Page 17 of Perfect Score
In reality, what did I expect? That Brent would take me to prom and then he'd ask me to be his girlfriend, and we would have lived happily ever after?
No way.
What would he have wanted with a girl who was just dumped by his best friend and who had no clue what she wanted to do with her life? I wasn't even sure if I wanted to go to college.
Unlike Liam who was attending an Ivy League college, Phoebe who was getting her degree in marketing, and David who would be attending college at SoCal and already had a huge job offer from Liam's dad, I felt like I was treading water to keep afloat with all my friends.
And here was Brent—gorgeous—talented—signed with an NHL team and spending his free time raising his sister and taking care of his grandmother.
I was out of my element with Brent, and maybe the night of prom, he realized that too.
Maybe what Liam did with Shelby was shitty, but at least he showed up the night after prom with flowers after he heard that Brent stood me up. And then he spent the next few months talking late into the night helping me decide what I wanted to do for a profession.
When I told him that I wanted to pursue photography, he encouraged me to do something that I love.
On the night of graduation, he dipped into his trust fund and pulled out enough to buy me everything I would need to start off on the right foot.
That counts for something, right?
We set off for the car rental kiosks when my phone rings in my camera bag. I stop, unable to pull the cart and grab my phone at the same time. I check the screen.
Phoebe calling…
"It's my sister," I say.
Brent nods. "You should take it." He reaches for the metal cart and starts pulling.
I jump out of the way to prevent getting squished but then
I give him a lifted brow. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask, catching back up and gripping the cart again.
He matches my expression, arching a brow of his own. "You can't talk and pull the cart at the same time. It probably weighs more than you do."
He's pulling so hard that I barely feel the weight of the cart in my hands. I know I'm not helping, but I refuse to let go.
"And?" I say, refusing to back down.
"And…" he gives my body a quick once-over, sparking an unexpected flutter low in my belly, "I could bench press you in my sleep," he says, returning his sights back on where we're headed, not taking his hand off the cart. "Let me take it or we'll miss drinks at the hotel with the slow pace you're setting."
My phone stops ringing—I missed her call, what's wrong with me?
Brent Tomlin… that's what's wrong with me.
"So chivalrous." I mock. "I'm sure the women that the paparazzi snap on your arm going into your apartment at The Commons love this about you."
My phone rings again. I'm sure it's Phoebe, and a second ring means I definitely need to answer it.
He glances over at the phone in my hand and then backs up at me.
"I've tried chivalry with you over the last couple of hours, but it doesn't work. Being an asshole seems to be the only way I can get your attention."
I hate that he's kind of right. I'd like to further flesh out his point about being an asshole but since my sister is calling again, and this is her wedding weekend, I need to take it. And arguing with Brent won't get us to the hotel any faster.
I let go of the cart, falling behind him as he starts forward. At least I can make sure that none of my luggage falls off.
“Hello?” I answer, my gaze fixed on Brent's thick corded forearms, and his strong grip.
My eyes follow the line of his muscular shoulder blades as his t-shirt pulls tight against his back, flexing as he pulls the cart with ease. I know how heavy that cart is, but he pulls it behind him so effortlessly that I can't help but be impressed… though I'd prefer not to be.