More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,21

me feel stupid powerful and sexy. It also makes me feel like I want to feel him up in the bathroom—or let him feel me up, but I already gave that particular thought a firm no. This is a project. For school.

But I am so very tempted. Why are his lips so perfect? And his shoulders so broad? And why do I love glasses so much? It’s not like a Clark Kent thing, is it? Do I have a nerd fetish? I don’t even know. I just know all I want to do right now is kiss him, spring showcase and Madame whatever-her-name-is be damned.

Before I’m ready, because I don’t think I will ever be ready, the lights come up and the music stops, and the night is over.

“Hungry?” Luke asks as we shuffle toward the exit to turn in our headphones.

“Starving,” I say, realizing I am.

He grins. “If you’re up for a bit of a walk, there’s a diner near here that makes the best grilled cheese on the planet.”

We head back out into the cold, but since my blood is still buzzing with the feel of Luke’s gaze, I’m not uncomfortable. I leave my scarf loose around my neck, and the wind carries the ends, twining them with Luke’s fingers and dancing them across his chest in a way that makes me jealous.

Be cool, hormones.

Within a few minutes, we’re entering a brightly lit classic dive of a diner where the servers go by waitress and still wear aprons over their frocks.

“This okay?”

I take in a lungful of grease and nod. “This is perfect.”

We sit down, and Luke flips his mug up for coffee like a grown-up. I bite my lip, feeling flighty and adult.

I skim the menu but already know I’m getting whatever grilled cheese they have because ever since Luke mentioned it, it’s all my taste buds want. Well, that and, “I’ll have an Oreo shake, please,” I add when the server comes for our drink order.

“They’re big,” she says skeptically, eyeing me up and down.

“Excellent,” I say.

We order after the drinks arrive, and I groan when the ice cream hits my lips. “So fucking good.”

Luke smirks over his steaming cup of black coffee.

“So,” I start. “Did you like it? Do you feel the creative juices flowing or whatever? Or just weird?”

He shakes his head. “Zero weirdness. Opposite of weirdness, actually. Totally inspiring. How about for you, though? I had to, uh, watch you. Was that rude? Or weird? Exhibitionist? Do I need to apologize?”

I snort, dipping my straw in the shake. “Um, no. You don’t. It was cool. I could lose myself in the music and ignore it most of the time. A little awkward because I feel like I dance like a dork, but”—I shrug, flushing a little—“you picked me, so that’s on you.”

His teeth flash. “I did. And you don’t dance like a dork. It’s very … erm … not dorky.”

“Good.”

“Is there any genre of music you can’t stand? Anything I need to steer clear of?”

I slowly shake my head. “I mean, not really. I’m pretty eclectic in my tastes. Unless you’re a closet Stevie Nicks fan.”

He makes a face. “Not really, no. She sounds like my grandma after smoking for a hundred years.”

“Cheers, Luke,” I say around a mouthful of whipped cream. “I think we’re gonna get along marvelously.”

“Nothing else?” he prompts.

“You’re really worried about this, huh? Seriously.” I shrug, stirring the last dredges of whipped cream into my shake. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and likely never will again. I have no experience to work from here, so follow your heart or whatever, and we’ll be good.”

“Follow my heart? Aren’t you a little worried I might make a mess of things and you’ll be left dancing to something resembling the Bee Gees?”

I swallow wrong and spend the next thirty seconds hacking until my eyes are streaming and I need to blow my nose on the condensation-shredded napkins. Way to play it cool, Vada. “Okay, fine,” I concede when I can breathe. “I’d prefer to avoid disco.” I start to tick off on my fingers. “See also: ’90s hip-hop, stadium hits, and ska.”

He slumps back on his seat, theatrically screwing up his face behind his lenses, which unfortunately does nothing to make him less stupid-good-looking. “Ah, no, there I have to draw the line. No ska? No ska?” He raises his voice, and I shush him, giggling. Where is this impulse to giggle all the time coming from?

“I’m sorry. I can’t