Chapter 202
Summer's POV
The train screeched into Brookline Village station. We stepped out into marginally less rain—it had downgraded from deluge to steady pour—and started walking. Ms. Robertson's studio was in one of those beautiful old brownstones that lined the residential streets, the kind with window boxes and brass door knockers and the faint smell of old money.
"Why didn't you ask your aunt to pick you up?" Kieran asked suddenly. "Maya, I mean. I thought she's been... around a lot lately."
My jaw tightened. Maya had been around too much, actually. Showing up at the house with takeout and concerned expressions, asking careful questions about my "new friend" and whether I was "being careful." Like I was a child who needed protecting from my own choices.
"She's busy with work," I said, which was true. Mom had been expanding Hayes & Co. into new markets, and Maya had been handling the financial side. "The company's growing fast."
What I didn't say: I didn't want Maya anywhere near Kieran. Didn't want her looking at him with that assessing gaze, calculating his worth in dollars and social capital. Didn't want her to see what I saw—the threadbare cuffs of his jeans, the way he'd carefully counted out bills for Lucas's tutoring materials last week—and make assumptions.
Kieran was quiet for a moment, and when I glanced over, his expression was unreadable. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."
We'd reached Ms. Robertson's building. The brownstone rose four stories, its red brick dark with rain. Through the ground-floor windows, I could see the waiting room—plush chairs, a grand piano in the corner, framed concert posters on the walls. A different world from the one Kieran was about to enter, with its fluorescent lights and linoleum floors and the faint smell of school lunch.
"I should—" I started.
"Yeah." Kieran took a step back, creating distance. "You should go."
But neither of us moved. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead, emphasizing the sharp lines of his face—the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, the mouth that so rarely smiled in public but transformed his entire face when it did in private, just for me. Water dripped from his chin, and his right hand, I noticed, had curled into a loose fist, the fingers that didn't quite straighten tucked against his palm.
"You know," I said, tilting my head to look up at him, "you get so shy around people sometimes. Makes it seem like we're not even dating."
Something shifted in his expression—a flash of heat that made my breath catch. He stepped closer, not away this time, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body despite the cold rain soaking through both our clothes. His left hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheekbone in a gesture that was achingly gentle and possessive all at once.
"Shy?" His voice was low, rough at the edges in that way that always made my stomach flip. "You think I'm shy?"
Before I could answer, he leaned in and kissed me—not the careful, chaste kisses we'd exchanged in empty hallways at school, but deep and thorough and claiming, the kind of kiss that made my knees weak and my heart race and every coherent thought scatter like leaves in the wind. His lips were cold from the rain but his mouth was warm, and when he pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against mine, I was breathing hard and my face was burning despite the autumn chill.
"Still think I'm shy?" he murmured, his breath ghosting across my lips.
"I—" My voice came out embarrassingly breathy. "Okay, point taken."
The corner of his mouth quirked up in that rare, devastating smile that he only ever showed me. "Good." He pressed one more quick kiss to my forehead, then stepped back, creating proper distance again. "Go be brilliant. I'll see you later."
Then he was walking away, his soaked Converse squelching with each step, his backpack leaving a trail of water droplets on the sidewalk, and I was left standing there like an idiot with my heart hammering and my lips still tingling and the certainty that I was absolutely, completely, hopelessly in love with Kieran Cross.
I watched until he turned the corner, until even the sound of his footsteps had faded into the rain, then pressed my fingers to my mouth and smiled like the lovesick fool I was.
Inside Ms. Robertson's studio, I was fifteen minutes early. The waiting room was empty except for an older woman reading The New Yorker, her Burberry trench draped over the chair beside her. She glanced up as I entered, took in my damp clothes and wild hair and probably-obvious just-been-kissed expression, and returned to her magazine with the carefully neutral expression of someone who'd seen it all.
I sank into one of the plush chairs, my tote bag—still wrapped in Kieran's emergency poncho—clutched to my chest, and tried to calm my racing heart. My phone buzzed.
Kieran: Made it. Lucas says hi. (He doesn't actually say hi. He's thirteen and thinks everyone over fifteen is ancient.)
I smiled, typing back: Tell him I'm only eighteen as of last month. I'm practically a peer.
Kieran: He says eighteen is ancient. I'm inclined to agree.
Me: You're eighteen too, genius.
Kieran: Exactly. Ancient. How's the studio?
I glanced around at the tasteful artwork, the baby grand in the corner, the thick carpet that probably cost more than Kieran's entire month of tutoring sessions.
Me: Fancy. There's a woman here reading The New Yorker. I feel underdressed.
Kieran: You could never be underdressed.
My face heated again, the memory of that kiss still fresh and vivid. Me: Also, you're not shy. At all. I take it back.
Kieran: Good. Want me to prove it again later?
God, when had he gotten so confident with the flirting? Me: Maybe. If you're lucky.
Kieran: I'm the luckiest person alive. I have you.
My chest felt so full it hurt. I was still trying to formulate a response when Ms. Robertson's door opened and her previous student emerged—a girl about my age, blonde and poised, carrying her sheet music in a leather portfolio that screamed "my parents bought this at a boutique in Paris."
"Summer?" Ms. Robertson stood in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back in its usual severe bun, her expression as inscrutable as ever. "You're early. And... wet."
"There was a storm," I said, which was obvious. "I made sure to protect the Chopin."
Her expression softened—fractionally, but it was there. "Good. Come in. Let's see if you've been practicing as much as you claim."