I feel him glance at me.
“They don’t hand out scholarships for doodling on notebooks and daydreaming?”
“Very funny.” But also: Omg, he was totally listening when his mom and I were talking at his house and I mentioned doodling. “So. Have you met Mr.Grazz before?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have art classes, but he’s the wrestling coach. I see him around—mostly in the locker room. Never taken art.”
“I only took art my freshman year.”
While I futz with the flowers, I gaze at him beneath my lashes. Easton has three flower stems in his hand and is attempting to place them all in the same spot at once.
Great. Now he’s getting lazy and I have to be bossy or it’ll look like total shit.
“Um, hey. Uh. If you don’t dial it down a notch, our knights are going to end up looking like they’re lost in the floral section at Michaels,” I tease, hoping he’ll get the hint. “Can we stick to putting them on one at a time?”
He snorts and picks up a gaudy neon pink daisy, twirling it between his thumb and middle finger, not fazed by my critique.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Should this one go in the center? Really accentuate the majesty of the occasion?”
“Majesty of the occasion?” I take the flower from him and hold it up, pretending to seriously consider it. “Hmm, let me think. How aboutno. We’re going for enchanted castle, not plastic flowers from Temu.”
Easton makes a mock pouty face. “But it’s so pink. You’re crushing my artistic vision.”
“Your vision needs glasses,” I reply, placing the neon daisy to the side and grabbing a more subdued light green hydrangea. “Here.”
“Fine,” he concedes, reaching for a cluster of white lilies. “But don’t come crying to me when this looks too classy and not fun enough.”
“Too classy? Is there such a thing?”
“Plenty of things are too classy—like brunch and those boutiques downtown.”
He’s talking about the gift shops all the girls at our school love going to, like the perfumery and the cooking store.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll take the risk.”
As we work, the scent of plastic flower and chemicals mingles with hot glue—unpleasant, but oddly satisfying. Every now and then, Easton sneaks in a brightly colored flower just to spite me, and I swat at him to keep him in check.
I hate to admit it, but he’s meticulous. There’s a surprisingprecision in the way he spaces and balances each flower, making sure everything looks just right.
Impressive.For a guy.
My gaze drifts to his mouth, which is curved in a content smile, his focus steady. Something shifts between us. Is this what romantic tension feels like? The kind that makes you want to make out with someone and think about it way too much?
It can’t be. Not with the way Easton keeps looking toward the gym doors.
At first I ignore it—I’m looking, too, wondering if more people will show up to help. But then he does it again. And again.
And suddenly, I wonder if he’s waiting for someone in particular.
Maddie.
My stomach twists. She said she might come.
I know I shouldn’t care. He can like whoever he wants. And Iknowhe doesn’t like me.
But we kissed!
And no matter how much I try to brush it off, there’s an undeniable sting at the thought of him pining after someone else—especially when he’s been so flirty with me.
