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They must have so much money, I blurt out, and then I wince. Commenting on how much money people have is really vulgar. My grandmother would have a heart
attack if she d heard me say that.
But Dan doesn t seem offended. That s why this place is party central. Nadia s parents are never here, and they don t care how much she spends on her parties, just
as long as she doesn t bother them. Same old story, just with a ton of money, right?
There s an edge to this I don t quite understand, but I nod as if I do, and sip more champagne.
So how come I haven t seen you hanging out with them before? Dan asks, shaking back his thick brown hair, so it s no longer falling in his face.
I m sitting demurely, legs crossed, like a lady (I m too nervous to relax at all), but Dan is straddling the bench in what I can t help feeling is a very manly way. His hands
are pressed in front of him on the bench and he s leaning forward, so his face is close to mine. It s an overpowering sensation. I m torn between simultaneous impulses
to lean in and kiss him, and get up and flee. I almost think I m going to get a cramp somewhere because the strain on my body is so extreme.
Dan is still looking at me with those captivating gray-green eyes, waiting for an answer.
Um, I m really busy a lot of the time with my gymnastics, I eventually say.
I don t want him to realize that I ve only just been picked up by Plum and her set, like a toy they might have a craze for one day and forget all about the next. I don t
want him to know that only in the last six months, when I shot up a couple of inches and sprouted curves, have I remotely looked like the kind of girl that Dan
McAndrew might want to take out onto a terrace for a tête-à-tête.
Oh yeah, that s right, Dan says. You were in those workout clothes when I saw you the other day.
Yeah, I was a bit sweaty, I say, utterly embarrassed. I usually like to go and shower afterward, and then I have a lot of homework to do, so it s hard to come out
much in the evenings. Gymnastics takes up a lot of time. . . .
God, I sound as if I m a finalist in the Most Boring Teenager of All Time competition. Nice going, Scarlett. I sneak a look to see if Dan has nodded off to sleep, but he
still looks interested. It s some sort of miracle.
Gymnastics, wow, he says, his face lighting up a bit. That s so cool. I d love to try that.
I try to stifle a giggle, but I can t. You re a bit old for anything serious now, I tell him. You have to start really young if you want to do competitions.
Dan puts his hands on his hips in mock anger. You don t think I m strong enough? I do a ton of sports!
I m goggling at him, I know, but I can t stop, because now he s rolling up one of his shirtsleeves to above the elbow. Dan flexes his arm and I swoon.
Go on, feel! he insists, flashing me his gorgeous smile. Squeeze me!
My cheeks feel hot and are probably as red as strawberries. Thank God it s dark out here. Well, I would, but
Go on, Scarlett. What are you afraid of? Dan taunts me playfully.
When I think about how those backless girls would be all over him by now, I reach out my hand without any further hesitation and gingerly squeeze his forearm.
You d think I would be familiar with the feel of a man s arm by now, after all the times Ricky has spotted me at gymnastics. But the sensations coursing through me are
so different. Dan might be from a different species. His skin is velvety soft on the inside of his forearm, and the outer arm is lightly hairy, but the hairs are delicate, totally
unlike Ricky s rough scratchy ones. I squeeze more. To be honest, after Ricky s bulging, gym-pumped muscles, Dan s are considerably less evident, but I can feel the
strength there, and it makes me blush even harder. Electricity fizzes through me and my hand feels as though it s burning. I pull it back.
See? Dan says. I could do gymnastics, right?
Um, yeah, I mumble.
It s difficult not to think about what other physical activities he s good at. I have to distract myself or I might have a mini fainting episode like I did at the fountain.
That was a good vault you did over the bar, I say, inspiration striking me. I ve heard that you should tell boys when they re good at physical stuff they love that.
Oh, I do stuff like that all the time, Dan says with a tinge of arrogance in his voice. It s really sexy.
You ve got good pop, I add.
Dan s brow furrows in confusion. Good what?
Fast-twitch muscles, I explain. Now that I m on my own ground, talking about stuff I know, I feel more at ease, which is why I swivel around to face him. You need
to have really fast reflexes to be good at gymnastics. Like when you land from a front handspring and just pop up in the air for a front somersault.
Pop! I get it, Dan says, smiling widely. He s enjoying this, and I feel a rush of pride that we re having such a good conversation. I bet you re really good, right?
Oh my God, I think I just batted my eyelashes at him. I m okay, I reply, trying to be modest.
Dan doesn t buy it, though. Come on, you train all the time. You must be really good.
I ve won some stuff, I admit. Not major competitions or anything like that. I mean, I ll never make the nationals.
Dan s eyebrows arch up. You ve got medals?
I smirk a bit at the memory of winning second place for the floor exercise a couple years ago. Some trophies.
Hey, show me something! Dan asks, his eyes shining.
What?
Show me some gymnastics. Go on!
I stare at him, dumbfounded. It s dark. There s a stone floor. I ve been drinking.
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