Page 7 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

I do a final sweep of my apartment, making sure that every inch of it is immaculate before Gen arrives.

I can feel my nervous energy buzzing all around me and I force myself to keep moving, only briefly stopping to check if she canceled.

I realize she hasn’t when the only notification on my phone is from that number.

She left a voicemail this time, and I delete it before it can start autoplaying, not needing to hear my birth mother’s voice right now. Or ever, for that matter. Hopefully the next time Connie calls, she’ll get the message.

She’ll call Sloane if she hasn’t already , I realize, irritation prickling the back of my neck. But she’s not my problem—hasn’t been since she let us get adopted instead of growing up and choosing us. I take a deep breath and shake her off.

My palms feel clammy with sweat as I set it back down.

Wiping them on my gray sweatpants, I look down for a second too long and immediately wonder if I’m too casual.

Gen did say she was coming from dance class and my sister used to swear—as disturbing as it was—that gray sweatpants on a man were the ultimate thirst trap.

On second thought…I move into my room, grabbing a pair of dark washed jeans and throw them on.

Not that I think Gen is the type of girl to be tempted by a pair of sweatpants, but temptation isn’t really the goal.

I need to slow her down, get her to think clearly about what she thinks she wants to do.

She shouldn’t be shaking off her virginity because of some asshole.

Not to mention, that summer pick up game has been haunting me since Jean called me over the other night.

It exploded into my memory and I felt it all over again: the annoyance, the anger, the resentment.

At first it was the idea of Will seeing her talk to me that got me over there.

Once I was there, it was the rush that came from being so close to her that had me agreeing to her insane question.

But tonight is about reversing course. Sleeping with Gen is a bad idea, whichever way I spin it, regardless of how tempting she is, and especially because of that idiotic bet.

I push the memory of that day in the locker room out of my mind and open the fridge, pulling out an onion and a tomato for the risotto my mom’s been making me since the moment she adopted us.

I know I can get her to see sense over a meal.

“They say the way to a man’s heart is his stomach but the way into a woman’s pants is knowing how to cook.

” My sister’s jovial voice plays in my head and I can practically see the look my mom would shoot her as I dice the onion in front of me.

I know Sloane would simultaneously be roasting and lecturing me on the fact that it’s really not up to me, in terms of what Gen decides to do with her virginity.

And she’d be right, it isn’t up to me, but I do feel like I owe it to her to not take advantage of the situation .

There’s that familiar pang, the one I get when I think about my mom and twin sister and the knowledge that their conflicting points of view would somehow steer me in exactly the right direction.

I finish chopping the onion and tomato and throw them in the cast iron on the stove. I hear a light knock on the door just as I’m second guessing the dark washed jeans. I freeze, spatula in hand. My heart beats so fast, it feels like it’s going to explode.

Why am I so nervous?

Quickly, I wipe the counter and skim my eyes over the space.

Everything has been scrubbed clean and there's a table set for two. I look at the candles I set in the middle of the table and run over to blow them out, moving them to the counter so Gen doesn’t suspect I contemplated whether or not she would find lit candles romantic.

Because, again— not the goal, not the plan.

I crack open the door and force myself to beam at her.

Do I look like a serial killer right now? Am I trying too hard?

I tone down the smile.

“Hi,” she says, her voice small, and I sense that maybe she’s nervous, too. The butterflies that have suddenly materialized in my stomach seem to triple in quantity as I wonder where the fuck they came from.

“Hey,” I breathe out, allowing myself to take her in.

She came from rehearsal, just like she said she would, and this version of her has me realizing she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s wearing leggings with a light pink leotard underneath that hugs her curves and a light gray hoodie halfway zipped up, her hair pulled into a high ponytail.

Her curls frame her face in a way that insinuates she was in a rush and seeing her so casually undone sends something electric through me.

I subconsciously reach out and brush a curl behind her ear and the way she tenses under my touch before relaxing into it has me smiling.

She’s definitely nervous.

I look down into her deep hazel eyes and a blush creeps up her neck, pink faintly spreading across her cheeks.

She bites her bottom lip, filling me with what I can only describe as a primal urge to grab her around the waist and pull her inside, but then she gives me this shy smile that I haven’t seen before and it’s like she’s illuminated by light.

“Hi,” she says again, laughing softly as her smile grows.

I open the door wider so she’ll finally come in and even the way she moves is attractive—like she’s floating on air.

I’m sure it's just engrained in her from the years she’s spent at the ballet but it’s a wonder to behold for the average person.

She peers around, clearly taking in the place, and I see her body still as she spots the table for two and the pot of risotto on the stove.

“Grant,” she scolds, like I’m a puppy who just chewed up her shoe.

“Gen,” I say back, not hiding the smile in my voice as I make my way to the stove to stir the risotto.

“This was supposed to be casual.” She crosses her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at me and I chuckle.

“Since when is dinner with a friend not casual?” I give her a knowing look.

“ Friends is news to me,” she says with a curious glint in her eyes.

“You’re telling me you propositioned a stranger for sex?”

“Acquaintances,” she amends, like it's her final offer, rolling her eyes.

“Sure.” I smile and I see a small crack form in her defensive exterior .

“You’re lucky I am, in fact, ravenous and whatever you're making smells surprisingly good,” she says, gliding over to look down into the pot. I put a hand over my heart in faux offense.

“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent cook. My mother said so herself.” The laugh that rings out of her gives me enough of a confidence boost to lightly grasp her waist and direct her to the pot of risotto.

“Stir,” I tell her softly. “I need to make the salad.”

I force myself to let her go, moving toward the fridge to pull out some arugula, a lemon, and garlic and begin slicing on the same cutting board I used for the onion and tomato.

I can feel Gen nervously glancing at me between stirs and all I want is to know what’s going on in her head. I settle for a less intrusive question.

“Since we’re just acquaintances , tell me about yourself,” I say, continuing my chopping but turning the board so I can see her. She rolls her lips together, piecing together how to respond.

“What do you want to know?” she finally asks. There’s an edge of suspicion to her voice that makes me laugh.

“I’m not trying to steal your social security number, darlin’.

” The sass in her head tilt amuses me more than it probably should.

“Where’d you grow up? Do you have any siblings?

” I realize I know so little about her, even though we’ve spent two years orbiting each other.

Astor Hill boasts a few thousand students, but our athletics programs are selective and intense and kind of close knit.

I see her all the time, even took Comp II together, but it’s always hard to get close enough to ask her anything.

It’s not just the standoffishness—it’s Will.

It’s like ‘she’s busy with ballet’, ‘she’s focused’, and ‘she doesn’t have time for you guys’.

That’s always the vibe I’ve gotten, but was it even coming from her or was it coming from him?

She sighs, continuing to stir and not meeting my eyes. “I don't have any siblings,” she starts, still staring at the pot.

“Ah—so an only child. That must’ve been a little lonely,” I say, watching her carefully.

“A little,” she says, but doesn’t go into detail.

“I lived in New York up until my dad died when I was eleven and then moved to Connecticut when my mom remarried the summer before seventh grade.” Gen still hasn’t met my eyes and I instantly regret that I asked.

I always forget that her dad passed. She carries the weight from it so effortlessly.

“Are you close with your mom?” I ask, hoping that this can redirect the conversation.

“Yes, well sort of.” She bites her lip again in contemplation. “She’s very involved in my ballet career.” Her tone leaves no room for questions before she asks, “Grant, is this burning?”

“Shit,” I say, grabbing the pot holders and gently hip bumping her out of the way. I move the pot off the burner and turn the heat off. Sure enough, about half of the risotto is stuck to the bottom. She winces and I can’t help but laugh, her face like a child’s who just broke something valuable.

“Do you like PB&Js?” I ask and her face lights up slightly, the wince dissipating into a smile.

“Do I like them?” She puts her hands confidently on her hips. “I’ve been told by many that I make the best PB&J they’ve ever had. Here, let me.” She goes to find the ingredients but heads to the wrong cabinet, and I gently place my hands on her shoulders, redirecting her.