Maybe so, but it was hard not to tell him the whole truth about the call, the past, everything. I feel like telling him right now. To spill my guts and heart. But that sounds like it would be a lot to clean up if it turns messy like every other time I’ve opened up to anyone. Instead, I tighten the stitches around my fragile parts and keep all my feelings inside.
“Oh, here,” he says, passing me my phone. “Almost forgot.”
Our hands brush when I take it, sending those bluebirds alight.
“By the way, you looked beautiful in the Cinderella costume, but I also liked the photo of you lounging by the pool.” He winks.
It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. “Wait. You looked through my camera roll?”
“You can’t blame me for being curious.”
I feel more exposed than I did when I fell into the fountain.
“You got to see mine. I got to see yours. Seems fair. Win, win, right?”
“Declan,” I growl.
“What’s on deck for tomorrow?” he asks.
Through gritted teeth, I say, “We’ll be reviewing digital etiquette.”
“Perfect. Now that we have our phones back, we can practice.”
I’m not a football expert by any stretch, but I’m pretty sure we’ve crossed the line of scrimmage. He’s been so unexpectedly sweet since we went into the kitchen. He left an imprint everywhere his hands had touched: palms, fingers, knuckles. And the kisses he’d given each of them after he acknowledged the viral video sends a rush through my veins all over again. It travels to my chest and belly. The bluebirds go bonkers.
“Anything else on the docket so I can be prepared, Coach? Any more midnight escapades around the school? Is there more cake in our future?” ...And he’s back. I don’t have a watch, but Iestimate it took him less than three minutes to slide right back into being Declan the Showman.
“We’ll cover hownotto make a grand entrance.”
“But that’s what I do.” He flashes a cocky smile.
“Not anymore and not according to your coach and commissioner.”
“Well, I don’t imagine they said anything about making a grand exit. I’m good at that too.” In one swift motion, he picks me up under his arm and hurries down the hall.
“Put me down,” I hiss. “I’m not a football.”
“Printz is going long. Will he make it to the endzone?” he whisper-shouts.
We round a corner, go up a couple of flights of stairs, and he still carries me as though I’m as light as a feather, er, football.
“If I tell you what kind of cake is my favorite, will you put me down?” I beg, barely able to stifle the laughter in my voice.
Declan comes to an abrupt stop, setting me on my feet. We stand toe to toe, but I have to lift my gaze to his—it’s like staring at the sun through the treetops. He smooths a few of my perpetual flyaway hairs. His lashes brush his cheeks as he gazes at me.
My pulse goes from trot to gallop.
His lips quirk.
He’s hardly out of breath from his race up the stairs, but I can’t catch mine as I bask in the heat from his muscles.
“I should know this, but what is your favorite kind of cake?” he asks.
I search his soft brown eyes. I’ve never known anyone like Declan, but fear that if I lose myself in him, I’ll lose my best friend.
I swallow a lump that feels like a naval orange. His gaze alone has the potential to destroy me. But it’s his lips at that momentthat threaten to undo me. Then they move. “So, what kind of cake is your favorite?” he repeats in a low, husky voice.
“I love chocolate, but carrot cake is my favorite.”
