Poseur #3: Petty in Pink: A Trend Set Novel by Rachel Maude Page B

“bye” to her dignity?
    Why not say “bye” to her heart?

The Girl: Petra Greene
    The Getup: Black cotton hip-bikini by On Gossamer, black light-as-air bralette by Hanky Panky, sterling silver, marcasite,
     and turquoise rings from Venice Beach, and… does pool water count?
    “Come on,” he begged, wrapping his strong arms around her small, towel-draped waist. The veins tensed at his beautifully wrought
     wrists, winding toward his elbows like vines. His firm torso, still slick with pool water, dissolved against her back, pulsing
     warmth throughout her entire body. “Just tell me the code.”
    She twisted free and pushed him away, escaping to the playhouse’s wraparound veranda. By day, the castle-like playhouse belonged
     to her adopted sisters, six-year-old Isabel and four-year-old Sofia—
but by night
. Petra smiled, too high on anticipation to finish the thought. Paul Elliot Miller, the neighborhood badass with ethereal
     good looks—like Zac Efron’s long-lost, wickedly sarcastic, eyebrow-and-lip-pierced punk-rock brother—was headed straight toward
     her. They’d been meeting like this for more than a month—well, not
always
like this. In the beginning, the most they did was swim, floating on their backs, gazing up at the star-flecked sky, trading
     each other’s lives like water from glass to glass. Then, after a week of midnights, in the long wavering shadow of the diving
     board, they kissed—an explosive, primordial kiss that all but pushed them out of the pool and slopped them panting across
     dry land. Just like that, they just…
evolved
.
    And there was no turning back.
    Petra smiled as Paul hesitantly ducked to avoid the low-hanging, ornately trimmed Victorian roof, his palm flat against the
     pale pink ceiling. “You know I ain’t
never
gonna give it to you…,” she teased, and began to walk backward. By “it,” of course, she meant Isabel’s “top secret” security
     code, but “it” had a second meaning too—and as far as never giving
that
up, well… she was far less confident. “So why do you keep asking?”
    “I don’t know.” Planting his thumb-ringed hands on either side of her naked shoulders, he backed her up against the child-size
     red door. The veranda’s floorboards creaked beneath their damp, bare feet, and he grinned, watching her mouth. “Why do you
     keep not telling me the code?”
    “I told you,”
she attempted a scolding tone, but his mismatched hazel brown and green-blue eyes conspired against her. “I promised Isabel…”
    “Oh,
Isabel
,” he murmured into her ear, causing her to nearly swoon against the door. The heart-shaped brass knocker dug into her spine.
     “What’s she going to do?” His warm breath caressed her neck. “Put you in the
mush
pot?”
    “Sick.” She shrugged him off, cupped her hand to the glowing number pad, and hid her pleased grin behind a dripping curtain
     of butterscotch blond hair.
Ah well,
she thought.
    So much for associating mush pots with duck-duck-goose.
    “I saw the first letter,” her partner in breaking and entering cackled triumphantly as she punched in the code, disabling
     the alarm. With mock annoyance, she sighed, pushing open the door. The achingly beautiful boy stooped, following her inside.
     “P…,” he pondered, reaching under a ruffled pink floral lampshade. “Wait a sec.” A gentle click. A gloating grin. “It’s not
Paul
, is it?”
    Petra rolled her wide-set tea-green eyes. “Your ego is…” Taking in the sight of his now-illuminated naked chest, the damp
     navy-blue boxers clinging to his narrow hips, she breathed, “Out of control.”
    He kicked the door shut, and the delicate porcelain teacups on the table rattled brightly in their saucers. Sofia and Isabel
     always left the tea set arranged and ready in case their dolls, who they believed came alive at night, might be interested
     in pretend-drinking tea, pretend-eating cake, and pretend-complaining about their busy days.