Page 1 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

one

JORDAN

15 years ago

You don’t expect to meet the love of your life at age fourteen.

And you definitely don’t expect to meet her in home economics—especially when you’re a dude.

Not that I’m sexist. Far from it. But when you sign up for gym class at the new school you’re transferring to just before the holidays and get put in cooking class instead…there’s bound to be some confusion.

What school doesn’t have any gym classes available? None of the ones I’ve been to—and that’s a solid five in the last ten years alone. Thank you, military life.

But Dad’s retired from the Air Force now—honorably discharged thanks to an injury that’s left him reeling and reaching for the bottle more than he’d care to admit—and he wanted to move back to his home state of California. But he didn’t want to return to Los Angeles. He wanted to be somewhere small. Quiet. Peaceful.

That’s how the Carmichaels ended up in Hallmark Beach.

And that’s how I ended up in this class.

With her.

I don’t know her name—I don’t know anyone’s name—but as I shift my backpack from one shoulder to the other, I can’t take my eyes off of her.

There’s a red apron tied around her petite waist, her brown hair is piled on top of her head, flour dots her cheeks, and she’s smiling while she frosts cookies, off in her own world while her classmates—well,ourclassmates, I guess—are chatting and joking around.

She’s beautiful, but the kind where she doesn’t seem to know she’s beautiful. She seems oblivious to her charm.

But I’m not.

“Jordan.”

I straighten, jerking my attention to the administrative assistant—a Mrs. Benson, I think?—smiling kindly at me from behind her cat-eye glasses. She’s the lucky one who got to escort me around Hallmark Beach High’s campus, which took all of five minutes. “Sorry. What?”

She pats her white curls and nods toward the middle-aged teacher, who is busy instructing a student standing behind a burner built into a table. “That’s Ms. White. I think you’ll like her. She gives a lot of creative freedom. And you’ll only be in this class for a few weeks until second semester starts. Then there should be a spot open in gym class.”

“Great.” I say the word, but there’s a lack of enthusiasm in it. My eyes have drifted once again to the girl standing at the last table in the back of the room.

Mrs. Benson chuckles. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

“What?” I turn, shaking my head with so much force that I might be mistaken for a bobblehead. “No. No, I’m good.”

At that moment, Ms. White glances up and sees us, says something to the student she’s helping, and walks across the noisy room to join us. She’s probably my parents’ age—forty-ish—with small wisps of gray salting her dark hair. “Hi, there. You must be our new student. Jordan, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wonderful. Thank you for escorting him, Mrs. Benson.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Benson’s mouth hooks into a wry grin. “I don’t think Jordan has any experience baking, so perhaps you might consider pairing him with your best student.” She flashes me a quick wink before heading out the door.

What the…?

Ms. White seems to consider me, then nods. “That’s not a bad idea. Come on, Jordan. Follow me.” She weaves through the tables, calling out encouragements to others, some of whom look up at me with curious expressions. A few turn to whisper and giggle—probably because I’m the only guy in here.

That’s okay. I’m used to being the new kid. Their stares and laughs don’t bother me. Like water off a duck’s back…

Then I see where Ms. White is leading me—and my palms begin to sweat.

Now I understand why Mrs. Benson winked at me.

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