Free The Secret Life of a Dream Girl (Creative HeArts) by Tracy Deebs Page B

that just what we tell ourselves to avoid feeling how much it hurts?”
    Ouch. I look down, trying to avoid the sudden laser focus of his gaze. “That’s hitting a little below the belt, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, probably.” He gives a self-deprecating shrug. “Sorry. Looks like I can be an asshole after all.”
    Before I can think up a response to that, he taps me on the lips with a strawberry. When I open up, he pops the whole thing in my mouth, then grins wickedly as I try to chew it without looking completely ridiculous.
    By the time I’m done, he’s handing me a torn-off hunk of bread with a wedge of Brie spread across the top. I take it, then watch as he tears off a piece of bread for himself.
    He’s got nice hands. They aren’t particularly pretty or elegant—they’re too big for that. The palms too broad, the fingers too calloused and nicked up.
    I reach for him before I even realize I’m going to do it, and run my fingertip over one of the many small wounds. He freezes at the touch, eyes on mine and hand halfway to his mouth.
    “I’m sorry.” I pull back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
    “No, of course not. I was just…surprised. I’m so used to the scratches I barely notice them anymore.”
    “How do you get used to that?” I ask, reaching for his hand again and pulling it close so I can get a better look at the cuts. “Some of these are a lot deeper than scratches. How did you get them?”
    “I whittle.”
    “You…whittle?”
    “You know, like with wood? I make things—”
    “Yes, I know what whittling is. I just always pictured…” I stop, unsure of how to say what I’m thinking without insulting him.
    “Little old men sitting in rocking chairs whiling away their golden years?”
    He’s grinning as he says it, so I take a chance and reply, “Well, yes. Kind of.”
    “That’s pretty much how it got started in my family, too. My great-grandpa took it up when he retired, and he taught my dad, who was just a kid at the time. My dad liked it so he kept it up, and then he taught me. Now it’s just something we do together, you know, when we’re watching TV or talking.” He shrugs. “I know it sounds boring, but I like it.”
    “It doesn’t sound boring at all. You create things and you get to share that with your father. I think it’s amazing.”
    “Yeah?” Keegan looks surprised.
    “Yeah. I think it’s cool that you have something like that in common with your dad.”
    So much better than what my dad and I have in common. We’ve spent years creating things, too, but all it’s done is break us apart. Break our relationship down. Maybe even break us…or at least, break me.
    It’s why I’m doing this, after all. Why I walked away from a (very) successful career. Why I moved to Austin for a fresh start, far away from the L.A. scene. Why I’m here, at NextGen, hiding who I am from everyone…including the boy next to me.
    It’s the wake-up call that I need. The reminder that no matter how sweet, how smart, how hot Keegan is, he’s not the boy for me. Or more specifically, I’m not the girl for him…and I never will be. No matter how much I enjoy his emoji texts and impromptu picnics.
    “How about you?” Keegan asks when the silence between us drags on too long. “Is there anything special you do with your parents?”
    I slam the door shut before my brain can take me down that not-so-happy path, then grab my water and take a long sip as I try to sort myself out before Keegan notices just how much his simple question messed me up.
    It doesn’t work, though. Not because I’m not adept at hiding my feelings, because I am—you kind of have to be when you’re a performer and the show has to go on, no matter what—but because Keegan notices everything.
    I can tell by the way his eyes darken, the way the look on his face goes from contemplative to quizzical to concerned in just a few seconds.
    “Hey,” he says, laying a hand on my knee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t