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Authors: Nia Stephens

BOOK: Get More
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“Let'em wait,” Jason said faintly, his arms tightening around Bree. “I'm not going anywhere for a little while.”
Bree gave him a kiss that made that little while a lot longer.
 
THAT SEEMED TO WORK OUT FOR BREE—BUT DO YOU THINK SHE MADE THE RIGHT DECISION?
turn to page 85
to see what would happen if she decided to stick with Justin, or
turn to page 53
to choose another boy.
Think Bree should go out with Antonio, the party boy from Jersey? Then read on!
Chapter 5
Antonio
“I
don't know,” Sutton said, reading over Bree's shoulder as she typed. “You know what they say about Jersey boys.”
“What do they say?” Kylian said, leaning over Bree's other shoulder. “Is it dirty?”
“Probably,” Bree told him. “I think it's unfair, actually. I've been to some gorgeous places in Jersey. And doesn't your mom stable her horses in Jersey?”
“Just because Jersey is okay for horses doesn't mean it's okay for people,” Sutton joked.
“Don't be such a snob, Sutton,” Kylian said. “Antonio sounds nice enough. And maybe, if she's lucky, Bree can marry into the mob. Then all your money worries will be over!”
“Bree doesn't have money worries,” Sutton reminded him. “Her dad is richer than God. As long as her mother doesn't give it all away to needy children in Africa—”
“
The Sopranos
is just a show, Kylian,” Bree said, clicking SEND. “Anyway, it's time for class.”
When Bree's phone started vibrating an hour later as she was walking out of her calculus classroom, she hoped it was Antonio and answered quickly. Instead it was Fiona, calling to remind Bree of several auditions she would be attending in the next two weeks. That kept Bree distracted for the rest of the day, worrying about monologues and picking up a stack of head shots from her photographer. So when Antonio did call her at eight, she was happily surprised.
“I'm reading scripts,” she told him when he asked her what was up. “What about you?”
“I'm sending an Evite to everyone I know,” he said. “I turn eighteen on Saturday. Want to come?”
“Where?”
“My house. It's a pool party, so bring a bikini.”
“In the middle of winter?”
“Don't worry. We keep the pool very, very hot.” His tone suggested that more than the water would be hot at the party.
“I don't know, Antonio. I won't know anybody there.”
“So bring some friends. Everyone's welcome.”
“I don't know how my friends will feel about spending a Saturday night outside of the city,” Bree said, stalling for time. She wasn't sure how she felt about meeting Antonio for the first time with Sutton and Kylian in tow.
“Give me their numbers. I'll talk them into it.”
Bree laughed and said she would think about it. This was a guy who didn't take no for an answer.
“Please come,” he said. “I'd really like to get to know you, Bree.”
“We'll see,” was as far as she would go. “But send me an Evite so I can get directions.”
It was a three-day battle, but Bree managed to persuade Kylian and Sutton to come along.
“You could bring Lucas,” she told Kylian, afraid that he might back out in favor of hanging out with his new guy.
“And let him know I'm going to a party in Jersey? No way. I'm telling him that I've got the flu.”
There was less grumbling when Saturday night rolled around. They broke into Ameera's stash of Ethiopian honey wine and were singing “New York, New York” in the Edwardian lobby when Sam showed up. Bree and Sutton had even started a kick line. Calvin, the night doorman, made fun of their matching hot pink sneakers. All the girls on the Rittenhouse track team had them.
“We're going to Jersey, land of lawns,” Sutton explained. “We're not going to wear real shoes if there might be grass.”
When they arrived at the address Antonio had provided, the girls were relieved to see that the party was mostly happening inside Antonio's enormous house, though a few hardy specimens were playing water polo outside. The guests ranged in age from Antonio's two grandmothers, who sat knitting in a corner next to speakers blasting Jay-Z, to a couple of tiny cousins being passed from lap to lap. Most of the guests were Antonio's friends, and it seemed like hundreds of them, all tossing back
prosecco
, Italy's answer to champagne, like Jell-O shots.
“Wow! You made it!” Antonio said, rushing straight over to Bree. “You look fantastic!” He kissed her on both cheeks.
“Um, thanks,” Bree said, her head spinning. With curly blond hair and pale green eyes, he didn't look very Italian, but he did have that warm, lusty air that Bree remembered from trips to Milan with her mother. “American men mostly love themselves,” Ameera used to say. “Italian men love women.” Bree could see from the perfect fit of his Armani pants and T-shirt, and expertly cut hair that Antonio spent a lot of time on his appearance, but the weight of his gaze as he checked out the fit of Bree's Baby Phat baby tee and jeans hinted at a thoroughly Italian adoration of the female form.
“These are my friends Kylian and Sutton,” Bree said, stepping back a little from Antonio.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, shaking hands with her friends. “Come on in! Let me get you some drinks!”
They followed him toward the bar, a slow trip since absolutely everyone wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Antonio did a great job of introducing Bree and her friends. She lost track of Kylian early on, and Sutton soon after, as they both got entangled in conversations with new acquaintances.
“How about a tour?” Antonio suggested, offering his arm.
“Sure.” Bree slipped her arm into his and allowed him to show her a gorgeous little library, a media room full of boys playing some sort of game system, and a huge, chaotic kitchen filled with catering staff and uniformed waiters.
“Lemon or chocolate?” he asked her, swooping a couple of miniature tarts from a tray on its way out the door.
“Lemon,” she said, eyeing the sunlight-colored custard.
“An independent thinker,” he said, holding the tiny yellow tart to her lips. It was the size of a quarter. “I like that.”
Bree ate it in one bite and had to resist licking his fingers. It was the perfect combination of buttery crust and smooth custard, sweet and tart as lemonade. “I like chocolate, too, don't get me wrong. But variety is good.”
He munched the chocolate tart and snatched two more flutes of prosecco.
“What else do you appreciate, besides fine wine, good company, and a little variety?” he asked, gently touching the rim of her glass with his.
“All sorts of things,” Bree admitted.
“A sensualist,” he said, smiling coyly. “So am I.”
“I didn't say that!” Bree laughed, though it was true. She liked striking colors, lush fabrics, exotic flavors, and heady perfumes. She wanted life to be as sumptuous as a movie set from the nineteen-thirties—though there was no way Antonio could know that after one conversation.
“But I can tell,” Antonio said, grabbing another lemon tart for Bree. “The way you close your eyes when you bite into the dessert, that look of concentration—another?”
“Maybe we should finish the tour,” Bree said, eyeing the tart, but not Antonio.
“Come on. Indulge yourself. Consider it my birthday wish.”
“If you put it that way . . .” Bree closed her eyes and opened her mouth, and was rewarded by another buttery, sunshiny bite. Antonio brushed her bottom lip with his thumb, softly, like a kiss. “Delicious,” she pronounced, looking straight into his sea-green eyes.
“Then let's hit the highlight of our tour,” he said, leading her upstairs.
“Let me guess. Your bedroom?” Bree said.
“My bedroom,” he confirmed.
“Then let me be clear,” Bree added before they reached the door. “I am not going to hook up with a guy I just met.”
She meant it, too. Ordinarily she would not have even entered the bedroom of a boy she had just met, no matter how sexy he was. But with a house full of guests, including her two best friends, Bree didn't think there was much chance of things getting out of hand.
“Who said anything about hooking up?” he said, letting her into a fairly ordinary, if very large, bedroom. Even the closet was larger than some apartments in Manhattan. “I'm just showing you my room, Bree.”
“That's all?” she asked as he locked the door behind them.
“That's all. Although, since it is my birthday, I think a kiss is in order.”
“One kiss?”
“One kiss.”
“All right.” Bree stood on her toes, putting her hands on his shoulders for balance, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You call that a kiss?” he teased, putting his hands on her waist. “I demand a do-over.”
“What would you call it?”
“I don't know. A peck, maybe? This is a kiss.”
He was right. Comparing Bree's kiss to his was like comparing a raisin to a glass of wine. It was sweet, sparkly, and intoxicating as a flute of prosecco.
“Can I try again?” Bree asked.
He grinned. “Impress me.”
“I will,” Bree said. “You may want to sit down for this.”
He flopped, arms spread, onto his bed. “Have your way with me,” he teased. “But, with respect to my mother, please take off your shoes before climbing on the bed.”
Bree giggled, but she complied, glad she had worn her favorite pink and black striped socks that night.
“Ooh. Very cute,” he said as Bree hopped around, taking off her shoes. “What about the toes? I bet you have cute little toes.”
“Sorry. The socks stay on,” she said, joining him on the bed. “As we already discussed, this is just a do-over of your birthday kiss.”
“Come on,” he said, tickling her feet. “I bet they're the sweetest little toes in town.”
“No way, buddy,” she insisted. “The socks stay on.”
Bree did not have the sweetest little toes in New York. Her pedicurist did what she could, but Bree was a runner, which meant her feet were always callused, and she usually had a blackened toenail or two. By applying dark polish to her toes she could get away with wearing strappy heels from time to time, but only if she was going someplace dark. Her feet would not stand up to any close observation.
“I'll get those socks off you sooner or later,” Antonio teased. “Now, about my kiss—”
“Antonio!” shouted someone on the other side of the door. “Antonio! You open up this minute!”
“Is that your mother?”
This,
she thought,
is the dark side of throwing an all-ages party.
“No, that's not my mother,” he said, sliding off the bed. “That's Graciella.”
“Antonio! You know I'm the only one for you! You said I was made for you!”
“Graciella,” he began, opening the door. “I'm sorry that this is so hard for you—”
“Her?!” shouted Graciella. “You leave me for Briona Black?”
“Do I know you?” Bree asked, mystified. Graciella did look familiar. She was very tall and very blonde, like Antonio, and even more Italian—she had a thick accent. A model, maybe, she knew through her mother? She didn't look all that beautiful, but no one looks her best with a red-face from screaming and raccoon eyes from crying in mascara.
“She will not satisfy you,” Graciella said, suddenly calm, or, at least, calmer. “You will be back.”
“Gracie, it's over. Really.
Arrivederci.
”
Suddenly she was crying again, wailing at the top of her lungs, trying to throw herself at Bree. “You cannot have him! He is mine! We were perfect, perfect—”
At this point three brawny men in black suits crowded into the hallway and dragged Graciella away.
“Sorry about that,” Antonio said, shutting the door again. “Where were we?”
“Never mind,” Bree said, slipping back into her sneakers. “Let's go back downstairs.”
“Rain check on my kiss then?”
“Um, sure,” Bree said, though she would have said anything to return to the party. Graciella had spooked her badly, especially since she couldn't quite place her. She knew all the top models in New York—there weren't that many of them. Graciella could be a minor model at her mother's agency, except that they didn't handle minor models. Maybe she did something other than runway? Maybe she was a star in the world of . . . wedding fashions? This was going to bother Bree all night.
“Are you all right?” Sutton squealed when Bree found her, lurking near the base of the stairs. “I heard a girl screaming your name upstairs.”
“Fine. Psycho-ex-girlfriend incident. Are you ready to go home?” Bree couldn't wait to escape.

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