Like a Boss - Annabelle Costa Page 0,22

into action. “I guess working microwaves wasn’t on the test.”

I stared into the microwave, willing the popcorn to pop faster.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he said. “Don’t you live in Weld?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. How did he know that? “Yeah, so?”

“So you can’t use our microwave,” Luke said. “That’s illegal. The popcorn is rightfully ours if you pop it here.”

“My keycard works here, so that means I am allowed,” I argued.

“Nuh-uh,” Luke said. He turned to his date, who was studying her nails. “Hey Maddie, we’ve got some popcorn here. Ellie here is donating it to us.”

Maddie lifted her vivid blue eyes. I still remember how beautiful she was. How being in the same room with her made me feel self-conscious. And embarrassed about my fantasy that Luke had been kissing me instead of her. As if.

“I don’t want it. I’m on a diet,” she said. Even though she probably weighed about as much as that bag of popcorn.

“Maddie doesn’t want the popcorn,” Luke reported back to me, like I wasn’t standing right there. “She’s on a diet, apparently. So I guess I’ll let you keep your popcorn.”

I gave him a dirty look. “Wow. How gracious of you, your majesty.”

He leaned in close to me and I could smell his aftershave. It occurred to me that I’d never been so close to a man who wore aftershave before. Or any man. My experience with boys before college was sorely lacking. I had never even kissed a boy before.

“You have to give me a handful,” he said.

I shook my head, clearing it of the intoxicating aroma of aftershave. “No way.”

“You’re not leaving this room if you don’t give me some popcorn,” he informed me.

“Watch me.”

The microwave dinged and we both jumped. I reached for the door, and Luke grabbed my wrist. I looked down at his fingers on my arm, then back up at his handsome face. I hated the fact that at that moment, I would have given him popcorn or pretty much anything else he wanted from me.

“Luke?” Maddie’s voice interrupted our little face-off. “What are you doing over there?”

She didn’t sound angry, only terribly bored. I wasn’t a threat to her. It was clear someone who looked like me wasn’t stealing Luke away from someone who looked like her.

Luke dropped my wrist. “You got off easy this time, Twelve Fingers,” he said to me. His brown eyes met mine. “But trust me—sooner or later, I’m going to get that popcorn.”

I hadn’t thought about that night in years, but when I think about it now, that same tingle goes through me again. As much as I hate to admit it, Luke was my first crush. But I would die before I’d admit it to him.

Chapter 11

From The Boston Globe:

This week is the opening of the exclusive new art exhibit at the Kimball Gallery, featuring work by several up-and-coming artists. Tickets have gone for upwards of $500 each, and it’s rumored that the mayor of Boston will be attending. If you don’t already have a ticket, don’t bother trying to find one—they’ve been sold out for months.

That night, I have my typical work dream. I’m sitting at my computer and I’ve got some big assignment due. I’m typing in code but it takes me forever just to type one line. And then as I type, the code is disappearing from the screen. I look at the clock, which keeps ticking forward, my deadline moving closer. I’m freaking out. And now the phone is ringing…

The phone is ringing.

I rub my eyes and sit up in bed. My vision is still blurry without my contacts in but I can just barely read the number on the clock: 6:17 AM. Who the hell is waking me up this early on a Saturday morning?

“Hello,” I bark, ready to give whoever is calling a piece of my mind.

“Ellie?” It’s Luke. “Sorry, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“Just sleep,” I mumble, my anger subsiding slightly.

“You were sleeping?” He sounds amazed. “It’s after six, isn’t it?”

Luke leads a very different life than I do. “It’s all right,” I say. “Um, what is it?”

“Look,” he says. “There’s something I need to ask you but… you have to promise not to be insulted.”

I hate it when people say that. Because when someone says something like that, they’re clearly about to ask you something insulting. “What is it?”

“What are you planning to wear tonight?”

“Oh.” I scratch my head. “Uh, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“These art gallery things,”