"You don't know me."
"True, but you're my coach, and you're so good at it. I have a feeling you're pretty good at drinking too."
"I've had a little practice."
I finally get up the nerve to look at him. His face is closed off, unreadable. "It's just that, I don't know. I'm not sure how I'll behave, what I'll do, and I don't want to do anything I'll regret. I trust you to look out for me, to make sure I don't do anything stupid, and to get me home safe." He doesn't say anything when I pause, and I falter, looking back at my hand as it plays in the grass again. "It's too much to ask. I'm sorry--"
"I'll do it."
My gaze snaps up. "You will?"
He nods. "I'll get you home safe and look out for you."
"And teach me how to drink smart?"
That little smirk drives me wild. "Sure. Tomorrow, eat a big, carby dinner before you come out. Drink lots of water through the day. I'll take care of the rest."
I sit in a flash, bouncing and grinning. "Oh, Grey, thank you! Thanks. I mean it. I've been wanting to do this forever and a year. I'm so freaking excited! Should we have like a code word? In case I get too woo-woo? Or like if it's time to go home?"
"What'd you have in mind?"
I think on it for a second, then just start saying whatever pops into my head. "Toaster strudel. No? Um…pickle juice! Platypus! Moose nugget!" I've got him laughing, and I feel like I won the lottery.
"Bubbles? Glitter bomb? Pineapple?" he suggests.
"Pineapple?" I say on a laugh.
"They're all things that make me think of you. Peaches?"
A dozen follow up questions blow through my brain, but he didn't elaborate, so I figure I should keep them to myself. But I'm smiling like a loon at him. "Oh, I like peaches. Let's do that."
"All right."
"All right."
We smile at each other for a minute longer, until he stands, extending a hand to help me up.
When I take it, it's big and strong and warm, rough with calluses, tanned from the sun. Experienced. The sight of my hand lost in his sends heavy heat through me. And I only have one thought left in my un-yipped out brain.
I cannotwaitto see what happens tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 7
CODEWORD: PEACHES
GREY
When I walk into The Horseshoe the next night, I'm both glad I beat her here and disappointed she's not here yet.
I don't know what the fuck that means, and I'm certain I don't want to.
The gang cheers when they see me from a set of high-top tables they've pulled together just off the dance floor. The place is hopping with townies, the dance floor jam packed, and I wind my way through the throng to our table, already set with pitchers and glasses. But before I reach it, they cheer Molly's name, and I look over my shoulder, my stomach flipping at the sound of her name. It's been doing that a lot lately.
Molly waves, her cheeks pink and hair bouncy, her cardigan sleeve pushed up her arm to the elbow. It's a huge, maroon thing with three buttons buttoned. A flowy, tan skirt with little flowers on it peeks out from the hem. It's shorter than she usually wears, but her legs aren't showing--she's got on brown tights and chunky maroon Mary Janes. Under her cardigan is a tight, whitetop, though she's still obscured by the oversized sweater. When she finds me in the crowd, she lights up like a lightbulb.
My stomach flips again, then rolls around for a second.
I plunk my stuff down on the table, garnering looks from Tate and Remy when they see what I've got. I ignore them. Carlin intercepts her for a hug, and they talk as they approach, animated and smiling. Teeth clenched, I reach for a glass and pour myself the only beer I get tonight.
