Page 25 of A Very Merry Matchup
“Did that PDA back there give you any ideas?” says Beau, as we tromp though the snow toward thecorrecthouse for the last basket delivery.
“Not a single one.”
“Because in the spirit of Christmas, I would be very open-minded about any ideas it gave you. This is the season of giving after all. I’d be more than happy to give you a kiss if that’s the sort of idea you’re having right now.”
“I’m one-hundred-percent idea free.” But I am getting overheated again. Now might be a great time to step out from Beau’s arm.
Especially when he drops his mouth close to my ear and murmurs, “If you ever want to hear my ideas, just let me know. I’ve got a lot of good ones when it comes to you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bah ham basket!
Beau
Well, one thing is for certain. I absolutelycannotwait to hear Ivy explain that basket delivery mix-up to my parents when we get home.
Home.Isn’t it crazy how easily Ivy fits into that word for me? If only I could fit into that word for her. Trouble is I don’t think Ivy has a clear idea of whathomereally means. And I’ve only got so much time left to show her, which is a little scary.
But not nearly as scary as the sight of Mr. Gebhard’s brown front door. My feet grind to a halt in the snow. Okay. Ithought I could do this, but clearly I can’t. I thought enough time had passed, but obviously it hasn’t.
I drop my arm from Ivy’s shoulders, shoving the basket at her while I stumble a step back from the pale glow of his porch light. “Uh, you—why don’t you—you-you-you go on and take the basket. I’ll wait in the truck.”
She doesn’t even spare me a glance as she continues tromping toward Mr. Gebhard’s porch. “No way. I’m not taking any more chances with wrong basket deliveries. We’re dropping this last one off together.”
“Ivy, wait.” My upper body leans toward her while my lower body tries escaping the opposite direction. “Ivy, come back. Don’t do it.” I sprint up the stairs and grab her hand before she can ring the doorbell. “Stop.”
My hand is shaking like I’ve just slammed ten cups of coffee. “I know the man who lives here.” I may also be panting. “Mr. Gebhard.” I’m definitely panting.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Not me. Him. He’s... he’s...”
“He’s what?”
“My former piano teacher.” Oh, man. Even just saying that word—piano—has me wanting to drop to my knees in trepidation the same way I did every week as a kid when I promised God I’d practice, I really would this time, if he’djust save me, save me, save me from having to go to Mr. Gebhard’s lesson that day.
Ivy holds my gaze a beat before her lips lift in a grin that would give the Grinch—and Mr. Gebhard—a run for his money. “Did somebody not practice like a good student should?”
“Not even once,” I mutter in desperation. “Can we just leave the basket and run?”
“Be a man.”
“I am a man. A man who’s completely terrified ofthatman.” I point a shaky finger at the door.
“Well, now I’ve definitely got to meet this Mr. Gebhard.”
“Go ahead, but I’m waiting in the truck.” I set down the basket.
“Stop being a baby,” Ivy says, latching on to my coat sleeve before I can dash off the porch. “I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek if you stay.”
“The cheek?” I sound as whiny as I did back when my mom dragged me to Mr. Gebhard’s house every week for my lessons.
Ivy shrugs. “Fine. Suit yourself. Go wait—”
I’m already reaching around her and ringing the doorbell. I may be a baby, but a cheek kiss is better than no kiss.
When Mr. Gebhard opens the door, every single one of my vital organs quivers. I should’ve waited in the truck, kissor no kiss. Because he looks exactly the same. Same brown cardigan. Same woolen trousers. Same dark liver spots scattered around his same bald head. Same look of disappointment in his pale-green eyes.
