Page 37

“I’ve already signed myself up for either a piercing or a tattoo,” I say as I step over to the garbage can and drop the gloves inside. “I’ve got to keep myself in check or even my family won’t recognize me by the time I go off to university.”

The sentence slips out before I can stop it, and it’s like my whole brain glitches for a second when I realize I haven’t thought about school even once in the past half hour. Then my heart races like it’s trying to make up for lost time.

Andrea raises one of her fingers and wags it at me. “Hey now. What did we promise each other?”

I swallow and nod. “Right. No school talk. Just summer.”

“Just summer,” she echoes before turning to lead the way out of the bathroom. “I have to leave this stuff in for thirty minutes before we wash it out, so let’s have some lunch.”

I follow her down to the kitchen, and we settle on cold cut sandwiches with some pickles on the side as our meal. Andrea adds the last part after making fun of the several bottles of pickles I’ve stocked the fridge with.

“Two of those were already here!” I protest as she makes a show out of placing each and every bottle on the island in front of me.

“You can be honest with me about your addiction, Naomi,” she says as she lays a hand on my arm. “This is a safe space.”

I try to glare at her, but instead, I let out a tittering laugh as all my senses zone in on the brush of her fingers against my forearm.

We set up a sandwich assembly line on the island and work side by side, me still in my dye-stained shirt and her still wearing nothing but her sweatpants and the towel. She’s not even touching me now, but I’m still aware of every movement of her elbow where it rests a couple inches from mine.

I’ve got to get this under control.

Even her freaking elbow is driving me crazy, and if I’m not careful, I really am going to end up accidentally doing something creepy enough to have her packing her bags.

“I’m eating outside,” I announce once I’ve finished my sandwich. I do a scan of the kitchen for any sign of the cats as I head over to the sliding door with my plate in my hands.

I’m already sitting down on one of the deck couches when I realize a normal person would have asked if she wants to eat outside too, but she doesn’t seem put off; she pokes her head out the door and asks if she can join me a moment later.

“You forgot your side dish,” she says, holding up one of the pickle jars. “I didn’t have a wagon to haul the whole selection out, so you’ll have to make due.”

I let out a chuckle that only sounds slightly strangled, and we spend the next few minutes sitting in silence as we eat. I wonder if I should be talking, but Andrea looks content with the quiet as she sits cross-legged on the couch beside me.

“Do you think they ever actually use that barbeque station?” she asks.

I follow her gaze to the expansive set-up that looks worthy of a Grill Masters episode. “I mean, probably? It looks like it cost a lot, at least.”

I’m still not sure what you should and shouldn’t say about people this wealthy, and I’m about to apologize in case I was rude, but Andrea nods and grunts in agreement before I get a chance.

“He probably does, like, boys nights with Sandy’s sons out there. Steaks and football and the stock market and stuff.”

I only just manage to hold in a laugh at the caricature of manliness. Judging by the way the house is decorated, I was thinking the barbeque pit was more of a conversation hub for Peter and his fellow art collectors to chat about their pieces while eating shish kebabs and drinking wine.

“Ugh, sorry,” Andrea says before groaning as she slumps against the back of the couch. “I sound so angsty. It’s just like…they have to have something I don’t, right?”

I stop staring at the barbeque station and turn to look at her instead. Her eyes have gone out of focus, and her face is pinched with a pain I’ve never seen in her before. For the first time, my urge to touch her has nothing to do with how pretty she is.

I want to cup her chin in my hand and smooth out every single line in her skin. I want to use my fingertips as erasers to wipe out every trace of the hurt inside her.

“Sorry,” she repeats as she flashes me a quick smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m just rambling. I didn’t even mean to say that out loud.”

She lunges for her sandwich and shoves a huge bite in her mouth before she starts chewing way too fast.

“You think he likes them better than you?”

The idea is so absurd I have to check if that’s really what she means. There’s no way Peter could spend nineteen years as her dad and not realize how amazing she is. I’ve known her for less than two weeks, and I’m already letting her take me along on some crazy adventure to complete a bucket list my anxiety thinks I should throw in the trash.

She’s unstoppable.

She keeps chewing for so long I start to think I’m not getting an answer. I’ve popped the last bite of sandwich crust into my mouth when she finally speaks.