Page 36 of Can't Kiss the Chef

Get mani and pedis

Teach me how to skate

Plan a day at the Westvale’s Fall Festival for our us and our friends

Westvale’s Fall Festival is one of those small-town events that gets its residents together and offers the college students something to do. Plus, all the local craft brewers come, and things can get pretty crazy. Just ask Josiah where he ended up after last year’s fall fest.

I’m alone in the kitchen pouring some rum into a red solo cup after a very disappointing shower beer.

The front door flies open and suddenly Mia is flying throughout the house. The walk Aaron took her on clearly did nothing to get her zoomie’s out before the party.

“Aaron, guess who’s coming tonight?”

“Half of the student-athletes at Westvale,” he jokes before pulling a hard seltzer out of the fridge.

“This specific girl happens to go to school a few towns away.” Aaron’s eyes perk up with interest.

“Charlotte is coming?”

“Lola invited her.”

The kid has no shot and he knows it. For some reason it’s always the ones we can’t have that we want the most. Trust me, I know.

“It’s finally going to happen.”

“No, it’s not,” Josiah and I say in unison. I have no clue where he came from, but he is dressed for the party in dark jeans and an Aaliyah graphic tee.

Aaron huffs before walking away. He’s just missing a hair flip for the full dramatics.

“When is everyone coming?” Josiah asks.

I look down at my watch and see that it’s ten.

“Marcus told Indy and the girls to come now, so they should be here any minute.”

It’s like I summoned them. Indy walks through our door first, acting like she owns the place. She may as well. We are all honestly a little scared of her. Then Charlotte looking every bitthe preppy horse girl she is. A few of Indy’s teammates fill the gap until I see the girl I’ve been waiting for.

Her back is turned to me and she bursts into laughter. It’s not the sarcastic, dry laugh she uses to hide behind. It’s her deep genuine belly laugh that she only shows a lucky few.

She turns on one heel, freezing when she realizes we are all waiting for her. Her cheeks turn pink as she throws a small, shy wave in my direction. My hand is halfway up to wiggle my fingers at her and make her laugh. Suddenly a large figure comes towering over.

I blink. Blink again. Then do a double take.

Why the fuck is Dalton Powell in my fucking house? Why is he touching my Lola? How the fuck is that prick making her all bashful. Lola told me last semester that I was the only person who has ever made her feel that way. If that’s true, there is no way this trust fund kid from the Upper East Side can warm her ice-cold heart the same way.

I find the closest door and just exit through it. I end up in our garage– which is set up as a smoke room–and lose my cool. My half-full rum and coke finds itself against the wall. A couple of old wooden stools are tossed to the other side of the open space. I have a lawn chair cocked back and ready to fly.

“Put down the lawn chair, and nobody gets hurt.”

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