hall—gorgeous Jase Barnes, who every girl in the school must be in love with, but who seems surprisingly interested in me—I chased him down like a dog. I ran after him, and I made him stop, and I put my hands on his shoulders and reached up and kissed him . . . and then, thank God thank God, I ran away straight afterward without hanging round to embarrass myself even further.
Aaah. I blush all over remembering it.
But at least he didn’t die.
Which is pretty obvious, as here he is, in the flesh, jumping down off the wall when he sees me with what I can’t help hoping is enthusiasm. His bright golden eyes are gleaming. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to throw myself into his arms again. I don’t think I have that quite in me right now.
“Um, hi,” I say, walking toward him, because I have to, as he’s standing between me and the gatehouse, and praying with every fiber of my body that I’m not so red right now that I resemble a tomato in clothes.
“Hey,” he says, and I do think it’s totally unfair that because he’s the color of those soft caramel centers you get inside really nice chocolates, I can’t tell whether he’s blushing too. He does run his hand over his scalp, which is totally unnecessary, because his hair is tightly cropped in tiny dark curls, so maybe that’s sort of the boy’s equivalent of blushing.
We stand and look at each other for a long moment. I’m shifting from foot to foot, trying to find the words to say that I’m in a hurry and need to go inside Aunt Gwen’s, because honestly, I’m wishing he hadn’t come to find me. Of course, I’m flattered, but this is just too confusing for me to deal with right now.
“I like your outfit,” he eventually says, grinning.
Automatically I look down at myself, and am immediately struck with horror, because I completely forgot that I’m wearing clothes suitable for lunch with my grandmother, according to her very strict rules. Which are: a brown pleated skirt, a navy sweater, tights, and sensible shoes (not boots, which are not to be worn with skirts). No makeup—that goes without saying. I look like I just time-traveled in from the 1940s.
“I just had lunch with my grandmother,” I manage to explain, sure I’m blushing even more. I’m cursing the fact that practically every time I see Jase, I’m either Sunday-morning scruffy or Sunday-lunch prim. Why couldn’t I be all dressed up like I was last night when I bump into him, just once?
“It’s very, um—” he starts.
“Ladylike?” I suggest.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” he says, grinning even more.
“I have to buy clothes just for seeing her,” I find myself saying, so he won’t think any of this stuff is actually something I might like. “I never wear anything like this the rest of the time.”
“Not even the shoes?” he says, keeping a straight face, so I think for a moment he’s serious, and look down at my shoes—brown leather, sort of loafers with a little stacked heel—before I realize that he’s joking.
“Oh yeah,” I agree. “I love these so much I cry when I have to take them off.”
“I’d cry when I had to put them on,” Jase says, and we both burst out laughing.
I meant to say hi, have a quick conversation, and then go inside as soon as I could. I don’t want to be rude to Jase, of course I don’t. He’s utterly gorgeous, and though I don’t know him that well, I’ve really liked what I’ve seen of him. I definitely want to hang out with him more, get to know him, kiss him again . . . but only when the dark cloud of Dan’s death, still hanging over my head, has floated away for good. Awful and selfish as it sounds, I’d like to be able to hide Jase away in a cupboard so no other girl can get to him, and then take him out when I’m ready to play with him.
But Jase isn’t a doll. A doll couldn’t make me laugh despite myself, or lure me into the middle of a funny conversation when I intended to
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