Making Faces(50)

Fern had been reading romances since she was thirteen years old. She had fallen in love with Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables and was hungry to fall in love like that over and over again. And then she discovered Harlequin. Her mother would have croaked face first into her herbal mint tea if she’d known how many forbidden romances Fern consumed the summer before eighth grade, and Fern had had a million book boyfriends since then.

Ambrose grabbed Fern's book from her hands and immediately opened it to where Fern was reading. She grabbed at him, mortification flooding her, not wanting him to see what had so captured her attention. He just held the book up in front of his face and wrapped one arm around her, effectively pinning her as if she were five years old. He was like a big ox, immovable and brawny, and all Fern's squirming to free her arms and retrieve the book was entirely useless. Fern gave up and hung her head in dejection. The heat from her cheeks radiated out around her face and she held her breath, waiting for him to howl in laughter. Ambrose read in silence for several minutes

“Huh.” Ambrose sounded a little flummoxed. “So . . . that was interesting.” His arm loosened slightly, and Fern ducked out beneath it, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and busily looking at everything except Ambrose.

“What's interesting?” she asked breezily, as if she hadn't been wracked with embarrassment only seconds before.

“Do you read a lot of this kind of thing?” Ambrose countered with a question of his own.

“Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it!” Fern said meekly and shrugged as if she wasn't dying inside.

“But that's just it.” Ambrose poked Fern in the side with one long finger. She squirmed again and slapped at his hand. “You haven't tried it, any of it . . . have you?”

Fern's eyes shot to his and her lips parted on a gasp.

“Have you?” Ambrose asked, his eyes locked on hers.

“Tried what?” Fern's voice was a shocked hiss.

“Well, let me see.” Ambrose thumbed through a couple of pages. “How about this?” He started reading slowly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, the sound making Fern's heart pound like a frantic drummer.

“. . . he pushed her back against the pillows, and ran his hands along her bare skin, his eyes following where his hands had been. Her breasts rose in fevered anticipation . . .”

Fern swatted at the book desperately and managed to dislodge it this time, sending the book careening across several registers and landing in the back of a shopping cart.

“You've tried that?” Ambrose's expression was deadly serious, the corners of his mouth flattened in consternation. But his good eye gleamed, and Fern knew he was silently laughing at her.

“Yes!” Fern blustered, “I have! Many times, actually. It's . . . it's wonderful! I love it!” She grabbed a spray bottle and a rag from beneath the counter by her register and immediately started squirting and scrubbing away at her already pristine workspace.

Ambrose drew close and whispered in her ear, making the tendrils that had escaped from her ponytail tickle her cheeks as he spoke. “With who?”

Fern stopped scrubbing and looked up furiously, her face only inches from his.

“Stop it, Ambrose! You're embarrassing me.”

“I know, Fern.” Ambrose chuckled, revealing his endearingly lopsided grin. “And I can't help it. You're just so damn cute.”

The moment the words left his lips, Ambrose straightened as if his flirtatious comment had surprised him, and he turned away, suddenly embarrassed, too. The canned music overhead morphed into something by Barry Manilow and Fern instantly wished she hadn't reprimanded Ambrose. She should have just let him tease her. For a moment, he'd been so light-hearted, so young, and now he was rigid again, his back to her, hiding his face once more. Without another word, he started moving back toward the bakery.

“Don't go, Ambrose,” Fern called out. “I'm sorry. You're right. I haven't tried any of those things. You're the only guy who's ever kissed me. And you were kind of drunk, so you can tease me all you want.”

Ambrose paused and turned slightly. He pondered what she had said for several seconds and then asked, “How does a girl like you . . . a girl who loves romance novels and writes amazing love letters,” Fern's heart ceased beating, “how does a girl like you manage to sneak through high school without ever being kissed?”

Fern swallowed and her heart resumed its cadence with a lurch. Ambrose watched her, obviously waiting for a response.

“It's easy when you have flaming red hair, you're not much bigger than a twelve-year-old, and you wear glasses and braces until senior year,” Fern said wryly, confessing the truth easily, as long as it took the look of desolation from his eyes. He smiled again, and his posture eased slightly.

“So that kiss up at the lake, that was your first?” Ambrose asked hesitantly.

“Yep. I got my first kiss from the one and only Ambrose Young.” Fern grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

But Ambrose didn't laugh. He didn't smile. His eyes searched Fern's face for a long moment.

“Are you mocking me, Fern?”

Fern shook her head desperately, wondering why she couldn't seem to ever say the right thing. “No! I was just . . . being . . . silly. I just wanted you to laugh again!”