Under Rose-Tainted Skies(44)

‘It’s not okay,’ I snap. How can it be okay? I don’t forget to do things that make me feel safe.

I don’t.

Except I did.

Who even am I?





Luke steps inside, arms open, but he looks less like he’s trying to touch me and more like he’s trying to round up a flock of spooked sheep.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask him, doubling over. I know there’s a science to this whole head-between-your-knees bit, but all it does is make me dizzy, so as quickly as I’m down, I’m back up.

‘Well,’ he says, dropping his arms. ‘I’m trying not to touch you but also kind of freaking out that you’re going to faint.’

‘Faint?’ What is this, a Bront? novel?

‘You know . . . pass out, hit the deck, kiss the floor?’

‘Yeah, but you said faint.’ I lower my butt on to the bottom step of the stairs, breathing like I’m giving birth.

‘Huh.’ Luke lifts his chin, tucks his hands behind his back, and starts strolling around the hall like a patrolling police officer in Victorian London. ‘You don’t seem impressed by my outdated idioms.’

My eyes follow him across the floor, but I keep the door in my peripheral vision, hope it picks up on the I’m-watching-you shade I’m throwing its way.

‘I prefer modern slang myself,’ I reply.

‘Word,’ he says with a grin so glorious I feel sorry for anyone in the world who will never get to see it.

When you take in air too quickly, it tends to have a hair dryer effect on your throat. Right now I could store sand in my mouth without compromising its consistency, but I’m not sure I can make it to the kitchen for a drink. I lean left, check the distance from the banister to the fridge.

‘You need something?’ Luke asks, killing the flirt that was apparent in his voice a few seconds ago. I can’t ask him to get me some orange juice. Can I? No. It’s too weird. He’s not working a shift at a restaurant.

‘No, thank you.’ I grab hold of the banister with both hands, squeeze it so tight I’m in danger of getting blisters. But when I heave my body up, my legs let go with a hell-no jerk. Luke lunges forward as my butt thumps back down, only this time I’m sitting on the second step from the bottom. That was embarrassing. And there’s no Mom here to buffer the impending awkwardness. Luke buries his hands in his pockets, I’m assuming because he doesn’t trust them not to reach for me a third time.

‘Norah, not that I’m not loving this gallant display of independence, but could you please let me go and get you what you need? Please?’ He might be about ready to throw himself at my feet.

‘I could use a glass of orange juice,’ I tell him, but talk to my curling toes.

‘Orange juice. Right. Where would I find that?’ he calls as he heads off towards the kitchen.

‘It’s in the fridge.’

‘Okay,’ he says and then starts humming. I hear him opening and closing cabinets. ‘Hey, Neighbour, where do you hide your glasses?’

‘Above the microwave,’ I reply.

‘Gotcha. Is it okay if I pour myself one?’

‘Sure.’ I smile because this must mean he’s staying a while.

Luke starts singing. Not lyrics, notes. A string of las and dees and das as he strolls around my kitchen. I’m imagining him juggling tumblers like a bartender in LA, shaking the carton of orange to the left and then to the right.

A couple of seconds later he falls silent and strolls back into the hall.

‘For Madame,’ he says, overenunciating. His fake French accent is adorable, almost as cute as his fake British. He hands me one of the two drinks he’s carrying, studying the exchange carefully so we don’t connect.

‘Dinner and a show,’ I tease. ‘Now I’m impressed.’ Maybe I’m not teasing as much as I am flirting. Talking while I glance up at him through my lashes and flashing a coy smile. I’ve definitely seen Mom work this face on Dave the delivery guy before. She makes eyes at him every time he drops off a box of sample rocks.

Luke throws me a one-shouldered shrug. ‘What can I say? It was only going to be a matter of time.’ He makes his way up the stairs, pressing his chest tight against the wall so he doesn’t graze me. I flush when I realize I’m checking out his butt. Luke takes a seat on the third step, leans forward on his knees, and smiles at me.

‘Shouldn’t you be heading to school?’ I ask, a little reluctantly.

‘Nah. I can cut. I’ll just tell them I had a medical emergency.’

‘You’re going to use my medical emergency as an excuse to cut class?’

He shrugs again. ‘Cut class, maybe . . . but I’m kind of hoping I can use it to hang around with you for a little bit. Do you mind?’

Moral dilemma. Do I argue and tell him he should get to class, or do I keep my mouth shut and sit here drinking orange juice with him?

No contest. I bite my lip, trying to hold back the grin that’s threatening to expand and swallow my face.

‘So, have you ever met the Great and Powerful Amy Cavanaugh before?’ Luke asks.

‘No. Today was the first time.’

‘And how was it?’

I swish the orange juice around in my glass. The box claims it’s pulp-free, but you can never be too careful. ‘Most people scare and/or intimidate me. She was no exception.’