“You’re in for it,” Violet said softly.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Fiona added.
I sank into the booth like gravity had increased specifically for me.
“I am not,” I lied.
“Uh-huh,” Violet said.
“Nope,” Fiona agreed. “Definitely not. Just heart-skipping, breath-pausing, full-inflammatory-response when you see him.”
“That could be allergies,” I hissed. “Spring is on the horizon, whether the weather agrees or not.”
“Sienna,” Violet said, sipping her latte with infuriating calm, “you’re allergic to your own feelings.”
I groaned and dropped my gaze to the table.
They leaned in, whispering dramatically.
“This is worse than when she liked Jonathan Martin in eighth grade,” Fiona whispered.
“No,” Violet said. “She didn’t stop breathing around Jonathan Martin.”
My voice came out muffled against the table. “Stop talking.”
“You’re blushing,” Fiona crooned.
“It’s the heat from the coffee.”
“The coffee is iced.”
“It’s a chemical reaction.”
“Uh-huh,” Violet said again.
I lifted my head slightly. “Listen. I can handle him. Professionally.”
“You can’t even handle thinking about his flannel shirt,” Fiona said.
“I can too!”
“What color was it?” she asked.
“Green plaid.”
Their mouths fell open.
“Oh no,” Violet breathed. “She notices details.”
Fiona fanned herself. “The man is inside her visual cortex.”
I slammed my hands over my ears. “Nope. Done. Leaving. Goodbye.”
But I didn’t get to leave because the jingle from the door sounded.
And this time?
He walked inside.
