Page 4 of One Mistake

“But it’s your birthday!” Every year for the last three, Beth Cooper and I engaged heartily in the exact same argument.

I nodded. Not because I agreed with anything else she said but because it was indeed my birthday. “Yeah. And I’m going to curl up on this sofa with my blanket and my bottle of chocolate milk and watch ten hours of Brad Pitt movies and when he yells ‘what’s in the box’ I’m going to pretend it’s my head in there.”

“Oh, dear God.” She shook her head. “Aside from the fact you didn’t pick Meet Joe Black or Legends of the Fall, movies where we actually see Brad getting his groove on, I would not be a good friend if I let you stay home alone, pathetic, and virginal on your birthday with chocolate milk and movie screen Brad Pitt when you could be out getting your own groove on with some if-you-drink-enough-he’s-a-look-alike.”

Oh, for hell’s sake. No matter how much tequila I consumed, no one on this campus looked like Brad—the one man I would gladly sacrifice said virginity to—except Ryder Kennedy. Gorgeous. Sexy. Beautiful and as much out of my league as good old Brad, Ryder Kennedy.

She puffed out her lower lip. “Come on. Take a break. Let loose. Enjoy this time because soon we’re going to have to get real jobs and pay our own way. You want lots of tequila-soaked memories to carry you through all that.” On her last try, she won me over. “I’ll buy.”

Beth Cooper never paid for a thing in her life. She was beautiful and witty, so wealthy it was impossible for us common folks to imagine, personable in ways I couldn’t even fake, and it worked for her. She never bought her own drinks, or dinners, or paid a cover anywhere we went. It would have been easy to hate her if I wasn’t the one she chose to shine her star over.

“Come on. Please.” Plus, her puppy dog eyes were impossible to say no to.

And she was the complete opposite of me. The anti-Reese. She was trendy. Beth without a mini-skirt and perfectly drawn eyebrows was an unheard of phenomenon—or at least one I’d never seen in four years of college roommating.

My skirts, by comparison, all hit below my knee, my collars were chin height, and the only thing I’d ever drawn on my face were whiskers for a fourth-grade production of Cats.

But trendy or stuck in a nineteen-sixties wardrobe disaster, I didn’t do bars. Ever. “I just want to stay in.”

“Look, Reese. I have to be honest with you.” Now she put on her serious face—thin lips, wide eyes, slight nostril flare. “This virginity thing is weighing you down. Pretty girl like you should let her hair down.” She pulled the elastic holding my bun in place. “Dance on a table. Find some hot bar guy and do a body shot.” She stood and paced. “I mean, you’re not getting the college experience your parents are paying for. You need a wild night. You need to take hot body shot guy and let him bang your head into his headboard until you see stars.”

Oh good. So in her crazy scenario, I had a concussion to look forward to. “Beth…”

“You dress like a nun and you’re never going to get laid.” She stopped pacing and swiped her forehead. “There. I said it.”

Rude. Other people besides those who dedicated their lives to God wore sensible shoes. “I’m dressing for the job I want.” A no-nonsense legal genius. Plus, dressing this way was the only form of rebellion my free-spirited, Daisy-duke short wearing, free-spirited mother recognized.

She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “I know. All you’re missing is the rosary and one of those head veil things.” And maybe she was right, but this was who I was. I didn’t know how to be anything else. Nor did I own any clothes that would make any different kind of statement than peace be with you, my child. “Come on. One makeover. One night. One fabulous fucking memory, Reese. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Since I didn’t have much more to lose than a couple hours of sleep, and she never really asked anything of me, I nodded. “Fine, you win.”

“Really?” She squealed and hugged me. And it took two hours after that to make me presentable enough even I didn’t recognize me. My hair curled around my shoulders, and I had eyebrows and lashes I never noticed before. My lips were lined and my cheeks were blushed, and one wrong breath was going to cause a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction, but I felt pretty, and confidence was half the battle. At least, according to Beth.

And I actually liked the club. Music pumped through the speakers and lights bounced off the walls and the ceiling and the hundred or so people gyrating on the dance floor. It only took three drinks for me to feel the vibe. For the music to inspire me. For my feet to tap and my shoulders to sway. Three drinks for the alcohol to take hold and make me not care that I had zero rhythm and even less grace.

I also knew the rule about not peaking too early into the evening, but I didn’t care about that either. And that was how I ended up crashing into Ryder Kennedy. And, oh hello, he smelled good—citrus and sandalwood and man. I might’ve taken an extra deep breath before I moved back.

“Hi.” I couldn’t hear him over the music, but I could see what he said.

“Hey.” I couldn’t hear myself either, but hoped I sounded sultry and sexy.

He still had his arms around me, and no way was I taking another step back until I had to. My heart was pounding, and my vision blurred at the edges. I didn’t know if it was from his body touching mine or if the alcohol was doing its thing, but in the moment, I didn’t give a shit. Someone had his arms around me, and it felt nice. I cared about that.

And that someone was Ryder Kennedy. Looking at me. Touching me. His thumb under the hem of my shirt caressing my spine where the waistband of this skirt hit. No way did I want to ruin that.

Heat rolled down my skin from my cheeks to my toes and everywhere in between while my heart throbbed in time with the music and my body matched tempo. I almost moaned.

“Do I know you?” His breath warmed my ear, and my knees went weak.

Of course, he knew me. We’d been partners in BIO101 freshman year, and I sat in front of him in POLISCI. Plus, we were both prelaw, so we spent Monday through Thursday in a lot of the same classes.

“I don’t think so.” True enough. He didn’t know this me. The one who cared what he thought. The one who wanted him. And maybe it was the alcohol, but I wanted him to want me back. To want the girl in Beth’s sequined top and thigh-high black boots with the bows on top where they almost met the tiny little skirt I borrowed. I wanted to look back on my deathbed and know I gave my virginity to Ryder Kennedy.

I let the thought hop into the driver’s seat, and I pulled his head down—he was pretty damned tall. Before I spoke, I dragged my tongue along his earlobe to the top and back down. “I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckled but his arm tightened around my waist. “Okay.” And he lowered his head to kiss me, to press his full, soft lips against mine, to caress my mouth with his until my breath, when it came, huffed out in short loud puffs of air. To say he knew how to kiss was an understatement. And to say he knew how to tease a nipple through a shirt until I gasped again, and my panties melted wasn’t an exaggeration either.

He smiled against my mouth and pulled me into the shadowed corner still in the crowd but at the edge. Nothing in my life felt so sexy or so decadent as standing in a room full of people who were all ignoring his fondling me for their own bits of fondling one another. And it was amazing. Erotic in ways I didn’t understand.