Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,51

grab the edge, resigned to share the smelly, moldy blanket with him. “Maybe because you’re not being as stubborn and insufferable as you usually are.”

I roll the words over my teeth before I finally voice them. “We could…call a truce? I mean, I’ll be working here for at least another few weeks, and honestly, I’d rather not hate you. So…what do you say?”

“It’s not impossible,” he replies, and turns his cornflower gaze to me. There’s a glimmer of amusement there that makes my heart kick in my rib cage. It’s nothing, I tell myself.

It’s nothing at all.

I CAN’T LET ELIAS FIRE HER.

I realize it as the rain lets up and we abandon the pool shed into the muggy afternoon sun. She’s out the door first, stretching her arms wide as the sunlight hits her face. The rays catch in her brown hair, turning it to copper. There is a cowlick in her fringe that curls up at an odd angle, and I find myself fixated on it.

For someone so odd and infuriating, how did things change? And it would feel so awkward to tell her now—that oh, today was supposed to be your last day, pack up your things, you’re gone—after I spent the better half of the afternoon with her. It strikes me then—out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning—how much of an insufferable jerk that actually makes me.

And while that realization surprises me—the fact that I am a jerk doesn’t.

A knife twists in my chest.

I’m ashamed, and quickly I pry my eyes down to the wet grass. The humidity clings to me, and the embarrassment crawling up my cheeks just makes me more uncomfortable.

Why am I so embarrassed?

She squints at the sky. “That was such an unexpected way to spend the afternoon.”

“Bad unexpected or…?”

“Are you fishing for a compliment?”

My shoulders stiffen. “Of course not.”

The edges of her lips quirk up into a smile. “I’m not sure what kind of afternoon it was yet.”

But it wasn’t bad, at least, I think, and as I do it makes my shame run deeper. Because why do I think I can enjoy an afternoon with a girl who I’ve all but insulted for the last week? I open my mouth to ask her when the sliding glass door opens and Elias pokes his head out. “There you two are! Dios mío, I thought you’d killed each other—why are you wet?”

Rosie laughs. “We locked ourselves out.”

Elias tsks. “Both of you? That’s a surprise. Come on inside and get warm so you don’t catch a cold. And Rosie, I need to speak with—”

“No!” I interrupt quickly. She gives me a strange look. So does Elias. I add, quickly, racking my brain for some excuse to my outburst, “No, we…won’t catch a cold. Because Rosie found a blanket?”

That was terrible. I should feel ashamed.

But I hope Elias understands. He gives me a one-eyebrow-raised look, and then he smirks in that I told you so way. “Well, I’m glad you found a blanket. I have to get the groceries out of the car, so let yourselves inside, unless you want share that blanket a little longer,” he says, and leaves the sliding door open for us.

I am mortified.

Rosie, for her part, seems oblivious as she runs her hands through her wet hair. “I should probably get going. I told Dad I’d eat some chocolate murder pancakes with him tonight.”

“Sounds dangerous,” I say.

She nods solemnly. “Double the chocolate, double the murder. I’ll see you tomorrow, Vance?”

My skin prickles when she says my name, with a smile that is both secretive and brilliant. Get a hold of yourself, mate. You aren’t a schoolboy.

“Tomorrow,” I reply, but before she disappears into the house I add, “Hey, um…”

She pauses in the doorway, and glances back. “Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. Well, if I’m going to feel this way, I might as well do the things she wants. “Since we hit it off so well before, and clearly we don’t hate each other, what do you say about…going out with me?”

She turns to me slowly, and her eyebrows furrow in this strange, disappointing sort of way. Did I say something wrong?

“We could go out as different people. I can pretend to be a hotshot American again,” I add, adopting a midwestern accent—the same one I had the night we met—“and you can be—”

“I don’t think so.” Her voice is soft, a sigh. “I’m sorry, Vance.”

And she disappears into the house, leaving me alone with this weird shiver across my