Page 23 of The Friend Game

Luke chuckles. “So you’re a potter?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Not anymore, anyway.” I spread my hands wide around the classroom. “I’m a teacher.”

“Well, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have other passions too. I, for instance, like to run in my free time, and I’m part of a local adult basketball league.”

That explains all the muscles. I’m momentarily distracted by the image of him making a lay-up. Don’t judge me. Athletic prowess is my kryptonite. That’s the real reason I wanted to be a cheerleader in high school. Front row seats to the show.

I focus back on Luke. “Throwing pottery is no longer a passion of mine,” I state firmly.

Luke studies me for a second, and I almost shiver under his gaze. “That’s too bad,” he finally says.

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Well, if you were still into pottery I thought I’d show you something, but since you’re not…” he trails off with a shrug.

I stare at him, aware that he’s baiting me into admitting I still like making pottery, but unable to stop myself from grabbing onto the worm he’s dangling in my face. The worm that’s going to get me killed and eaten for dinner.

“What were you going to show me?” I blurt.

“Oh no, I’m sure you won’t be interested in it.” Luke slides his hands into his pockets all casual like.

“I think I would be interested in it,” I retort. “I have a wide variety of interests, you know.”

“Like history?” Luke quips, and I blush.

“Luke William Abbott!” I scold.

Luke snorts. “My middle name is not William.”

I shrug. “I took a shot.” And also made more problems for myself, because now I’m suddenly dying to know his middle name. “Michael?” I try to sound nonchalant, like I’m just making conversation. He sees right through me.

“Nope.” Luke crosses his arms across his chest and grins. “But I’ll tell you my middle nameandshow you what I was talking about, if you tell me why you gave up pottery.”

I scowl across my desk at him. “Pottery is like Bruno; we don’t talk about it.”

“Ah, but see what a mess the Madrigal family made of things by not talking about Bruno?” Luke points out and I blink at him in surprise. “I have nieces and nephews,” he says with a shrug. “I dare you to take me on in Disney trivia.”

“Oh really?” I can’t help but laugh at this extremely cute revelation. “Let’s do that then,” I suggest. “Instead of me telling you my whole pottery debacle to get my way, I’ll play you in Disney trivia. When I win, you have to tell me your middle nameandshow me whatever you were going to show me.”

Luke considers this. “What do I get when I win?” he asks with a cocky grin that I want to kiss off his face. Wait, I meant wipe. I want to wipe thatcocky grin off his face. Oh heck with it. These are my private thoughts. I totally meant kiss.

“You won’t win,” I say cheekily, “because there’s absolutely no way you know more about Disney than I do. I founded the Disney Princess club at my elementary school. We met every Wednesday at recess for three whole years.”

“Aww, that’s cute,” Luke teases, then leans forward, placing his hands on my desk. I catch a whiff of his cedar and pine scent. “Too bad Disney doesn’t just make princess movies. I will own your third gradeToy Storyexcluding self.”

“Ha!” I snap back, placing my own hands on the desk and angling my shoulders so that I meet him halfway across it in a challenge. “Too bad I have a nephew that I frequently babysit for. I watchedToy Storytwo times last week alone.”

We’re only inches from each other now, and for a second I forget what we’re even talking about as I stare into his cerulean-colored eyes. I could lose myself in those eyes for hours, trying to figure out how exactly to recreate that color on paper, trying to figure out how to capture that spark I feel emanating from them. I move forward ever so slightly, drawn to him by some invisible force. His eyes flicker to my mouth.

And then the bell rings.

Like magnets that got flipped to the same pole we spring apart. I’m breathing hard like I justfinished my morning kickboxing session. Luke rakes a hand through his hair, looking as out of sorts as I feel.

We almost kissed. I’m sure of it. Well, ninety percent sure.

Fine, at least eighty.

I’m definitely one-hundred percent sure that I wanted to kiss him.

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