The Chemistry of Love(22)

“You’re too good looking to be that nice.” I still felt like he was up to something major, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t know what it was. Why was he making me go out in public to find out?

Catalina was right, and hot guys were the worst.

Especially ones who get engaged to women they’ve only known for two months, that inner anti-Craig voice said.

I ignored it, but it did make me think that whatever Marco had to say was about Craig, and that pushed me to want to say yes.

He didn’t respond to my jab at his niceness and instead said, “Here. I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.” He took out his phone, and I felt my own phone buzz in response.

“How do you have my number?” I asked.

“You gave it to me last night.”

I pulled my cell from my pocket and saw that I had added him to my phone as “Hot Bathroom Guy.” Lovely. Too drunk to remember his name, but not so drunk that I’d forgotten where I’d met him or how he looked. “Why didn’t you just call me instead of coming over?”

“And miss the orange face and glitter?” When he saw that I wasn’t laughing, he shifted gears. “I thought this was more of an in-person situation. I also thought you’d say no if I asked over the phone.”

“I might still say no.”

“You might,” he agreed, but his tone indicated that he thought I wouldn’t.

While I stood there, trying to decide what to do, I heard the front door shut, the birds call out, and then my grandmother’s voice.

Fan-freaking-tastic. That was all I needed. Growing up, there had been a rule that I couldn’t have a boy in my bedroom. I didn’t know if that rule was still in effect. I’d never had an occasion before to test it.

“You have to go. And if we get downstairs and anybody I’m related to tries to invite you to dinner tonight, your answer is no. As Admiral Ackbar says—”

“It’s a trap?” he finished, and again that feeling from earlier returned, of being understood.

“My grandmother thinks she can cook, but what she makes is like what Satan would serve in hell if he was trying to torture people. And I tell you this because you do seem like a reasonably nice man, and I don’t think anyone should be subjected to it. And my grandfather thinks that it’s rude not to eat the food set in front of you, so you’ll be stuck eating it out of politeness. I have an iron stomach from many years of that kind of cuisine torture. The second I turned sixteen, I did my best to never be home during dinnertime again.”

“That was a pretty long explanation for ‘don’t eat dinner here.’”

“Brevity has never been my strong point. Come on.”

I didn’t really want to walk him to the door. He’d found his own way upstairs; he could do the same going out. But I couldn’t risk a Grandma confrontation. I hoped she would stay in her study and we’d make a clean getaway.

“Don’t step on that one.” I pointed at the third stair. “It creaks, and I’d like to sneak you past my quasi–parental units. The questions will be endless.”

“It’s nice that you have people who care about you.”

The way he said that was so heartbreaking, so familiar, that I stumbled on the last step. Marco reached out and grabbed me, keeping me upright. The electricity returned, slamming into me and shorting out my breath.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “You can, um, let go.”

He released his hand in surprise, like he’d forgotten it was there. I didn’t know that I’d be able to forget, given that I was pretty sure his light handprint had made a permanent electricity-based imprint on my upper arm.

Residual alcohol effects, I reminded myself. It didn’t mean anything.

I had just put my hand on the front doorknob, rejoicing in my ability to get him out of the house without being caught, when my grandpa came strolling down the hallway toward the door. He beamed at both of us and said to Marco, “I see you found her okay.”

“I did, sir. Thank you.”

“Good, good.” He glanced at me. “Anna, sweetie, you have something on your face.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.” As if I could forget. I hoped orange masked bright pink cheeks.

He whistled a tune as he left us and headed into the living room. He sat down with his newspaper (he was possibly the last person in America who not only received a newspaper but read the whole thing front to back every day). Feather Locklear was squawking up a storm about the worst baseball team ever, and I opened the door for Marco.

“I’d say thanks for stopping by, but this has all been really bizarre.”

Marco walked out onto the porch and stopped to smile at me. “I’ll see you soon.”

I begrudgingly replied, “Maybe.”

“I’ll take a maybe,” he said, sporting an endearing grin that made my heart melt. Was he kidding me with this? How could he be handsome and that charming? It really was unfair. God should have saved some of the good stuff he’d poured out on Marco for the other men on the planet.

My grandma said something from the other room, so I quickly shut the door. Not fast enough, though—she’d either seen Marco or my grandfather had tipped her off.

“Who was that?” she asked.