America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(70)

“Window’s closing to get you out before you’re going to be followed,” Charlie says, and Sarah and I both sigh.

I’m about to tell her she can just stay when she ducks her head again and lets Charlie hustle her out the door.

I slouch against my car.

That was the best date I’ve ever had in my entire life.

It was just a comedy club. With good food. Some photographers watching us. A near-miss with having a beer or seventeen spilled down my crotch.

But I haven’t split a burger on a date since I was seventeen and couldn’t afford to get my date more. I haven’t let my fingers linger in the fry basket in the hopes that we’d accidentally touch in even longer. I haven’t wished the show would be over so we could be alone again, or been so simultaneously sad when we left because it meant I was that much closer to having to let her go home.

And listening to her snort-laugh at some of the really bad jokes tonight—I don’t get why the internet as a whole isn’t tripping all over itself to talk about how gorgeous and funny and smart and kind she is.

My phone dings. Text from Charlie.

Go to bed, Beck. Business meetings all day tomorrow.

I sigh and head for the elevator, where there’s ever-present security watching over my garage hidey-hole. “Not your usual type, Mr. Ryder,” the guy says.

I scowl at him. “Damn fucking better.”

His smirk slides off and he goes pink in the cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

This world.

I thought I was the fuck-up last weekend.

But maybe the whole damn world has lost its mind.





Twenty-Nine





Sarah



Charlie doesn’t mention the kiss as she accompanies me in a black Audi driven by a bodyguard on the drive home. Nor does she ask how the date went. Or even tell me stories about Beck or his family or his business.

Nope.

We chat about my bees. She’s thinking of getting a hive someday, whenever she’s finally ready to slow down and find home, since she’s seen enough of the world to know she can go anywhere she wants but she’s still narrowing down exactly where that is.

And I pretend my lips aren’t still tingling from kissing Beck, and that I can stop myself from continuously reaching up to touch them to make sure they’re still the same lips they were pre-kiss.

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s kissed me.

But this one was more.

And if we hadn’t been interrupted, I don’t think we would’ve stopped at kissing.

When we pull up to my house, the lights are all on.

My parents must still be here.

And when the bodyguard walks me to my door and sees me inside, I realize they aren’t alone.

Nope.

Mackenzie’s here.

And the Fireballs are tied at two in the bottom of the twelfth inning.

“Sarah! Sarah, sit. Eat popcorn. You have to try the popcorn, because we cannot lose this game after we’ve fought this long to get here, and the popcorn is good luck. Wait. What’s that look? Why are you making that face? Did he try something? Do I need to go kick his ass?”

My dad goes on alert instantly, his dark eyes raking over me like he has an internal mind reader app in his brain while he shoots to his feet. My mom, though, claps her hands. “Oh, sweetheart, I knew he was more than just a pretty face.”

“Whatever. He’s just doing this to save his face,” Mackenzie says. “I mean, he seems like a nice enough guy, and if there wasn’t that whole fame factor, I’d be into letting him date you, provided he’s actually as nice as he seems, but you know Hollywood. No offense, Sunny and Judson. Did he touch your boobs? Do I need to call my friend Bubba-Shark to take care of things?”

“Bubba-Shark?”

“He’s this guy my dads know. I don’t like to talk about him because reasons, but desperate times, desperate measures. Did he show you his peepee?”

“Strike out!” my mom cries.

“What? He got the strike-out? Go, bullpen! I didn’t see that coming.”

With Mackenzie distracted, Mom winks at me.

Dad makes the Bat-Dad growl.

And I realize I’m touching my lips again.

I sink into the recliner, then bolt up again when Cupcake squeals indignantly beneath me. “Who put the pig in my chair?”

“Ssh!” Mackenzie says. “She’s good luck. And I’m totally getting the rest of this story out of you as soon as we get this last out.”

“Anybody else want ice cream?” I ask them all.

“Right! Ice cream is good luck. Crap. Beck was good luck. Was it so bad that you can’t text him and ask him if he’ll do that butt wiggle he did last time we got a final out in an inning?”

I don’t bother telling her that he won’t text back, because he has seven million and growing unread text messages, but instead, I step into the kitchen and do as she asks because I hope he does reply.

And when he replies right away, I smile so big that I know my heart’s in serious danger.

With or without my pants on? And do you need video?

My brain whispers without, but my mom steps into the kitchen behind me and heads for the cabinets, making the bowls rattle loudly while she whispers, “Was it a good kiss?”