Pretty Little Liars (Book One)

Eight: Where Are The Damn Girl Scouts When You Need Them?

Hanna sank farther into the squishy cushions of her couch and tried to unbutton Sean's Paper Denim jeans.

"Whoa," Sean said. "We can't..."

Hanna smiled mysteriously and put a finger to her lips. She started kissing Sean's neck. He smelled like Lever 2000 and, strangely, chocolate, and she loved how his recently buzzed haircut showed off all the sexy angels of his face. She'd loved him since sixth grade and he'd only gotten handsomer with each passing year.

As they kissed, Hanna's mother, Ashley, unlocked the front door and walked inside, chatting on her teensy LG flip phone.

Sean recoiled against the couch cushions. "She'll see!" he whispered, quickly tucking in his pale Lacoste polo.

Hanna shrugged. Her mom waved at them blankly and walked into the other room. Her mom paid more attention to her BlackBerry than she did to Hanna. Because of her work schedule, she and Hanna didn't bond much, aside from periodic checkups on homework, notes on which shops were running the best sales, and reminders that she should clean her room in case any of the execs coming to her cocktail party needed to use the upstairs bathroom. But Hanna was mostly okay with that. After all, her mom's job was what paid Hanna's AmEx bill—she wasn't always taking things—and her pricey tuition at Rosewood Day.

"I have to go," Sean murmured.

"You should come over on Saturday," Hanna purred. "My mom's going to be at the spa all day."

"I'll see you at Noel's party on Friday," Sean said. "And you know this is hard enough."

Hanna groaned. "It doesn't have to be so hard," she whined.

He leaned down to kiss her. "See you tomorrow."

After Sean let himself out, she buried her face in the couch pillow. Dating Sean felt like a dream. Back when Hanna was chubby and lame, she adored how tall and athletic he was, how he was always really nice to teachers and kids who were less cool, and how he dressed well, not like a color-blind slob. She never stopped liking him, even after she shed her last few stubborn inches and discovered defrizzing hair products. So last year, she casually whispered to James Freed in study hall that she liked Sean, and Colleen Rink told her three periods later that Sean was going to call Hanna on her cell that night after soccer. It was yet another moment Hanna was pissed Ali wasn't here to witness.

They'd been a couple for seven months and Hanna felt more in love with him than ever. She hadn't told him yet—she'd kept that to herself for years—but now, she was pretty sure he loved her too. And wasn't sex the best way to express love?

That was why the virginity pledge thing made no sense. It wasn't as if Sean's parents were overly religious, and it went against every preconceived notion Hanna had to hand it to herself: With her deep brown hair, curvy body, and flawless—we're talking no pimples, ever—skin, she was hot. Who wouldn't fall madly in love with her? Sometimes she wondered if Sean was gay—he did have a lot of nice clothes—or if he had a fear of vaginas.

Hanna called for her miniature pinscher, Dot, to hop up on the couch. "Did you miss me today?" she squealed as Dot licked her hand. Hanna had petitioned to let Dot come in her oversize Prada handbag—all the girls in Beverly Hills did it, after all—but Rosewood Day said no. So to prevent separation anxiety, Hanna had bought Dot the snuggliest Gucci bed money could buy and left QVC on her bedroom TV during the day.

Her mother strode into the living room, still in her tailored tweed suit and brown kitten-heel slingbacks. "There's sushi," Ms. Marin said.

Hanna looked up. "Toro rolls?"