Promposal (23 page)

“Noah was just telling me about the guy he came to prom with,” Ethan said smoothly to me.

Noah beamed, and I could see his molars glinting in the flashing colored lights. “His name is Filip, and he just moved to the United States from Sweden. He barely speaks English, though I've been tutoring him for a couple of months now. He's sitting over there.” He gave a jaunty wave.

I peeked over. There was a totally ripped pale-blond guy almost bursting out of his dress shirt at a distant table, waving back to Noah and wearing a shy grin on his face. I gave the guy a courtesy nod, then turned my attention to Ethan and Noah. “He seems . . . nice.” And a total beefcake. No wonder Noah was hot for him.

Noah and Ethan chitchatted for another moment, and then Ethan and I walked back to our table.

Let it go. Let it go,
I ordered myself. But my stupid mouth didn't seem to hear my brain. “Noah was dressed up very nicely.” To say the least. I had yet to see the guy wear something that didn't make him look like a movie star.

“Yeah,” Ethan said in a noncommittal tone. “He was.”

“And his date was very handsome.”

“Mm-hmm.” He tugged me a touch closer to his side, and a girl I hadn't seen ran right by me, yelling an apology as she plowed through the crowd in a fiery orange sequined dress.

I was like a dog with a bone. Couldn't drop the subject. “Those two make one good-looking couple.”

Ethan stopped a few feet from our table and eyed me. “Are you worried about Noah? I'm picking up some subtle vibes from you.” His eyebrow quirked.

Gee, what gave it away? My neurotic pressing, maybe? I sighed. “Sorry. I know how you felt about him, and . . . I'm a little insecure,” I made myself finish.

Ethan took my cup and placed it on the table along with his, then straightened and faced me. He drew both of my hands into his. “Joshua. Yes, I had a crush on Noah. I can't hide it or pretend like I didn't.”

“I know.” A wave of embarrassment hit me, and I sat silent for a moment. God, this love stuff was making me so unsettled and nervous. So afraid of messing up and maybe driving him back to Noah. Music hummed and bounced between the two of us. “Sorry. I feel like an idiot for even being upset still. I know it's not fair.”

“Don't apologize.” The lights bounced off Ethan's hair and made his skin glow. His thumbs stroked my skin and sent ripples of pleasure across my flesh. I bit back a longing sigh. “I figured out that my crush on Noah wasn't reality. I liked him because he's attractive and he seems like the perfect guy on the surface. But I didn't know Noah at all beyond those things. Not like I know you.”

I squeezed his hands and nodded. Okay, I got that.

He kept staring into my eyes. “While you and I weren't talking, I realized something big. The fantasy of Noah can't compare to the reality of Joshua.”

His words blew me away. I inched closer until only a sliver of air separated us. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I'm falling for you too,” he whispered back. “How could I not? You're perfect—for me.”

Everything, every ounce of love I felt, rushed to the surface, and I knew I'd found my happiness.

The music changed to a slow song. Ethan gave me a smile that spread over me like warm honey. “Let's dance, shall we?”

I nodded, unable to fight my own broad grin. “Lead the way.”

T
he small old woman stared
hard at the croissants. She tapped her wrinkled lips with a pudgy hand. “I can't decide if I want three or four,” she mused.

I smiled and dusted my flour-coated hands on my jeans. “Take your time, Miss Figler. I'm right over here if you need anything.” I stepped a few feet to the left and kneaded the pizza dough a little more, getting it to just the right texture.

“Corinne?” she asked. “I think I'll have four. And a couple of your grandfather's scones. They're the best I've had since I visited England.”

“Grandpa loved London,” I told her. “I think he studied under a baker while he was there.” I prepared her order and boxed them, then rang her up. Then I divided the pizza dough into separate bags and popped them in the freezer.

Saturday mornings were either super slow or super busy. Right now we were having a slow stretch. But it gave me time to get caught up on packaging call-in orders, make more dough, and clean up my station.

The only downside was, I wasn't quite distracted enough to keep my mind off my art project. In yesterday's class, I'd turned in my entry. I'd stayed up late every night this week working on getting it just perfect. Long after my family had turned in, I'd hovered around my easel, washing layer after layer of watercolor over the image.

When I'd put the last touches on it on Thursday night, I'd collapsed in exhaustion in bed and nearly overslept yesterday morning.

Almost every student in class had turned in a piece for the competition. My stomach had been in knots. A few students in there I'd anticipated, sure—but I hadn't expected that many people. The weekend was going to drag painfully slowly, especially if we didn't get more customers in.

My grandfather popped his head out and gave me a wink. His dark golden eyes glinted in the bakery's lights. “Everything okay out here?”

I grabbed the bleach and began scrubbing down the counters. Grandpa ran a tight ship, and he insisted on the place being clean.
A sloppy shop turns customers off,
he always preached to me.

“Things are fine,” I replied. “It's a little slow but not horribly so.”

Grandpa stepped out and surveyed my progress. He nodded. “Doing a good job. Keep up the hard work.”

I warmed under his praise. He was a tough boss, one who
pushed me to do better. If I was giving a 100 percent, he wanted a hundred and ten. But this job had taught me a lot so far. Plus, having extra money in my pocket—that I'd earned myself—was never a bad thing.

“How's things at home?” he asked as he walked to the bread shelf and straightened the loaves.

“Good. Mom asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow, by the way,” I said.

His nod was short. “Can do.”

Grandma had passed away a few years ago, from cancer. He'd loved her heart and soul, and though he wasn't one to show a lot of emotion, her death had broken his heart. We'd all been worried that Grandpa would pull away, so Mom had started insisting he come over for Sunday dinner from time to time. That, plus the business, had spurred Grandpa to get out of bed every morning.

Time hadn't erased all the pain, but he was gradually getting his old self back. Mom, however, hadn't backed off on having him over regularly. But it was nice having him around.

The phone rang. He shuffled back into his office, and I heard his gruff voice as he took someone's order. Not the most emotional man, but his cakes were out of this world. And his designs . . . I didn't know how he did it. He'd never gone to art school, yet somehow they were richly decorated, sheer perfection.

While I added a few more croissants to the glass case in front of our counter, the door dinged. In walked Matthew, followed by a few of his basketball-jock friends. The guys behind him were loud, shoving each other, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

I had to be nice to the customers, even if they were super annoying.

Or if one of them had piercing blue eyes that kept drawing my attention back.

I was glad Grandpa wasn't here to see the hot flush on my cheeks. He was pretty astute and would see it immediately. I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”

One of Matthew's friends, a stocky Asian who I think was going to be a senior this year, pursed his lips. He strolled to the counter, dragging his fingertips along the glass. Ugh. “I want a doughnut,” he said, looking back at his two buddies.

Matthew's brow furrowed, and he bore holes into his friend's face. What was that all about?

The guy cleared his throat, then glanced back at me. “Uh, please.”

At least one of them had manners—and enough common sense to make the other ones behave politely. Guess I could give Matthew a point of credit for that one. I gave a nod and walked over to the doughnut section. “What would you like?”

The guy tilted his head. His black hair was spiked in the front, and he rubbed a hand absently over the top of it. “Something loaded with chocolate.”

Matthew's other friend, a guy who was in science with me this year—Thomas—came to the counter too. “Hey, get two of them. You owe me for buying you a Coke yesterday.”

The first guy grumbled, then nodded.

I pulled two chocolate-covered doughnuts out and made myself look at Matthew. For some stupid reason, my pulse picked up. “Anything for you?” At least my tone was steady, even if a little chilly.

He shook his head and pursed his lips. “I'm not sure yet.”

I put the doughnuts in individual minibags and rang the two guys out. They clomped to the door.

“Hey, man, you coming?” Thomas asked as he shoved his shoulder to the door. The little bell rang, and a blast of warm air burst inside.

“I'll be out in a minute,” Matthew replied.

The guys shrugged, then started chowing on their doughnuts as they headed outside into the warm summer heat.

Matthew took his attention off the glass case, then gave me a crooked smile. “Sorry about them. I don't think they get enough oxygen in their brains.”

That made me crack a small smile. At least he felt bad for them being such meatheads. “Anything in there interest you?”

He tilted his head, and a smile widened on his face.

“Um, what?”

“You have . . .” He reached toward me, then stopped, gesturing at my cheek. “Uh, there's a little flour . . .”

Ah, crud. I spun around and scrubbed at my cheeks. When I kneaded dough, flour got everywhere. Why hadn't I thought it would be on my face, too? Awkward. I turned back and fought the wave of embarrassment. “Thanks.”

Matthew leaned toward the case, careful not to touch the glass and keep his fingers on the metal rim. “So, how did your project come along? You entered, right? I thought I saw that.”

I swallowed. Somehow I hadn't anticipated him asking me about art. But of course he would. “It went fine, thanks.” My spine was so stiff I could snap in half if another breeze rolled in here. What was it about him that set me on edge so much? “So . . . you entered?” I made myself ask.

“I did. Took me all week to work on my piece. I stayed up really late.”

I tried to envision what postmodern art he would have
worked on that could take more than ten minutes. Then I shoved that snotty thought out. Ava's words about me being judgmental popped to the forefront of my brain. “I did too, actually. I did a watercolor for my entry.”

“I did an ink-and-newspaper collage for mine. Kind of a mixed media. A bit of a social commentary . . .” He gave a self-conscious shrug, then cleared his throat. “Um. Anyway. Good luck. I've seen your pieces, and you're really talented.”

Wow, that was really nice of him. My heart thudded in surprise at the compliment. If Ava were here, she'd be poking me in the ribs. “Thanks. I appreciate that. And good luck to you, too.”

Matthew rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and I couldn't tear my gaze away. As much as I hated to admit it, he really was handsome.

“I'll see you Monday, then,” he said, his grin crooked as he backed away from the counter.

I tipped my head in response and watched him turn to leave. Every movement of his was effortless, from the way his legs ate up the distance between him and the door to how his arm reached out and pushed it open. A sort of ballet, full of confidence and self-assurance.

Wow, was I getting ridiculous or what? Maybe I'd breathed too much flour in this morning. I shook those thoughts out of my head and turned my attention back to cleaning.
Focus,
I ordered myself. A guy could be as cute as he wanted, but that didn't mean he thought I was cute in return. Or that I'd even want him to.

I had enough on my plate. There was no room in there for a guy.

Especially one like Matthew.

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