I’ll admit that the petty part of me takes pleasure in his surprise. “Most people hear ‘pageant’ and assume I’m vapid or fake. That I smiled my way into this job.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I heard what you said to your crew last June before you left for the summer.”
He has the decency to look uncomfortable.
“It paid for my master’s degree in public administration, actually.” I meet his eyes. “Turns out pageants are more than hair and swimsuits.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“Yes, you did. Everyone does. But I worked my butt off for that title and I’m not ashamed of it.”
“I bet your family was proud to have a princess in the family.”
“Technically, I had a crown, not a tiara, so the terminology is off, Lieutenant.” I smile despite myself. “I know what people assume, but pageants taught me how to think on my feet, speak in public, and organize events under pressure. Turns out that translates pretty well to small town government. It also taught me how to handle people underestimating me.” I hold his gaze.
Something flickers in his eyes. “Huh.”
“Surprised?”
“Maybe a little.”
“People see the crown and the sash and assume I’m all surface level. That I don’t know what I’m doing?—”
“I never said?—”
“You called me ‘Parks & Rec Princess’ before we even had areal conversation. You decided who I was based on a pageant I did ten years ago.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re right. I did. I’m sorry. For the record, you’re beautiful, smart, and talented, but you don’t need someone like me to tell you that.”
I want to tell him that he’s right, but it is nice to hear the compliments even if he only said them because he felt like he had to. Instead, I laugh.
“I’m being serious.”
“Sure, you are.”
But his gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t toss a barb or joke my way.
Huh, I echo in my mind.
The silence that follows doesn’t feel comfortable exactly, but something about it is different, as if neither one of us has been entirely honest with ourselves or each other about how we feel and that’s been reflected in our juvenile behavior. It’s like a coin flipped and now we’re looking at the other side.
His lips tug toward a grin as if he’s tuned to my mental radio dial.
I say, “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t smile. I might just trick myself into liking you.”
Something whispers between us, yet the room is silent.
“Are you holding your breath?” I ask.
He smirks. “You smell so good.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I ask, “Is that a bad thing?”
