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

to give her anything that might seem weird or inappropriate.”
    “Damn. And here I was planning on doing my best Christian Grey impression.”
    “You know what? I’m not going to help you if you keep making fun of me! I’m trying to be serious here!” I mock-glare at him.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender, and even manages to bite back a smirk. But his eyes are all but dancing with amusement, so it’s pretty hard to buy his obviously fake remorse. “I know you’re trying to help and I swear, I’m paying attention. Get her a small present, nothing too flashy, nothing that screams stalker. Just something that says I’ve been paying attention to her. That I know—and care—what she’s interested in. Right?”
    “Right,” I grudgingly admit. “And—”
    “Just to be clear,” he interrupts. “We’re talking absolutely no ball gags, right? No blindfolds, no whips, no—”
    “I’m leaving now.” I give him a dirty look as I get to my feet.
    “No, don’t! Please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
    “No, you’re not.” I dust the grass and dirt off my butt and slide my feet back into my shoes.
    “I am! I swear.” He grabs me around the waist and tugs me back down. Only I land in his lap instead of on the ground and suddenly he’s all around me. His lean, hard chest pressed to my back. His strong arms wrapped around my waist. His breath warm against my ear.
    I shiver despite myself.
    “Are you cold?” he asks, wrapping himself even more tightly around me.
    “A little.” I make a show of looking at my phone. This isn’t about you, I remind myself. It’s about his super serious, super focused Dream Girl—whoever that may be since he still hasn’t spilled the beans. “We should probably head back anyway. The first bell rings in fifteen minutes.”
    “Yeah, okay. But first—” He reaches for the half of the baguette we didn’t eat. “Wanna feed the ducks?”
    I follow his finger and see the small parade of ducks swimming around on the other side of the pond. “I do,” I tell him as I scramble off his lap. “I really do.”
    “Then come on.” Once again, he puts a hand on the small of my back as he guides me quickly around the pond. It only takes a minute or so, and then we’re right there, only a few feet from the ducks.
    He rips off a hunk of bread and hands it to me. I take it greedily, then immediately start ripping tiny pieces off and throwing them into the water. The ducks go nuts for the bread, quacking and honking at one another as they dive for the small pieces.
    When I finish with what he gave me, Keegan hands me the rest. And that’s when I realize that he hasn’t thrown any bread to the ducks at all.
    “Don’t you want to…” I ask, trying to hand the baguette back to him.
    He shakes his head. “You look like you’re having fun. Besides, this is my spot. I can come here anytime and feed them.”
    What’s left unsaid is that this is a onetime thing for me. For us. He brought me here today so we could talk, but he doesn’t plan on bringing me back again. Which is fine. I don’t need him to want to bring me back here. Hell, if I want to, I can come by myself anytime I want.
    After all, my apartment is less than fifteen minutes away from here.
    The realization should make me happy, the idea that if I’m careful and come at off times, I can just show up here without worrying about schedules or paparazzi or any of the other things that kept me trapped in hotel room after hotel room, stage after stage. And yet the thought of coming here alone—without Keegan—fills me with disquiet. With discontent.
    I don’t let him see it, though. Instead, I laugh and continue throwing the bread out to the ducks. Continue marveling at the way they compete for each and every piece.
    But inside I’m thinking about what it would be like if this were my life for real. What it would be like if I were just a normal teenage girl, going to a cool school, dating