Page 18 of Love Me Boldly

“How’d you do it?” A blond stepped in front of me. Several inches shorter than me, I jerked back when I realized she was talking to me.

“How’d I do what?”

“Graham Marchese. He never talks to girls. So what’s so special about you?”

She seemed pissed. All dolled up with a face full of makeup and in jeans and a lacy shirt beneath an opened fuzzy coat. She was dressed inappropriately for winter, and most likely whatever class she was going to… unless it was fashion.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I went to move around her, but she slid in front of me. “Seriously. What makes you think you’re special enough to be talking to Graham?”

“Nothing,” I told her and absolutely meant it.

I slid past her and dipped into the building.

Whowasthis guy? And how did half of this morning’s campus seem to know him?

FIVE

HOLLY

“Lambda Nu Chi.” Tracey pointed to the girl who’d stepped in front of me earlier in line outside Starbuck’s in our school student union building. She was flanked by two other busty blonds, all of them looking like they were on their way to a shopping spree at Nordstrom and not their next class.

“That explains it,” I muttered. The sorority was known for welcoming only the richest girls and called themselves theLadies of North Carolina, regardless that it was an international sorority and originated at a California school. Usually I paid no attention to the Greek system on campus, social or otherwise, but I’d spilled what happened with Tracey as soon as I saw her.

“Did you ask him?”

“Pfft. No. Why would I do that?”

“Um, because you like him, and that girl was rude?”

“So?” I scoffed and stabbed my homemade Caesar salad with my fork. “Haven’t you learned yet how normal that is for me?”

I took a bite, and when I glanced at Tracey, she was scowling at me.

For as wild as she was, her middle name should have been Sweet. I hated that the reminder of how I was treated bothered her. Possibly more than it bothered me. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

“What else is going on? Any more phone calls?”

“No, thank goodness. But that can mean anything.”

Dad was given a certain number of minutes every month for calling, and those could be decreased by his behavior or restricted altogether. He could also call me without calling collect, but then that cost would be taken out of the money I sent him. So really, he screwed me over every time he made a collect call, and I was dumb enough to answer.

I’d written to him frequently and asked him to stop and to use the money I gave him to call and ask for more or write a letter and ask instead. The fact he continued to ignore my wishes showed how little my father respected and cared about me.

The man stopped caring about anything and anyone but himself the day Mom left. Some days I wondered if all of my “happy” family memories before the age of seven were a lie in the first place. A fantasy I’d made up for my own survival.

“Tell me something good and fun,” I told Tracey. “It was kind of a crummy weekend, and I need to hear something good.”

“I met a guy at the SigEp party on Saturday night.”

“Of course you did,” I teased. “Remember this one’s name?”

“Asher and be nice. He’s cute.”

“Cute?” My brows rose, and my next bite of salad on my fork froze halfway to my mouth. “How cute?”

“I dunno, cute-cute. And he was cool. We talked for quite a while.”

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