Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,8

about now would be the perfect time for the gods to conjure up a conch shell for me to hide inside.

Someone snorts. And then chuckles. And then straight-up laughs. Gathering my courage, I glance up. Taran’s looking at me not like I’m a total weirdo but like I might actually be fun.

“I’ve had to do that, too,” he says warmly. “My brother once put gum in my hair, and we ran out of peanut butter, so I used the satay sauce.”

My mouth drops. There are guys like this in the world? Really? I sneak a glance at Bunny and Ari, and they nod, as though telling me to go with it.

“That’s brilliant,” I say. “There’s got to be other uses for peanut sauce beyond a vehicle for falang to label any meal as Thai.”

His eyes light up. That’s the great thing about talking to other Thai Americans. I don’t have to explain that “falang” means “foreigner.” “Exactly. They add peanut sauce to a regular old turkey club, and all of a sudden, it’s a Thai sandwich. What will they come up with next? Thai mac-n-cheese?”

I giggle. “Thai clam chowder.”

“Thai meatloaf.”

I gesture ruefully at my shirt. “Thai Cabernet.”

We grin at each other. Ari and Bunny beam like proud parents, and Mat snorts, as though disgusted by the entire conversation.

Someone from the other room calls Taran’s name. The high-pitched voice sounds too old to be his girlfriend, so here’s hoping it’s his mother.

“I have to go,” he says reluctantly. His smile acknowledges all of us, but his eyes remain on me. Pretty sure no boy has singled me out when my sisters were around, ever. “You’re a senior at Lakewood High, right? I’m starting there tomorrow.”

Bunny stomps on my foot—literally crushes my toes under her sexy black stiletto—and Ari jabs me with her billiard stick of an elbow. Subtle, these two are not.

“Uh, I could show you around,” I say before my sisters can attack me again. “Give you a tour of the gym. Introduce you to our cafeteria, with its fine dining options such as nachos. With fake cheese sauce. From a squirt can.”

Taran laughs again, and the sound travels along my spine in a delicious tingle. I could get used to this sensation. “I’d love a tour.”

“Great,” I squeak. Clearing my throat, I try to sound older than five. “I can meet you by the flagpole tomorrow morning. Around eight?”

He looks straight into my eyes. “I’m counting down the seconds.”

He leaves. My sisters leave. And I’d melt into a puddle right next to the soggy paper towels if it weren’t for the one person who remains. The kink in my gold chain, the bubble in my egg-roll skin, the absolute bane of my existence. Freaking Mat Songsomboon.

He plops on a chair at the small kitchen table and plunks his jaw onto his overly large palm. He faces my direction, his eyes glazed. I can’t tell if he actually sees me or not.

Ignoring him, I cross to the sink and dunk the bottom of my shirt under the faucet to wash off the vinegar. The stain has faded, but half my blouse is now a sopping mess, and I smell distinctly like Eau de Vinegar. Lovely.

I peek at Mat. His eyelids are at half-mast, and he looks like he might fall asleep. This, for some reason, infuriates me. Am I really that boring?

“Will you stop it?” I snap.

He blinks, stretching his arms back so that his biceps flex. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s got to be. There’s no way I’d notice those rock-hard muscles if he weren’t shoving them in my face.

“I’m renowned around here for my near-psychic genius,” he says lazily, “but you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Stop sitting there,” I say. “Breathing.”

His lips quirk. “You do know I can’t actually make myself stop breathing, even if I wanted to?”

“You don’t have to do it so loudly,” I complain. “I can hear you sucking in air and then puffing it back out. And it’s just—”

“Distracting?” he supplies, wagging his eyebrows.

“Irritating,” I correct.

He leans back against the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. My eyes drift to his biceps—again. Gah. What is wrong with me? It’s like the image of him wearing boxers has short-circuited my brain.

“You’ve been thinking a lot about my breathing patterns,” he remarks.

“Only because I’d like to change them,” I mutter.

“Oh, really?” His black eyes turn even blacker. “Exactly how would you like to change my breathing, Winnie? Would you like to…speed it