Page 71 of The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy 1)
“She's our girlfriend, Charlotte,” the twins say, smirking as I kick them both under the table. The waitress nods, like she's not at all surprised they'd be dating the same girl, and then pats Church on the head.
Never thought I'd see someone like Church Montague, heir to one of the richest privately run corporations in the world, get their head patted, but it turns him human for just the briefest of moments, and I appreciate that.
“Well, I can't say that I like y'all running around this late at night, but if you're here, you might as well eat.” She grins and nods her chin at me, her dark curls frothing around her face. Her nametag says Merinda, which must mean she's the one the twins were telling me about. I only wish she truly owned this restaurant, and not the Montague family. “Nice to meet you, Charlotte. Holler when you're ready.”
“You guys come here a lot?” I ask, and Church shrugs.
“We have our Student Council meetings here every other Friday.” He lifts up his mug to sip the black liquid and groans like he's having an orgasm. The guy is seriously addicted. I see him carrying around thermoses of coffee, and bottles of iced mochas and whatnot, all the damn time.
I look down at the menu and decide that while I'm here, I might as well order scrambled eggs and cover them in ketchup. Last time I did that in the cafeteria at the academy, I got nasty looks from at least three different random guys. Too bad. I love it too much to stop.
“Why don't you want Ranger to know about me?” I ask, thinking of his naked ass in the kitchen. And what a fine, fine ass it is. Ugh. I need to stop daydreaming about certain dickish assholes like Spencer and Ranger. Just thinking about them finding out fills me with anxiety. I can't, exactly, pinpoint why just now, but it does.
“Because he'll lose his shit,” Micah smirks, leaning back in his seat as Tobias glances between the two us, forcing a tight smile.
“He gets … overprotective,” he explains, and I cock a brow.
“He hates me,” I say, and the twins exchange a cryptic look before turning a blank one on me. “What? Don't think I didn't see that look.” I point between the two of them as Church slides his amber eyes over to watch me, carefully sipping his drink in two long-fingered hands.
“Yeah, but if he finds out you're a girl, he'll just turn you into Jenica, and go all batshit. Trust us, we know.” Tobias sighs and taps at my menu. “Now pick out some food, so we can order.”
“I know what I want,” I declare, lifting my chin. “Scrambled eggs with ketchup”—all three boys cringe and groan, and Church even sloshes some of his precious coffee on the table—“plus an orange juice, and some French toast with hot sauce.”
“You're a strange individual, Charlotte Carson,” he murmurs, the slightest edge of a smile teasing his lips. He looks like a painting, this guy. “Merinda, we're ready to order,” he says, and he doesn't even raise his voice, but she hears him from all the way across the diner. That's how easily he captures attention.
It's a little … scary?
Merinda comes back over, and we put in our food order. My juice comes right away, with a reusable straw that I tuck between my lips and talk around.
“If you all believe Jenica was murdered,” I mumble, sucking down some sugary goodness, “then who do you think murdered her?”
The boys all exchange a look before glancing down at me.
“We have our theories,” Church says, watching me carefully, “but no real answers.” He sighs and sets his coffee down. “Just … don't trust anybody.”
“Not even you?” I ask, quirking a brow.
Slowly, so very slowly, Church turns to look at me, and all the emotion drains from his face, leaving him a beautiful but scary looking statue.
“Especially not me,” he says, and I shiver, turning back to my orange juice.
Not sure if that was … terrifying or sexy.
It should most definitely not have been both.
Something must be wrong with me.
More wrong than simply putting ketchup on my eggs.
Maybe not quite as wrong as unsolved murder …The Culinary Club has volunteered—against my will—to cater the annual Valentine's Day party that's held at the nearby summer camp. The cluster of cabins sits dead center between our school and Everly All-Girls Academy, another upper crust school that's about a ten hour drive from Nutmeg in a town called Northpointe, Maine.
Layered cakes, cookies, cupcakes, carefully wrapped caramels, and truffles in fancy boxes litter the kitchen counters. I survey them as I reach up and brush my arm across my sweaty forehead, smearing flour everywhere. My glasses are already covered in it.
The last few weeks have been surprisingly quiet: no more notes, no more shadow figures, no more dudes with weapons chasing me through the darkness.
