Rescue

"I don't know what you mean," I sniffed, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I have plenty of fun. I merely prioritize."

"Bull crap. When was the last time you really just went out and partied?"

The blond smirked at me, his green eyes sparkling. I tried not to lean back to appreciate the way his jeans slouched or the artistic articulation of his fingers. They weren't going to have changed since the last time I looked.

"Last week," I lied. "I went dancing."

Assisting with Cotillion counted as dancing, right? Did it matter that it had been with a sixth grader?

"Right," he chuckled. "And then you went home at eleven and brushed your teeth and put on flannel pajamas and shared your bed with your dog."

He shifted so that he was more beside me than across from me, leg extended in my direction. I couldn't help but admire the way his jeans hit his shoes - damn it, eyes up!

"Seriously, delicaie, I mean real, full-out partying where you fall into bed at dawn, giggling, not concerned with so much as scraping your makeup off. When was the last time you did that?"

I shifted my weight to my other foot, even though it meant leaning into my book-bag, and re-tucked a strand of hair that was already behind my ear.

"Um, never," I admitted.

He grinned. I gulped and bit my lip to disguise the need to lick my lips.

"Exactly. So come on - a bunch of us are going out this Saturday: dinner, a film screening, and then salsa dancing. You should come."

I hesitated.

His green eyes softened.

"Come on. Let me rescue you from your tower."

And, against my better judgment...

"Okay, fine. What time?"