I have about twenty seconds to sum her up physical y.
The process takes me ten.
She’s wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt bearing the M.A.D.D. logo. Unintentional? Doubt it. I can’t tel breast size or shape under that thing; ditto whether or not she has a waist. In my experience, if a girl has either, she’s going to dress to at least hint at the fact. Her tent of a t-shirt tel s me she’s hiding inadequacies, not assets.
Her shorts are so far out of style that I’m not sure they were ever i n style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Stil , she manages to pul off this part of the manual laborer look because her legs are the only thing remotely hot about her.
Her calves are perfectly shaped, strong and muscled. Most of the girls I know—actresses, society girls—want long, thin legs. But legs like hers are what I go for when I’m feeling particular.
She’s tan wherever I see skin. Not a Rodeo Drive sunless tan, either—the real thing. I know this because there’s a pale strip of skin on one wrist where she usual y wears something—a thick-banded watch, maybe. I don’t know a single girl who goes outside without a mil ion SPF
sunblock.
Hair—generic brown and pul ed back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes wel past her shoulders when down. Assuming she ever wears it down.
Face—predictably, no makeup, not even a swipe of blush or lip gloss. Dark, dark eyes. A light smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose—the girls I know would have had those burned off or bleached out or whatever they do to remove freckles years ago.
Final y, her mouth—another oddity, like her legs—her lips are perfect and ful , even set into a harsh line like they are now.
I stuff both hands into the front pockets of my jeans, stop a few feet from the street and wait.
“Mr. Alexander, I assume?” she says, stil striding forward. I nod, adding something further to the short list of her attractive features: her voice. It makes me want to hear her sing, even though her inflection says she wishes the ground would swal ow me.
Legs, lips, voice. If one of these proves too appealing to ignore, a few veiled insults wil give her self-esteem enough of a hit to back off, though it seldom chases them off completely. Girls are irrational y attracted to ass**les. I don’t intend to be cruel, but I’m not hooking up with some tiresome, bleeding-heart do-gooder. I just want to do my time and get the hel out.
*** *** ***
Dori
A Mercedes? Really? I am so not looking forward to this.
The moment His Highness arrived was easy enough to determine since everyone just flat-out stopped what they were doing to gawk at the big celebrity and his ostentatious car. One minute the house hummed with the sound of people talking, laughing and working side-by-side, and the next there was silence punctuated by hissed undertones, not a hammer or paintbrush moving. I fail to see how this sort of daily interruption wil be beneficial to the project…
but no one asked me.
He’s dressed appropriately—jeans, t-shirt, work boots—
but I get the feeling those jeans were more expensive than the nicest outfit I own. Possibly ditto the t-shirt, which has some sort of insignia I don’t recognize. I’m guessing it isn’t a brand found at Target.
When I walked out to meet him, he gave me a careless once-over—I should have expected as much—and dismissed whatever he saw. Most girls might be offended, or at least displeased, but I’m grateful. I don’t want Reid Alexander’s interest. If I had my druthers, I’d love for him to perform his community service elsewhere, but the judge wanted him to assist in building the home for the family he displaced, and I can’t argue with that logic.
Cramming his hands into his pockets, he watched me indifferently, as though he couldn’t care less about anything that has happened or wil happen. Out of nowhere an absurd feeling of inconsolable grief washed over me. Like nothing could be more tragic than this boy standing in front of me. Ridiculous.
“Mr. Alexander, I assume?” I said, and he nodded shortly. I turned before he could see what I was thinking.
When it comes to having a poker face—I don’t. Usual y that’s not a problem, since lying is something I strive not to do because I just don’t see the point. But with someone like Reid Alexander, it would be unwise to let him sense any vulnerability where he’s concerned. I live in Los Angeles, after al , and while I might not run in his circle, or even within the same galaxy as his circle, I know his type: careless, spoiled and heedless of anyone’s needs outside his own.
Even with that angel’s face, he cannot be trusted.
I glance over my shoulder and he hasn’t moved. Without slowing, I say, “Come with me, please,” and hope that he complies—because no one’s told me what I’m supposed to do if he doesn’t.
Releasing a breath as I hear the crunch of gravel under his boots, indicating that he’s at least fol owing me inside, I tel myself that I can put up with anything for a few weeks. I wanted to scream when Roberta told me that his community service agreement was for a month. Meaning he’l be my problem for the entire three and a half weeks before I leave for Ecuador.
As we pass through the smal house, my fel ow volunteers gape, star-struck. Even grown men stop what they’re doing, though the women are worse—straightening their clothes, patting hair into place—holy cow. You’d think they’ve never seen anything pretty before. That’s the first thing I must admit and get past—the sheer fact of how beautiful he is.