“She cannot resist being sassy,” Easton says, cutting into the lasagna and bringing the first bite to his mouth. “And I’m not going to hog the garlic bread.”
I take a bite and moan out loud—it’s cheesy, flavorful, and way better than I would expect day-old lasagna to taste. I groan again without thinking, and when I glance up, Easton’s staring at me, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Good, huh?” he asks, grinning.
“Sogood.” I hope he can’t see me blushing. “Phoebe wasn’t kidding. Your chef is ah-mazing.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a several more minutes, the soft twinkle of the lights, the gentle breeze, and the Italian music creating our own world.
Of course, this is nothing like the night I pictured.
It’s better.
Just us, his magical backyard, and someseriouslygood food. No one can convince me this isn’t the most delicious lasagna created, day old or not.
“This is perfect,” I tell him quietly, setting my fork down. “I don’t think this night could get any better.”
Easton leans back in his chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
I blink, tilting my head. “More surprises?” Surely not!
He shrugs nonchalantly, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. “Maybe.”
A rush of excitement flutters in my chest, and I bite back a smile. How did I end up here, at this beautifully set table, with Easton, of all people, pulling out every romantic trope in the book? I might actually be the luckiest girl in school.
Chapter 39
Easton
Never in my life have I done anything romantic.
Not once.
Not even accidentally.
Yet here I am, standing in my backyard, about ask a girl to slow dance with me like one of those dudes in a movie. The kicker? This entire moment isn’t even my idea. My mother orchestrated the entire thing after I called her in a panic from the bathroom stall at school.
I called begging her for help, spilling out the short, messy version of the disaster; she listened, then launched into full-on crisis management mode.
Mom has been training her whole life for this exact moment.
And then it happens.
The soft instrumental fades, replaced by the unmistakable opening notes of a slow song by a well-known boy band. The kind of song you belt out every lyric to in the shower but will deny knowing if it comes on the radio.
I push my chair back and offer my hand. “Dance with me?”
“Such a gentleman,” Harper says, letting me pull her to her feet. She smiles happily as my hand settles low on her waist. “Careful where you put your hands, Casanova. Your parents are watching.”
I freeze before glancing toward the house. Sure enough, Mom is peeking out from behind the kitchen curtains, face half hidden, when a second later, Dad’s head appears next to hers. And as if I didn’t already feel like we were in a fishbowl, a third tiny head bobs into view.
I groan, dropping my forehead to Harper’s shoulder. “I’m going to pretend I don’t see them.”
Harper chuckles, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, come on. It’s sweet. They’re invested.”
“In what? My humiliation?”
“No, in us.” She leans back just enough to meet my eyes, her grin flirty. “It’s cute.”
