Stuck With The Four Hotties

“He’s the lead singer of Beauty in Lies. They went on tour with Zayd’s band, Afterglow. These shoes, Barker Blacks, are his favorite. He wears them to every concert.”

I blink stupidly, taking a sip of my drink to cover up the silence. This is the longest and most normal conversation Creed and I have ever had. I’m not even sure what to say.

“Sorry, I don’t listen to rock or pop or really any mainstream music for that matter. Mostly, I’m focused on Sophia Dussek or Catrin Finch.” I switch my coffee out for the Danish, and Creed watches me, like he’s studying my every movement. I realize I haven’t given him an answer to his question: should I go to the winter formal with this guy?

“Harpists,” Creed says, but not like he’s at all unsure, more like he would expect any cultured person to recognize those names. “Becky wants to kill you for taking her spot in the orchestra.”

“I didn’t take her spot; I’m just a better player. Besides, she’s the understudy. That’s a big deal, too.”

Creed leans forward, his lashes long and curled, paler than his sisters, but not as fine as his hair. They’ve got more of a golden-brown color, bringing more attention to those gorgeous eyes of his.

“You sweep into our school, and you destroy students who’ve had every advantage in life. You play better, you study harder. People feel like you’re taking the luxuries of their birthright away from them.”

“For all I’ve heard them complain that I’m a charity case, taking other people’s hard-earned money, nobody seems to be willing to actually work harder to beat me. They just want me to disappear.” Creed reaches out and touches the corner of my mouth with his knuckle.

“Crumb,” he explains, but my face is on fire, and Miranda is looking between the two of us like she’s never seen us before. Creed proceeds to lick said crumb off which can only really be interpreted one way: he’s hitting on me. “So yes or no, will you go to the winter formal with me?”

“You haven’t given me any reason to say yes,” I tell him, and his lazy lips curl into an insouciant smile. He picks up his coffee-black, no sugar, no cream-and sips it, watching me over the rim of the mug. I guess he’s not going to argue that point. He probably just thinks I’ll give in.

I make a point to ignore him while we finish our food and drinks, turning to Miranda and discussing her plans for the upcoming trip to Paris instead. She’s been there so many times it’s not that big of a deal to her, but my heart aches at the thought of seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the Catacombs. One day, if I stay on track, I’ll be able to pay my own way across the world.

Once we get inside the boutique-some place called Chaussures du Monde-I’m completely gob smacked. Glass shelves line every wall and go all the way up to the twenty foot ceiling with its vintage tin ceiling tiles and chandeliers.

“Impressive, right?” Miranda asks, breathless and excited. She pulls me over to a display in the corner and starts pointing out things she thinks I should wear. Fortunately, after pointing out a good thirty or so pairs she wants me to try on, she gets distracted by shoes for her own outfit.

I feel rather than hear Creed step up behind me.

He reaches around me, his body brushing up against my back and giving me chills as he snags a pair of heels decorated with gold moons and silver stars. They’re honestly perfect for the dress I’m borrowing, but I can only imagine how expensive they are.

“Try these ones,” he whispers, voice so close to my ear that I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath to ward off the strange fluttering feeling in my stomach. I turn around, expecting him to move back, but it doesn’t quite

work that way. My chest brushes up against his, and my breath escapes in a rush. Creed looks down at me for a long moment before reaching up to push a loose strand of rose gold hair away from my eyes. “Can we see these in a thirty-seven?” he asks, and the associate helping us scurries off to comply.

“That’s creepy,” I tell him as he finally steps back, and I move over to sit on the curving gold couch that winds its way through the center of the store. It’s just one continuous piece, and I have to wonder where they got it, and how they managed to squeeze it in the doors. “How do you know my size?”

“Because Miranda’s my twin, and you share shoes with her.” He waits for the associate to come back, and then takes the box from her hands. “I’ll do it.” His voice brooks no argument, and his clothes and stance clearly speak to money, so the woman moves to the side and watches as Creed kneels in front of me.

Oh. Wow.

My heart is pounding as he looks up at me through strands of that silky white-blonde hair of his, and I wonder if this is what a peasant girl might feel like if a prince were to bow to her. My throat is tight, and I’m having trouble remembering the English language.

Slowly, almost agonizingly slowly, Creed pulls off the white lace flats I borrowed from Miranda, teasing the arch of my foot with his long fingers. My skin prickles with pleasure, and I have to close my eyes for a second to keep from moaning. When I open them, I see Creed pulling one of the heels from the box, reverently slipping my right foot into it. He ties the suede ankle clasp, and then moves onto the other.

When he’s done, he stands up and holds out a hand for me.

I’m quivering a little, but I reach up and take it, feeling a small shock of electricity at his touch. He walks me the length of the store and back, our footsteps softened by the plush rug that covers the floor.

“What do you think?” he asks as we pause in front of a mirror. I’ve only tried on one pair, but I think I’m in love. With the shoes, I mean. In love with the shoes.

“They’re beautiful, but far too expensive,” I start, but he cuts me off by turning to the sales associate. When I look up, I see his eyes burning with something that looks like desire.

“We’ll take them,” he tells me, pulling out his wallet. He hands his card over to her, and she disappears behind the counter. Those ice-blue eyes fall

on me, and it feels suddenly hard to breathe. Miranda has paused in her shopping spree to stare at us.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to winter formal with you,” I whisper, and Creed reaches out to touch my chin, lifting my gaze to his. His stare burns straight through my defenses and into the swirling depths of my emotions.

“Yes it does.”

Creed leans down, and before I can even figure out how to react, he’s brushing his lips over mine, and then pulling back. I’m still reeling from the electric shock of his mouth on mine when he turns, grabs his card from the associate with two fingers, and walks right out the door.