Page 33 of Five Alarm Kiss

“I—” Laurel cleared her throat. She didn’t need to be thinking about Jake kissing her. She was nervous enough as it was. “I don’t kiss on the first date,” she said, desperately trying to stave off images of his lips on hers. “You know that.”

“You don’tfirstkiss on a first date,” Britt corrected, “but this’ll be your third kiss.”

Oh my gosh!It will be our third k?—

Laurel mentally skidded to a halt.

There’s no guarantee he’s going to kiss me, so stop it!

“Either way, you’renotbacking out,” Britt informed her, “and blue is your color.”

Laurel narrowed her eyes. “I’m not matching my sweater to my hair!”

She really should try dying the blue streak back to brown herself, since Skye was refusing to do it. Of course, goodness knows what color it would actually end up if she attempted to do it on her own. Her track record with hair dye was oh-and-one.

She’d attempted to cover up the blue streak with brown mascara earlier in the week, but it hadn’t matched her natural color and looked weird. Plus, she should’ve used waterproof mascara. Then maybe she wouldn’t have learned the hard way that mascara and sweat didn’t play nice. Amy had pointed out the brown trail creeping down the side of her throat at school. That hadn’t been humiliating at all.

“I’ll wear the black?—”

“Green one.” Britt’s tone left no room for argument. “Black is boring and green brings out the peridot flecks in your eyes.”

Leave it to Britt to know the fancy shades of green. Dark green, light green… plain ol’ green. Those were good enough for Laurel.

“Plus, it hugs your girls.”

Laurel cringed. “My breasts are not ‘girls’.” She hated that term.

“Fine. Gender neutral. Whatever ruffles your truffles.”

Laurel choked on a laugh.

“Yourbreastslook amazing in it.”

“I’m not sure I want Jake looking at my breasts,” Laurel confessed, feeling slightly heated at the thought.

“Shut your mouth! You want Jake looking at youreverything!” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s the green sweater or the red dress. Those are your options.” Britt had the toned, lean frame of a dancer, but when she took that stance and stared you down, she was pretty darn intimidating.

“Green sweater,” Laurel conceded. Anything was better than the clingy dress. “And I’m wearing jeans, not leggings.” She’d feel less exposed in jeans.

“But leggings make your ass?—”

“That’s theonlyoption,” Laurel said, throwing Britt’s statement back at her.

“Fine, but you’re wearing the boots. And I get to do your makeup.”

Twenty minutes later, Laurel was sitting in her silver, four-door hybrid in the Peckamoo parking lot, debating whether to turn off the ignition and go in or back out and hightail it home. She’d parked on the back side of the building where there was less chance of being seen if she decided to chicken out and leave. She hadn’t made up her mind, but at the moment, it was fifty-fifty.

She pulled down the visor and studied herself in the mirror with a grimace. Britt had done her makeup, and although it was flawless, the smoky eyes that looked incredible on her friend made Laurel feel like a hooker. She never wore this much makeup. It didn’t matter that Britt had tempered the dramatic eye shadow with a nude shade of lipstick—you can either have bold eyes, or bold lips, but not both, she’d said—it still seemed like a lot.

How could the same makeup look so different on each of them? Laurel may as well have been standing on a street corner, whereas Britt looked put together and beautiful.

“I can’t do this,” she told her reflection.

Her phone chimed suddenly, making her jump. Slapping the car visor flush with the roof, she dug the phone out of her purse and read the text.

Britt

Don’t you dare bail.

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