If I'm Being Honest(58)

I whip my head around so fast my wig nearly falls off. Brendan?

He stretches, his back to me, and I unabashedly gape. Besides the small and very tight Speedo clinging to areas I consciously try not to think about, he’s essentially naked.

I focus on his neck. That’s safe, I rationalize to myself. I’ve seen his neck before. But then there’s the spot where his neck meets his shoulders, and—wow, he has great shoulders. From there it only gets worse. His back is broad, not muscled exactly, but nice. Really nice.

Grant calls Brendan over to the trunk, and he turns in my direction. I try to blink, to close my eyes, but it’s possible I no longer possess eyelids. There’s nothing but Brendan all the way down to the line of gold encircling that place on his hips below his navel. Mercifully, my gaze doesn’t stray lower.

Brendan pulls a cooler out of the trunk and heads for where Paige is holding down our spot. On his way, he tosses me a wink, and suddenly I’m incredibly parched. He looks like Benedict Cumberbatch’s younger brother, and I have no idea what to do with that information.

Hannah comes up next to me. “Are you going to help?” she asks, a note of amusement in her voice. “Or just gawk?”

“What?” I sputter. “I wasn’t—”

Hannah giggles. “It’s okay. He does look good.” Brendan’s reached the picnic blankets, where he’s bending down to put the cooler on the grass.

Bending over.

“I’m going to go unload the car,” I say decisively.

I focus on collecting the shopping bags of candy from Paige’s car. Red Vines, Mike and Ikes, Milk Duds. I’m entirely unready for even casual conversation with Brendan. I’m definitely not ready to unpack what he’s doing to me in the Speedo I had no idea I was incredibly unwise to suggest he wear.

I busy myself with whatever will buy me time before I face Brendan. I arrange the sandwiches on plastic plates. I put out everyone’s napkins and plastic cups. I walk to the trash can with the sandwich wrappers extra slowly.

But finally, when I’m eating a turkey on rye on the blanket while everyone else takes photos with other Riff Raffs and Franks, Brendan drops down beside me with a plate of roast chicken. I gulp and come close to choking. I’m expecting a joke or a pointed comment. God forbid he ask me how he looks.

Instead, when I give him a quick glance, he’s watching the crowd with wonder or bewilderment or both. “This is . . . insane,” he breathes. I can tell it’s a compliment from the way he says it.

“It is,” I say quickly, glad to avoid the subject of his costume. “Everyone put an unbelievable amount of effort into their costumes. They look awesome. Not as good as us, of course,” I add.

“Of course,” Brendan says. “For real, though, I can’t believe how hundreds of people still make costumes and dress up, and this movie came out in the seventies. I could die happy if even one person cosplayed for one of my games.” I watch him looking wistfully at the crowd, and I feel a grin playing at the corners of my lips. He’s cute when he’s expressing geek dreams.

I blink the thought away. This Speedo’s obviously warped my thoughts beyond rationality.

“Thanks for inviting me.” Brendan turns to me, his eyes bright. “I’m glad I got to be here. To experience this.” He throws out a hand toward the field of brilliantly colored costumes.

I feel a burst of courage, and the words are out before I can contain them.

“I’m glad I got to see you in your costume.”

Brendan beams. He reclines on the blanket, revealing the long, pale stretch down to his waistband. I roll my eyes, but I’m blushing under my makeup.

“I didn’t think you’d wear it,” I say challengingly.

“I know,” Brendan replies. “It’s why I had to. I can go change, though,” he adds hastily.

“God, no.” Wow, I really need to work on controlling this honesty thing.

Brendan raises an eyebrow. I dart my gaze from his—and then turn back to face him, because why not? I’m popular, and Brendan’s a junior. I have the high ground here.

“Like I said,” I drawl, “definitely not gross now.”

Brendan props himself up on one elbow. And without a word, he runs his eyes down the length of my figure very deliberately.

Brendan Rosenfeld is checking me out. When his eyes return to mine, I feel a flush inch up my cheeks.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Have you ever been to Grand Central Market?”

I fumble for words. “Um, no. Where?”

“It’s a place I think you’d really enjoy,” he says. “Could I take you? Next Friday?”

“Yeah,” I say unhesitatingly, then catch myself. Did Brendan just ask me on a date?

Did I just accept?

Before I get the chance to clarify, Grant comes running up to our picnic blankets, followed by a giant dude dressed as Columbia. “Stand up, guys,” Grant says excitedly. “Let him see our costumes.” Everyone rushes over and lines up for the judge, including Brendan, and the moment’s gone. I follow the group, straightening my wig.

We hold our breath. The Columbia scrutinizes every inch of our costumes.

His eyes linger noticeably long on Brendan’s Speedo. Finally, he nods approvingly. “Okay, all of you can come up onstage for ‘Time Warp.’” Everyone cheers. Hannah’s fully freaking out, clutching Paige’s arm and hyperventilating. The Columbia continues, “Line up when Brad—”