I feel shaky and nervous. I’m biting my lip as our eyes connect. But still, it feels like my knees are too bent or something. I know I look stupid.
“That’s good. Just get steady, I’ll do all the work right now.”
I wiggle and squeal, but Oliver holds me steady, just like he said he would.
“Oh my god. The last thing I want to do is break my ass and then sit on an airplane for five and a half hours.”
He laughs. Some kids zoom by us, catching my attention and twisting the I’m-so-bad-at-this knife in just a bit more. I think he notices my face, because he says, “Let’s try to go a little faster.”
When I grimace, he adds, “I promise to protect your ass. I will not let you fall. Scout’s honor. Push your feet away like this. You can look down.”
I do, trying to copy him, but my ankles feel like what baby deer look like when they first walk. So I start talking to distract myself.
“You know, I don’t even have to ask if you were actually a Scout to know it’s true.”
“What does that mean?”
Someone falls ten feet away, making us both glance over, then smile at each other.
“It means”—I breathe out, trying to skate faster—“that I’ve only gotten to know you for, like, a few hours, but you just radiate sincerity. A total green flag ... a really nice guy.”
He grunts like I’ve hit him directly in the stomach. “Not the dreaded nice-guy accusation.”
I scoff. “Why don’t nice guys wanna be callednice? What’s wrong with it? Wouldn’t that be the goal?”
Oliver skates farther from me, making my arms stretch and panic set in.
“You’re good. It’s okay. And to answer your question, nice guys never land girls like you. This is probably why I don’t have a date for tomorrow.”
I’m confused. And I know it’s playing out all over my face. He’s hotter than hot. He could literally have any girl he wanted. Does he not know that?
He’s like a unicorn in the wild. A perfect ten who doesn’t know it. It feels wrong to want to keep him in the dark ... like that one movie,The Village, where the people thought they were living in the 1700s, but it was all a ploy to keep them away from the world that would corrupt them.
“Oliver.” I chuckle. “You’re like a Michelangelo. You’re gorgeous ... Stop pretending women don’t throw themselves at you.”
He smirks. “Sometimes ... but, Rory, I’m a theater kid. I quoteHamletand know way too many musicals by heart. Most women who get to know me think I’m gay or boring.”
I scream-laugh. I can’t help it. And the way he’s staring at my face like he’s half embarrassed, half amused is making me laugh harder.
“I’m glad the humiliation of my personality amuses you,” he levels, and I almost double over.
Which is a terrible move, because it completely messes with my coordination, throwing off my balance. And suddenly I’ve pulled my hands away from Oliver to wave them in the air like one of those blow-up mascots in front of a car dealership.
I yelp, calling out Oliver’s name, before his strong arm wraps around my waist. My hair sweeps across my face as we spin, and my skates lift off the ground. He’s holding me, so I wrap my arms around his neck, squeezing my eyes closed and bracing for impact. But all I hear is a thud—Oliver’s backside hitting the pony wall.
“Whoa. I gotcha. It’s okay,” he breathes into my skin, because our bodies are pressed against each other.
I’m blinking too fast, hypersensitive to what’s happening around me.
My head draws back as his fingertips curl around my sweater. And my palms brush over his chest as he lowers me to the ground.
“Thank you,” I whisper, sounding breathy.
He’s staring down at me, unmoving, and it reminds me of that day all the way back on the theater stage. The way the chemistry crackled between us.
Sometimes I thought I’d imagined it, but I definitely didn’t.
Come on, Oliver. Screw it, and kiss me again.
