watching me, but I don’t look back. Knowing we were going to be alone and actually being alone are apparently two very different things. Adding in the confusing bodily reactions to his mere presence, I’m a big ball of freaking out. I order enough food to feed an army, and I’m just hanging up when long, tan fingers wrap around my elbow.
“Got a second?”
Those dang tingles come back, radiating from where his rough hand encircles my arm. Brandon looks down as if surprised to find it there and takes a step back, releasing his grip. The warm sensation lingers.
“Sure,” I say.
Pushing himself onto the granite counter in front of me, Brandon rests his hands on my shoulders. “Thanks for doing this for Baylee. It means a lot. To both of us.”
Ignoring the shiver teasing my spine, I look into his sincere expression and nod. “It’s really no problem. This is important to Kaitie, too.”
We stare at each other, and a tension-filled silence falls between us. I refuse to let my eyes drift down to his full lips. Or let myself wonder if he’s thinking about our kiss as much as I am.
Or if he wants to do it again.
Nope, definitely not thinking about the kiss.
“Brandon, about last night—”
“Listen, last night was—”
We both stop, and I laugh nervously. “Go ahead.” Biting my lip, I cast a glance toward the doorway. The last thing this conversation needs is a couple seventh-grade eavesdroppers.
“Okay.” Brandon swallows and rubs his palms on the front of his jeans. “I just wanted to make sure… I mean, we’re cool, right? Things kinda got sketchy last night, but I don’t want any weirdness between us.”
Oh .
Not what I expected, but infinitely better than hearing that kissing me was like making out with his sister. And this works perfectly with my plan anyway. Brandon and I are just friends. Awesome. Good to know we’re on the same page.
“No,” I tell him. “Yeah. We’re cool. Zero weirdness.”
I force a smile to prove my point, and we stare at each other some more. With absolutely zero weirdness.
The seconds drag on in silence.
“Well, that’s good,” he says, visibly drawing a breath. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too.”
Thankfully, the doorbell rings, saving us from any further non-weird comments. Baylee races down the steps, Kaitie on her heels, and squeals erupt from the family room. Brandon laughs and shakes his head. “There’s my cue.”
For a second it looks like he wants to say more, but he turns on his heel and jogs up the stairs. And I go and greet eight giggling girls.
Head in the game, Reed .
BRANDON
BRANDON’S ROOM, 8:45 p.m .
I crack my knuckles and look at the sketch I’ve been working on since my forced seclusion a few hours ago. We agreed my presence at the estrogen-fest downstairs would be weird and complicate things. I’m just not sure what it would complicate more: whatever it is that girls do at these things or my friendship with Aly.
Sketching is a trick a counselor suggested after Dad got sick and I became the man of the house at thirteen. I do it to deal with feelings I can’t or won’t talk about. If I were in a self-analytical mood, I’d find it interesting I took out the pad tonight, but something tells me that kind of thinking can only lead to more problems.
No surprise after the past week, this sketch is of Aly. Two different Alys to be exact, a sort of before-and-after morphing into one girl. The first Aly doesn’t have on any makeup, her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she has on track pants and her ratty Block This! T-shirt. The second Aly’s hair falls around her shoulders, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in cut-off shorts and a bikini top, her daily uniform on the camping trip.
Staring at one makes me feel happy and relaxed. The other confuses the hell out of me. She’s the same girl with the same cute nose and sassy smile in both pictures, so the answer is obvious.
The damn makeover is the problem.
A mouthwatering scent
“Got a second?”
Those dang tingles come back, radiating from where his rough hand encircles my arm. Brandon looks down as if surprised to find it there and takes a step back, releasing his grip. The warm sensation lingers.
“Sure,” I say.
Pushing himself onto the granite counter in front of me, Brandon rests his hands on my shoulders. “Thanks for doing this for Baylee. It means a lot. To both of us.”
Ignoring the shiver teasing my spine, I look into his sincere expression and nod. “It’s really no problem. This is important to Kaitie, too.”
We stare at each other, and a tension-filled silence falls between us. I refuse to let my eyes drift down to his full lips. Or let myself wonder if he’s thinking about our kiss as much as I am.
Or if he wants to do it again.
Nope, definitely not thinking about the kiss.
“Brandon, about last night—”
“Listen, last night was—”
We both stop, and I laugh nervously. “Go ahead.” Biting my lip, I cast a glance toward the doorway. The last thing this conversation needs is a couple seventh-grade eavesdroppers.
“Okay.” Brandon swallows and rubs his palms on the front of his jeans. “I just wanted to make sure… I mean, we’re cool, right? Things kinda got sketchy last night, but I don’t want any weirdness between us.”
Oh .
Not what I expected, but infinitely better than hearing that kissing me was like making out with his sister. And this works perfectly with my plan anyway. Brandon and I are just friends. Awesome. Good to know we’re on the same page.
“No,” I tell him. “Yeah. We’re cool. Zero weirdness.”
I force a smile to prove my point, and we stare at each other some more. With absolutely zero weirdness.
The seconds drag on in silence.
“Well, that’s good,” he says, visibly drawing a breath. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too.”
Thankfully, the doorbell rings, saving us from any further non-weird comments. Baylee races down the steps, Kaitie on her heels, and squeals erupt from the family room. Brandon laughs and shakes his head. “There’s my cue.”
For a second it looks like he wants to say more, but he turns on his heel and jogs up the stairs. And I go and greet eight giggling girls.
Head in the game, Reed .
BRANDON
BRANDON’S ROOM, 8:45 p.m .
I crack my knuckles and look at the sketch I’ve been working on since my forced seclusion a few hours ago. We agreed my presence at the estrogen-fest downstairs would be weird and complicate things. I’m just not sure what it would complicate more: whatever it is that girls do at these things or my friendship with Aly.
Sketching is a trick a counselor suggested after Dad got sick and I became the man of the house at thirteen. I do it to deal with feelings I can’t or won’t talk about. If I were in a self-analytical mood, I’d find it interesting I took out the pad tonight, but something tells me that kind of thinking can only lead to more problems.
No surprise after the past week, this sketch is of Aly. Two different Alys to be exact, a sort of before-and-after morphing into one girl. The first Aly doesn’t have on any makeup, her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she has on track pants and her ratty Block This! T-shirt. The second Aly’s hair falls around her shoulders, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in cut-off shorts and a bikini top, her daily uniform on the camping trip.
Staring at one makes me feel happy and relaxed. The other confuses the hell out of me. She’s the same girl with the same cute nose and sassy smile in both pictures, so the answer is obvious.
The damn makeover is the problem.
A mouthwatering scent
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