He shoots me that crooked grin of his that without fail gets my heart whirring. “Yeah, right.”
“Fine. But I did always find you handsome. That’s the truth.” Did I just seriously share that?Filter, Angie.
Chuckling, he unlocks his arms and catches my hand. As his fingers thread through mine, I stare at our linked hands. I can’t believe I’m holding hands with Tennessee Dylan.
As we stroll toward calc, I stare at our hands a dozen or so times to make sure the moment isn’t a figment of my imagination.
His knuckles flex as his grip tightens. “What?”
“I’ve never held hands with anyone before. Well, besides Rae. And Mom.”
“Didn’t you date someone before me?”
“I went out with a guy named Ron when I was fourteen, but I wouldn’t call it dating.”
“Ron Wilkins from our art class?”
I look up into his face. “Ew. No.” Overachieving Ron Wilkins has serious halitosis. “Another Ron. He left last year.” This feels like a good time to ask the undesirable questions. “And you? You had a girlfriend back in New York, didn’t you?” I bite my lip. “Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to hear about your ex.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to talk about my exes either.”
Exes.“Were there many?”
“I thought we weren’t talking about them.”
“I changed my mind when you used the plural.”
“Only about”—he screws up one side of his face—“nine.”
“Nine?” I squeak. “Did you start dating when you were eight?”
A smile slinks over his lips, which makes me think he’s kidding. Or is he? Rae says guys usually double the number of conquests to heighten their playerness.
We’ve reached Mrs. Dabbs’s classroom, so I let go of his hand.
“Nice of you to join us, Miss Conrad and Mr. Dylan.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Dabbs,” I mumble.
“Just hurry and take your seats.” I’m a little stunned by her complacency. When her tiny eyes dart toward Ten, I conclude she must’ve heard of the dreaded family encounter and pities him. Or maybe she’s a huge Mona Stone fan and wants to ingratiate herself with Ten.
At some point during class, I write9?in my notebook in huge bold characters and circle the number twice.
Ten grabs my chair legs and drags me closer to him. I glance at Mrs. Dabbs, who’s busy writing a lengthy formula on the whiteboard.
He leans over and whispers, “I dated five girls, but only one was serious.”
Ha!
“What about you?” he asks softly.
I’m tempted to say three—three would be acceptable, right?—but it would just prove how insecure I am. “I’ve never had a real boyfriend.”
He frowns. “Really?”
He studies me, but so does Mrs. Dabbs, so I don’t say anything.
“The formula’s on the board, Mr. Dylan, not on Miss Conrad’s cheek.”
