Too Good to Be True by Kristan Higgins Page A

glowed in the dark. Jeans. Bare feet. I could see that he was just…just lying there, hands behind his head, one knee bent, looking up at the sky.
    Something contracted down low in my stomach, my skin tightened with heat. Suddenly, I could feel the blood pulsing in parts too long neglected.
    Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I eased the window up a crack. The sound of springtime frogs rushed in, the smell of the river and distant rain. The damp breeze cooled my hot cheeks.
    The moon was rising in the west, and my neighbor, too irritable to tell me his name, was simply lying on the roof, staring at the deep, deep blue of the night sky.
    What kind of man did that?
    Angus sneezed in disgust, and I jumped back from the window lest Surly Neighbor Man hear.
    Suddenly, everything shifted into focus. I wanted a man. There, right next door, was a man. A manly man. My girl parts gave a warm squeeze.
    Granted, I didn’t want a fling. I wanted a husband, and not just any husband. A smart, funny, kind and moral husband. He’d love kids and animals, especially dogs. He’d work hard at some honorable, intellectual job. He’d like to cook. He’d be unceasingly cheerful. He’d adore me.
    I didn’t know a thing about that guy down there. Not even his name. All I knew was that I felt something—lust, let’s be honest—for him. But that was a start. I hadn’t felt anything for any man in a long, long time.
    Tomorrow, I told myself as I closed the window, I was going to find out my neighbor’s name. And I’d invite him to dinner, too.

CHAPTER SIX
    “S O ALTHOUGH S EWELL P OINT wasn’t a major battle, it had the potential to greatly affect the outcome of the war. Obviously, Chesapeake Bay was a critical area for both sides. So. Ten pages on the blockade and its effects, due on Monday.”
    My class groaned. “Ms. Em!” Hunter Graystone protested. “That’s, like, ten times what any other teacher gives.”
    “Oh, you poor little kittens! Want me to prop you up while you type?” I winked. “Ten pages. Twelve if you fight me.”
    Kerry Blake giggled. She was texting someone. “Hand it over, Kerry,” I said, reaching out for her phone. It was a new model, encrusted with bling.
    Kerry raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow at me. “Ms. Emerson, do you, like, know how much that cost? Like, if my father knew you took it, he’d be, like…totally unhappy.”
    “You can’t use your phone in class, honey,” I said for what had to be the hundredth time this month. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”
    “Whatever,” she muttered. Then, catching Hunter’s eye, she flipped her hair back and stretched. Hunter grinned appreciatively. Tommy Michener, painfully and inexplicably in love with Kerry, froze at the display, which caused Emma Kirk to droop. Ah, young love.
    Across the hall, I heard a burst of sultry laughter from Ava Machiatelli’s Classical History class. Most Manning students loved Ms. Machiatelli. Easy grades, false sympathy for their busy schedules resulting in very little homework, and the most shallow delving into history since…well, since Brad Pitt starred in Troy. But like Brad Pitt, Ava Machiatelli was beautiful and charming. Add to this her low-cut sweaters and tight skirts, and you had Marilyn Monroe teaching history. The boys lusted after her, the girls took fashion notes from her, the parents loved her since their kids all got A’s. Me…not such a fan.
    The chimes sounded, marking the end of the period. Manning Academy didn’t have bells—too harsh for the young ears of America’s wealthiest. The gentle Zen chimes had the same effect as electric shock therapy, though—my seniors lunged out of their seats toward the door. On Mondays, Civil War was the last class before lunch.
    “Hang on, kids,” I called. They stopped, sheeplike. They may have been, for the most part, overindulged and too sophisticated for their tender ages, but they were obedient, I had to give them that. “This