Page 68 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart

Jameson glances over his shoulder as we approach, and his face breaks into that easy smile that makes my insides melt. “Kevin! Hey!”

“Hey,” I say back, proud that actual words come out.

Dad steps forward with his hand extended. “Jameson. Good to see you again.”

“Mr. Pryor.” Jameson straightens up, clearly trying to make a good impression, and shakes Dad’s hand.

“Now, before I skedaddle, I wanted to ask what your intentions are with my son.”

“DAD!” I want to dissolve into the boardwalk. I want the sun’s rays to set me on fire. I want to be anywhere other than here right now.

Jameson’s eyes widen. “I—we’re just getting tacos, Mr. P?”

“Relax, son, I’m kidding.” Dad claps him on the shoulder with enough force to make Jameson stumble slightly. “I’m glad he’s made another friend. Whenever Rita isn’t around, he’s all by himself, cooped up in his room. I swear if I didn’t know my son as well as I do, I’d think he was?—”

“Okay!” I grab Dad’s arm and pull him back toward the van. “Thanks for the ride, you can go now, bye!”

Dad laughs, but lets me drag him a few steps. “Have fun, boys. Jameson, make sure he stays hydrated. It’s hot out. But don’t let him drink too much—the kid has a tiny bladder.”

Oh, God.

“Uh, will do, Mr. Pryor.”

“Call me Marcus.” Dad winks. “Text me when you need a ride home, Kev.”

He finally, blessedly, heads back to the minivan. I stand frozen, watching him go while trying to stop my cheeks from burning.

“So,” Jameson says, sidling up to me once Dad disappears into traffic. “That wasn’t awkward at all.”

I turn to face him, expecting to see mockery or at least amusement. Instead, his expression is warm, maybe even fond.

“I’m sorry. He’s not usually that—actually, no, he’sexactlythat embarrassing all the time.”

“It’s cool. He cares about you.” Jameson tilts his head toward the taco truck. “Ready for the best tacos you’ve ever had?”

A small linehas formed at the taco truck. The savory scent of grilled meat and spices makes my stomach rumble. Jamesonorders for both of us—three tacos each, plus drinks—and when I reach for my wallet, he waves me off.

“I got this,” he says, already handing cash to the vendor.

“But—”

“Kevin, seriously. My treat.”

My heart flutters faster than a hummingbird’s wings.Friends buy each other food all the time, Kevin. This doesn’t mean anything.

Except it could, especially when he guides me to a picnic table overlooking the beach with his hand lightly grazing my lower back.

We sit across from each other, the Atlantic Ocean stretching out beside us. Seagulls circle overhead, hoping for dropped food. The tacos arrive a few minutes later, wrapped in foil. Steam escapes into the air when I peel back the edges.

“Oh, my God,” I moan after the first bite. “This is incredible.”

Jameson grins. “Told you. I come here at least once a week during the summer.”

“How have I lived in Arcadia my whole life and never tried these?” I take another bite, trying not to think about how, to an outsider, this looks exactly like two guys on a date. The ocean view, the shared meal, the way Jameson keeps smiling at me between bites of juicy meat, sour cream, and more toppings than you could imagine. “Are you ready for senior year?”

He groans. “Between football, college applications, and knowing I’m going to have to keep my GPA up, I’m already stressed.”

“Where are you applying?”