."

            "I could have used it this afternoon."

            She should have frowned at the reminder of the unpleasant rehearsal, but with him standing there looking every bit the part of Romeo, she could only smile. And apologize. "Sorry about that."

            The next moment was quiet. Warm wonder and promise seemed to be in the air, even with the biting temperature. A tree in the Vienvu back yard twined its leaves with a tree in the Michaels yard and the soft rustling was the only sound.

John took a step closer to the wall of her house. His gaze was intense. For a moment, she was afraid he was going to confront her about what she'd said about the kiss and she readied herself for a fight.

"It is my lady," he began, his voice smooth and rich as melting honey butter. "Oh, it is my love. Oh, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?"

            "Ay, me!" Jennifer replied, keeping from breaking into a giggle. Her insides spun.

            John took hold of the lattice her parents had attached to the house some thirteen years ago. Now, it was covered with some sort of ivy. During the summer it was dotted with fragrant red blooms. With the chill of winter, the small green leaves had browned and crisped, petrified by frost.

            "See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand. That I might touch that cheek!"

John's face glowed with the blue haze of a winter moon. He felt for a spot of security in the lattice with his foot. His hands dove deep into the growth without hesitation. He looked driven, eyes focused, body determined. He pulled himself up.

            "O speak again, bright angel!" he continued, slowly climbing. "For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as a winged messenger of heaven."

            She reached out both arms to him, just like she did in the play. "O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. O if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet."

            With each pull, he drew nearer and Jennifer's heart fluttered. "Be careful," she whispered on a laugh.

            "Fear not, Juliet." He grinned. "Not only am I Romeo, but I have been known to morph into Spiderman."

            Jennifer leaned out further, extending her hand to help. Then they both heard a snap, followed by a sharp crackle. John's eyes shot wide as he slid and tumbled down, falling flat on the hard ground below.

            Jennifer gasped and ran from her bedroom. Her mother was just turning off the lights in the kitchen when she flew past.

            "Jenn?"

            "Be right back!" She was out the back door and around to the side of the house before she took another breath. The breath she sought choked in her throat. She stopped, the sight of him freezing her.

            "John?" Her heart pounded. He lay like the dead, eyes closed. His face, just moments ago a glow with the moon's milky reflection, now looked pasty.

            Dropping to her knees, she knelt over him, unsure of what to do. Her eyes blurred and she blinked fast, her throat burning. "I—John? Oh, no." Gently, she reached out and touched his shoulder. "John? Are you okay? John?" She nudged him with both hands. "Come on, wake up. You can't be hurt."

            His head moved a little and she sucked in a breath. He grimaced, his dark lashes fluttered. Letting out a groan, he lifted his hands to his head for a moment before they trembled back to his sides.

Panicked, Jennifer grabbed the hand closest to her and squeezed it to her breast.  "Are you hurt?" She leaned over his face. "John?"

            "My head." He rolled toward her. "Something…my head…it's…"

            "What? John, talk to me." She pressed her hand to his forehead and stroked the side of his cheek. "I better go get my mom."

            Snapping his hand around her wrist, he shot up with a laugh.

            Jennifer fell back on her butt, her pounding heart robbing her voice. Fury and relief whirled inside of her. She wanted to slap him and hug him. And yet the indescribable warmth of gladness caused tears to spring from her eyes.

            "You should see your face." His laughter died and he went perfectly still. Unable to stop the cache of tears that escaped her, she scrambled to her feet, ready to escape back to her house when he shot up and was right next to her.

            "Hey." He set a hand on her shoulder. Comforting warmth shot down her arm, through her stomach and to her toes.

"That was so mean."

            "I know. Sorry. Really, I am. Are you okay?"

            "No, you dork. You scared me."

            His hand left her shoulder and she felt a chill. Lifting his arms for examination, he looked at the dirty, leaf-infested sleeves of his student council jacket. "Oh, man. Look at this. This thing costs twelve bucks to dry clean."

            Jennifer shoved at him lightly. Just touching him made her feel better. "You could have broken your neck."

            "Nah." He looked up at her window. "If that wood wasn't so old, I could climb up there anytime." His eyes lowered to hers.

            Jennifer took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, it is old and you need to keep your neck in one piece, Romeo." The moon was hidden behind some stringy clouds and suddenly it was very dark. She heard him breathing; smelled the faint scent that was uniquely his.

            As children they'd spent hours out in the mysterious world of nighttime. Together they'd laced toilet paper over neighbor's bushes, engaged in games of hide and seek, of chase. But tonight he looked entirely different than the boy she'd played games with under the moon's watchful eye. Tonight he was breathing erratically, not from the exertion of play, but from something that stirred her deep inside.

            He took a step toward her. Afraid to move, she didn't. She didn't want anything to change. Nothing could stop what she hoped in her heart he was going to do. But it didn't matter if he kissed her or not. She could stand there forever, just looking at him.

Cort looked over where Rachel Baxter usually sat. He hadn't seen her come in, something he watched for because she walked like a goddess. He'd never seen a girl walk like she was saying come get me and you can't have me at the same time.

            Her desk was empty when the bell shrilled. Then the door opened and he sat forward, his heart thumping. When she came in, the room hushed. Even Miss Tingey looked at her.

            Today she wore blue jeans with random cuts and slices. Her black shirt had sleeves that hung long and weepy. She looked hot in black and wore it all the time so Cort figured she must know it.

            Her hair was the color of mink and just as shiny and silky hanging down her back. He wanted to know what it felt like and his fingertips rubbed together absently. 

She had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, like the sapphires his mom had. Rachel's eyes were big and round and slanted in a way that reminded him of a kitten. Somewhere inside of him warmed fast. She looked like a kitten, but a wickedly hot one you weren't sure would rub against you or claw your eyes out.

            She never greeted anyone when she came in. She sat, primly erect, ready to listen. Part of that untouchable thing, Cort guessed. She took school seriously and lucky for him, they shared all of their honors classes.

            It was safe to glance over because she'd never look at him. Why, he didn't know. Every other girl stared at him. Why didn't she?

            Suddenly, he was looking into those deep blue cat eyes and his breathing stopped. Before he could give her one of his studly nods, she looked back at Miss Tingey.

            "You have five minutes to write your journal entries," Miss Tingey said. The class immediately began to scribble in their notebooks.

            I have no idea how ego affects behavior, Cort thought with aggravation. He'd missed his chance to impress Rachel and was pissed.  I don't even have an ego.  He drew lines. Egos are for celebrities and rich people. Sure, we have money and live in a big house but, so?

            He began to write.

Why don't the chicks we like ever like us back? Even as he wrote that he knew it was gross exaggeration. He'd had lots of girls he liked, like him. But things were different now. He was different. He was a senior, going into his last half of the year and for the first time, he didn't have a girlfriend because he'd had enough of arm candy. Nobody interested him.

            He glanced over at her – Rachel Baxter. Something tingled deep in his chest. Her profile was perfect. Her flirty nose was small and pretty, and to admire another angle of those pouty lips—any guy would be blind not to notice how chewable they looked from any perspective.

            Sweat broke under his armpits, around his collar. He shifted in his seat,

gnawing on his pencil eraser. He had to get to know her, that was all there was to it.

Senior hall was a river of students shouting, laughing, and shoving. Rachel stood at her locker, turning the knob, casually scanning the busy hall for one thing.

           He was at his locker. To her shock, his beautiful face turned and those bottomless brown eyes were fastened on hers. Her heart stammered. Should she smile back? Ignore him? Flip her hair? Walk away? Walk his way?

          Cort Davies was looking at her. Even a glance from the guy was enough to send most girls into a head spin. Though he was completely hot, he broke the number-one rule in Rachel's

book of must and must-nots for guys – he was a superficial jock.

          Too bad, she thought and decided it was time to walk the other way for that very reason. She couldn't stand jocks, even though a few like Alex had hung in her circle. Most thought they were it-boys—that the world and everything in it revolved merely to serve whatever whim they possessed.

          Not her type.

          But she could admire the physical specimen of a jock – no problem. Yeah, they didn't get much better than those manly-built guys like Cort when they were in their football uniforms. It was cool to watch the boys play hard – all that sweat and pumped testosterone. She could admit she went to games to watch the players.

Rachel hadn't thought of a code name for him yet, but she would. What to coin a guy with wild, dark hair surrounding the face of an angel? The only thing she could think of to describe the rich coffee color of his eyes was espresso.  Xpresso?

Rachel and her friends had been code-naming hot guys at Pleasant View High ever since they decided they didn't want to stop talking about those same guys just because they were in the same classroom or someone might overhear.

Today Cort's tan pants were just baggie enough. His deep chocolate sweater just snug enough that his sculpted chest and taut arms caused her stomach to flutter. She was a face girl, and his was, well, beautiful. He had a cute ski-jump nose over lips full and strong, set in the frame of an angled jaw.

She wanted to sneak another peek but didn't.

Cort was in all of her honors classes, which meant he might not be the typical back-row, thumb-sucking jock like the others. She'd heard him make some pretty intelligent comments.

          Don't fool yourself, she thought, and fought the urge to glance back, see if he was somewhere behind her. He was so cute, wouldn't it just be stoking if he really was intelligent? If he lived for something more than girls, weekends and sports?

          She had to look.

          He was right behind her, so close if she stopped, she'd be in his lap. He had his bevy of guy friends around him, Carmel, Brownie and Sunshine – all named by her, Ticia, and Jennifer for various personality or physical attributes.

           Cort's magnetic brown eyes were on her, as if he'd been watching her the whole time. Suddenly she felt naked. She could hear the conversation he was

having with his friends, smell the mixed scents they wore.

          "So, not today?" Sunshine was asking. They'd named Eric that because of his sunny blonde hair and surfer stride.

Rachel slowed so they could file around her. Cort smiled as he passed, brushing his arm into hers.

          She had to smile back.

          "Yeah," he answered Eric. "Not today. I gotta go job hunting. I'm broke, dude. Hey." The 'hey' was for her, and his espresso eyes sparkled with sugar when he nodded.

          He left his scent in the air – something citrus and spice. It wound her blood up tight. Cort Davies, she thought as she followed him into class, now it's my turn to watch you.

She looked into his eyes, nearly tasted his breath he was so close. Jennifer's gaze dropped to John's lips, full and glistening. He was utterly focused on her, as if nobody else mattered, as if they were alone. As if this moment wasn't real, but a dream. But it was real. And real was being watched by a bunch of panting, hormonal teenagers and one very demanding director.

John's hands, poised at her waist, sent an unexpected tingle through Jennifer's body when his fingers shifted. His breath smelled of spearmint.  She heard a cough somewhere out in the auditorium but didn't dare break character just to try and see through the spotlight. The rest of the cast was out there watching—a sea of black.

            Part of her wanted what was about to happen. She couldn't deny the warm jittering in her blood that had little to do with playing Juliet. She'd never been able to hide how she really felt about John. Now they stood as Romeo and Juliet, ready to kiss. Her heart thumped wildly, her hands were cold and stiff.

John is going to kiss me.

            John looked into her eyes with the pained, obsessive love that Romeo carried for Juliet. She was supposed to return the needy look with one of her own, and she had been—until she thought about the absurdity of it. Her and John? She broke out in a nervous laugh.

            "All right, everybody take seven," Chip called from the control booth in the back of the auditorium.

            The house lights went up. John dropped his hands from her waist and took a step back, scowling at her. It didn't stop her laughing. She didn't care that she'd irritated him. In fact, it pleased her. She loved digging under his skin. What she did care about was holding up the rehearsal and angering Chip.

            She held up a hand. "Sorry." She took in a deep breath to gain her composure. John waited, arms crossed, head cocked. "Oh, get over it," she snapped.

            "You're being unprofessional."

            She taunted, "This from somebody who's making his big debut?"

            John rolled his eyes.

            The stage came alive with crew adjusting the sets and Jennifer took in a sigh of relief.  Any time she could buy from the awkward intimacy she had to create on stage with John, she would take.     

She waited for Chip to hop onto the stage. The director's normally round green eyes were slit underneath one tightly knit brow.  She'd learned that when he twisted his mouth he wasn't happy.

            Putting a hand on each of their shoulders, Chip brought the two of them in close for one of his director chats. Jennifer frowned as her eyes met John's, and he frowned right back.

            "Sorry, Chip," she said again.

            "You're ready to do this, guys."

            Jennifer made herself nod, though it wasn't true. No one had to know she was petrified. She was an actress. She would have to act like the very thought of kissing John Michaels was not going to expose the fact that she had never been kissed. And she would try to ignore the thrill building in her veins.

 "Let's try it again, with the kiss this time," Chip said. Everyone both onstage and off took their places.

            Jennifer stood as if sentenced to the guillotine. It was John who took the first steps back to his mark, challenge electrifying his blue-green eyes for Jennifer to do the same. Mirroring his look, she took her mark.

            "Whenever you're ready guys," Chip called.     

Jennifer had never kissed anybody before. And she hated that John would probably know that and make fun of her.

She swallowed.  Oh no, I can't. Her mind flashed with memories of him—the boy that lived next door. They'd played house, spent hours pretending to be pirates, cowboys and Indians. Even joined blood in a childish ceremony meant to bind them forever. He was the boy she'd loved to hate because he was always first, always smarter. Always better. Her heart fought her own feelings for him.

She stepped closer, until she felt his chest against hers. I can do this. I'll show him. He put his hands on her waist and she could smell his skin, his sweat, the mint on his breath.

            "Your line just before the kiss, John," Chip directed.

As Romeo, John's look was desperate, desirous. Everyone in the cavernous room waited. But instead of speaking, he lowered his head, looking at the floor.

He'd forgotten his line.

Of course it was on the tip of her tongue, but something inside of her enjoyed his discomfort and she kept her mouth zipped.

He looked at her with a flash of pleading, as if asking her to save him. Only the slightest crease in her lips gave away that she never would.

Then his face relaxed. "Oh blessed, blessed night! I am afeared, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial."  His eyes danced because he'd remembered. His hands tightened at her waist and then he drew her against him and her body sparked inside. As his head dipped to hers, her last thought was to stop him.

            The thought dissolved when he covered her mouth with his. A hot tingling went to her bones. His mouth was warm. She'd not known what it would be like, kissing, but she hadn't expected anything like this, soft and sweet. As his lips pressed hers, they moved, as if exploring, urging her to kiss him back. Instinctively she lifted her arms around his neck. Every part of her was focused on the gentle suppleness of his mouth.

            Her knees melted.

Then the loud speaker crackled. "Jenn? John?"

Air cooled her lips. Feeling like she'd just been torn from the coziest dream, she blinked hard.  Still in John's embrace, she tipped her head back to look out into the blinding lights.

            "That was great, guys," came Chip's voice. "We might have to shorten it up a little, though."

            John's arms loosened and he took a step back. She couldn't stop looking at him. He'd kissed her. She'd kissed him. His eyes were sharp—a mix of daring and wonder. She wasn't sure if the expression was Romeo's or John's.