Hence his guess of my favorite color. I can’t believe he remembers all of this.
I shift on my feet. “I was reading a book.”
“Uh-huh. All curled up, reading with this intense expression, like you were at a major turning point in the story. Completely lost in that world.” His smile fades. “I was so jealous of you.”
“You?Jealous of me?”
He nods, the vulnerability in his eyes quickly gone. “Anyway.” He clears his throat. “You were lying on one of those loungers. Something must have happened in the book, because you jumped—like, full-body flinch—and your elbow smacked right into the arm of a woman walking past with a tray of drinks.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” He’s laughing now. “She dropped the whole thing. Someone nearby slipped in the mess, knocking into the table holding the cake—sent the whole thing flying.”
“What?” I cover my face. “You’re lying.”
“Wish I was. The cake landed face down, your mom had frosting in her hair. It was beautiful. Tragic. But beautiful.”
I groan into my hands. I vaguely remember Mom saying someone had dropped the cake, but I had no idea I was responsible.
“Nobody noticed the whole series of events, and you just kept reading, totally oblivious, while chaos exploded around you.” Hewhistles, shaking his head. “It was just so… incredibly you. After that, I couldn’t help but notice you every time you were around.”
Is that so? Because he hid itperfectly.
“When I got the letter, I…” He shakes his head, his gaze dropping as he wrestles with the memory. “I just kept thinking, what if I’d come over during your sweet sixteen? What if I’d just come down the stairs and walked over to you and just…”
“Just?” I prompt.
“Just asked you what book you were reading.” His eyes settle on mine, the same gray as a stormy sky that promises rain. “I really wanted to know.”
“Pride and Prejudice.”
One corner of his lips quirks up. “Any good?”
“No, actually. It both createdandcemented my hatred for romance.”
With a light chuckle, he looks up at the evening sky, the first stars beginning to twinkle against the darkening canvas. “I would have kept you company, then. We could have just sat in silence, watching the party go by.”
My stomach twists hard. When I dated Quentin, there was no sitting in silence and watching the party go by. He dragged me along to parties, meetups with his friends, football practice. This alternative soundsmuchnicer.
“You never even looked my way,” I murmur. “Never talked to me, never said hi, never…”
“I wasnineteen.You weresixteen.” He presses his lips together. “And besides, I didn’t know how to talk to you when you were so much better than me. Smart, sweet. I was the town’s criminal-in-the-making, and you were a cop’s daughter. A stellar studentbeloved by everyone. It was different with you, Scarlett.” He inhales. “It still is.”
I watch him, struggling to get a word out. I bet Paige would freak out, though. That she’d say something about how this always happens in romance books. How you eventually find out the love interest was pining after the main character all along.
“So that’s why I didn’t mention the letter.”
“Okay.” I take a steadying breath. “I get it.”
“But I’m sorry I hurt you. You were really brave—braver than I was, for sure.”
He’s right. Iwasbrave. While the other girls at school were busy daydreaming about him, I actually went for it. I tried. It went horribly, but I survived. “Sorry I said I was happy your spider died.”
He huffs out a laugh, a glimmer of his usual mischief sparking back into his eyes. “Thank you. Hairy Houdini would have loved you.”
“Can’t say the feeling’s mutual, but…”
“All right, all right.”
