“How about Elvis? Are you a fan?”
Without thinking, I string together the chorus of several songs, including “All Shook Up,” “Teddy Bear,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Love Me Tender.” And that’s my cue to stop talking, er, singing. Seems I forgot my filter today.
Chase’s lips part and then he says, “Wow. So I take it you are a fan. He was my grandfather’s favorite. In fact, they met a few times, even went skeet shooting together.”
I sigh. “Elvis’s voice. When I was younger, I’d often fall asleep listening to it.”
“Almost got it free, Pippa,” Chase says, all smooth, like I didn’t just confirm that I’m the Empress of Awkward.
But that reminds me that he inhabits Jerky Jerk Land. “Don’t you mean Pizza?” I retort because earlier he’d definitely called me pizza.
“Yeah. No. Never mind that. I’m sorry. I misspoke.” His gaze lowers and meets mine.
“Don’t try to eye-smolder with me so I let you off easily.”
“Eye smolder?”
“Yeah, there’s the eye smolder, lips smolder, and then just a smolder, which is the full show.” I do sparkle fingers.
He chuckles and reaches for my hair. I’m afraid he’s going to ruffle my hair again in thatshe’s my best friend’s annoying sisterkind of way and start to duck. I’m not fast enough, and instead, he brushes my bangs out of my eyes.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” I say before I can stop myself.
His lips ripple with amusement. “I am well aware.”
I take a subtle but sharp intake of breath as though coming out of a fog and seeing my surroundings for the first time.
How’d we end up here?
So close?
His hand on mine?
We’re also on the edge of the dance floor, having been sidelined by my ring mishap. Perhaps this will allow me to make a graceful and polite exit.
Ted Lasso, couch, biscuits, don’t worry, I’m coming for you!
“All better.” Gently pinching the ring between his fingers, Chase slides it back onto mine.
Time slows as if this were some kind of ceremonial ritual—ahem, you know the one—but before I can take in the scenery, my mother’s voice floats to me from nearby. “Go on, dance.”
Oh dear. Of course, Lady Libby the Love Liaison has to be coaching from the fifty-yard line. I feel like telling her she can go home. Nothing to see here. The ball is hardly in play.
And yes, I guess I do know a thing or two about football, having watched a couple of games. Okay, a few. Many. Most of them. But only during Chase’s first year on the team. The sports channel came with our cable service and Freddie wanted to see his best friend in action. It couldn’t be helped.
A new song begins, signaling the perfect segue to dance. There’s no getting out of this. Chase’s hand presses against my side while the other grips my palm. I break out into a full-body blaze. My heart races even though we’re not yet moving. My body has not forgotten the giddy discombobulation it’s always experienced whenever I’m around him. That’s why I was especially careful at dinner, trying to keep my distance.
But this is off the charts. I hear the tsunami warning system blaring in the background.
Oops. False alarm. That’s just my heart pounding in my chest.
How do people do stuff like this regularly without self-destructing?
And to add insult to injury, it was only recently that I thought I’d clawed my way out of heartbreak—people say teenagers are resilient, and they are, but the sponge scene in the dining hall ruined me for the last decade.
That said, Chase’s proximity is not helping keep my crush in the rubble of ancient history. I risk reverting to being a smitten teenager and then being tricked by cake...and Chase.
Oh, I’m onto you, buddy!
