I'll Stop the World (43)

Noah stood and stretched, joints cracking after spending so long crouching down to chisel rust from the seemingly infinite ridges and crevices of the floral-patterned set. The day was unusually hot, even for July, with temperatures swelling into triple digits. They’d plugged in two box fans to create a breeze, but all that did was push the thick air around, caking their sweaty skin with thirty years’ worth of accumulated crud.

“Let’s take a break,” Noah said. “Go get some of Gran’s lemonade and sit inside by the air conditioner for a while. Then we can come back out here and finish up.”

Rose dropped her hands to her sides and stretched her neck, rolling her head back, then side to side, releasing a couple of alarmingly loud pops. “Sounds good to me.”

As Noah tossed his rag onto a chair, her heart gave a little flutter. Would this be a good time to talk? She’d been putting it off all summer, but Lisa was right. She needed to just tell him how she felt and get it over with.

Especially since she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe . . . he might like her, too. The thought filled her with butterflies so big she thought she might actually take flight.

Before they left the garage, Rose suggested dousing a few of the dirty rags with more WD-40 and placing them over the worst of the rust spots, in hopes that the chemicals would do more work for them while they were inside. When they’d finished, the furniture looked like it had been partially mummified, albeit poorly.

As soon as they stepped into the fresh air, Noah sucked in a deep breath, blowing it out theatrically. “Wow. I didn’t realize how fumey it was in there until we came out here.”

“Same,” Rose said. She glanced at him, and the corners of her mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “I also didn’t realize how gross you were in there.” Gray dust streaked his brown skin and clumped on his clothing, and his glasses were so speckled with grit she was surprised he could see.

“You’re one to talk,” he said, making a show of plucking a cobweb from her hair.

“Ew,” she squealed, wrinkling her nose. She jogged to the side of the garage and unwound a few coils of the garden hose from its hook, spraying down her arms and legs, then splashing more water onto her face with her hands.

Noah joined her, and she hosed him off as well. As he dried his glasses on his shirt, giving her a glimpse of his smooth, flat stomach, Rose tore her eyes away before he could notice she was staring.

Then a devious, delicious idea sprang into her head, and she pointed the hose at him again.

He looked up, his eyes widening. “Don’t you dare,” he said, taking a step back.

She matched him step for step, still brandishing the hose. “Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll—” But he didn’t get a chance to figure out what he’d do before she sprayed him square in the center of his chest, instantly drenching his shirt and shorts. They clung to him like a second skin, and Rose couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.

He stared at her with his mouth hanging open, his dripping arms held wide by his sides. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I did you a favor.” She giggled, feeling almost giddy in the summer heat. “You stink.”

“Oh, do I?” He pulled his soaked shirt up over his head, then twirled it quickly between his hands, rolling it up into a tight rope.

Her gaze caught on the sight of his bare chest, but she didn’t have time to gape; she skittered to the side, her hands held out in front of her like she was guarding him in basketball. She knew turnabout was fair play, but somehow getting smacked with a wet T-shirt did not feel like it was on the same level as getting doused with the hose.

Noah leaned in, holding the two ends of his rolled shirt taut, his right hand extended toward her. He grinned, then gave her a wink that set the butterflies in her stomach wildly flapping.

“Don’t even—” Rose yelped as he flicked the wet shirt toward her, not hard enough to sting, just enough to splatter water across her stomach.

“Now who stinks?” he asked, getting ready to strike again.

“I don’t have any spare clothes here!” she shrieked as she darted toward the house, skipping slightly in her efforts to keep out of his reach.

“Should have thought of that before you started this!” he bellowed, chasing after her, continuing to splatter her with water from his dripping shirt until she reached the back door and yanked it open.

After scrambling inside, she closed it in his face and held it shut, grinning at him through the screen.

He smiled back, spreading his hands. Their faces were inches apart, separated by the thin screen. Rose leaned toward him, closing the gap.

“Don’t worry,” Noah said breathlessly. “I’m not gonna keep chasing you in my gran’s house.”

Another flutter of the butterflies. “Leave that out there,” Rose said, gesturing with her chin.

“My shirt?” Noah raised an eyebrow, dropping the wet shirt on the steps, where it landed with a splat. “I didn’t realize you wanted my shirt off so bad.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean—never mind.” Rose’s cheeks went hot. She stepped back from the door. Could he tell how she’d been feeling? Had she been embarrassing herself all this time?

“Rose, I was just kidding,” Noah said, opening the door and stepping into the kitchen. He left his shirt on the step. Moisture glistened on his bare skin. “I’m sorry if I made it weird.”