Page 5 of You Had Me at Chocolate

Even had Clem not decided her life would take a direction that didn’t involve a romantic relationship—for a good few years anyway—his proposal wasn’t exactly appealing.

“I am all grown-up,” she said testily. “And so are you. What the hell are you thinking?”

He sighed a weary sigh as he shoved a hand through the short, shaggy layers of his chestnut hair that already looked like they’d been finger combed plenty. They covered his prominent ears, too, she realized. Or maybe he’d just grown into them?

The action drew her eyes to the flex of a perfectly proportioned bicep bunching in the confines of his sleeve. He sure hadn’t had biceps at twelve.

“I’m sorry. I’m kinda wrecked and it’s been a while and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m rusty where women are concerned but I know they like grand gestures so I figured… go big or go home, right?”

“Man.” Clem shook her head. “You really are rusty, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been in Africa.”

Like that explained it. “I know. Your mom said in her Christmas card.”

“To be honest, I don’t know if I ever knew what women want.”

“Well let me clue you in. This woman doesn’t like being put on the spot.”

He rubbed his chin, his whiskers making a scratchy sound that traveled straight to her nipples, which was disconcerting to say the least. Clem thanked the universe for the disguise of her sparkly top.

“Okay.” He nodded. “Noted. But… we made a pact, Clementine.”

She blinked. Again. Yeah, she remembered the pact. Had actually remembered it this morning when she’d woken. It had brought a wry smile to her mouth and she’d moved on. “We. Were. Twelve.”

“I know it sounds… a bit ludicrous—”

“A bit?” More like freaking crazy. The damn man was giving her eyelids epilepsy.

“But…” He shrugged, plainly ignoring her shrill outburst. “We’re old friends. You’re single, I’m single. That’s not nothing.”

It wasn’t something though, was it? It wasn’t fireworks and giddiness and a crazy leap in the pulse. Just because Clem was about to embark on a whole new stage of her life and wasn’t, therefore, in the market for a relationship right now, didn’t mean she didn’t want the whole enchilada when/if she did decide to say yes to a man bearing a rock.

“How do you know I’m single?” Clem demanded because there had been belly wobbles and she didn’t want to think about where they fit on the giddiness-leaping pulse spectrum.

“Your Christmas card said you were.”

Clem gaped at him. Was he for real? “That was nine months ago. I could have had a damn baby in nine months. You don’t think I could have got myself another boyfriend in that time?”

“Of course.” His brow scrunched as he held out both hands in what she assumed was supposed to be a calming gesture. “You just never seemed the type—”

“The type?” she interrupted, the sinister note in her voice as loud as the rush of blood through her head.

“Wait, no.” He did the hand calming movement again. “I’m really screwing this all up. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean the type to act that fast. It took you two weeks during that first camp for you to decide which Jonas brother you liked the best. You had a diary with columns of pros and cons for each of them.”

Heat rose to Clem’s cheeks remembering how she’d agonized over that particularly pressing dilemma.

“I just mean,” he said, his voice gentle, “you were always very… considered.”

Oh dear god. She’d always been boring, hadn’t she? Even at eight.

But—wait. Did a boring person get tipsy on cheap prosecco in Rome and almost get arrested for dancing in the Trevi Fountain at three in the morning? Did a boring person sunbathe topless in Majorca—in October? Did a boring person kiss not one, not two, but three different men in six weeks across a dozen European countries?

Not exactly outrageous behavior for a Contiki tour, granted, but it had been revolutionary for Clem.

“Who knows?” Jude interrupted her thinking. “Maybe our twelve-year-old selves knew something that we didn’t know about ourselves?”

Clem rolled her eyes. He could not be serious about this. “We made a tweenie marriage pact. I think that tells you a lot about how little we knew. My idea of sophistication was s’mores nachos with pretzels that Mom made on family camping trips.”

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