Page 43 of Most Likely to Score
I swallow, and a spray of nerves hits me in the face. Or maybe it’s the water from a water gun. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yellow Swim Trunks Dude is now spraying his buddy with an orange Nerf gun, and I’m collateraldamage in the battle. I wipe the drops from my cheek as Swim Trunks mouthsso sorry, but he’s smiling as he says it.
“I love you, Dad, and your wild imagination,” I say, and I put the conversation inside a box then stuff it in a far corner of my brain.
But after I hang up, some hopeful part of me wonders if there’s a chance my father is correct. Does Jones have a thing for me? That doesn’t compute. But as I search for the holes in my dad’s logic, my mind flashes to all the times Jones has touched me—from his arm around me as we walked along the craggy shores of Stinson Beach, to his fingers laced through mine in the elevator, to his body curled around me in bed.
Do those moments mean Jones is keen on me?
I flip through them once more, hunting for clues, like the feel of his hand on my hair in the car while I slept in his lap. He stroked my hair. Was that romantic?
I plop down on the beach, reflecting on what I’d do if he made his intentions clear. I’d say no. Of course I’d say no. Wouldn’t I?
I nod to myself, answering my own question.
I’d say, “Thank you very much, but it’s a bad idea to go on a date with you, no matter how sweet and kind and good with animals and thoughtful you are, and no matter how helpful you are with my dad, or how much I love all our conversations.”
Groaning in frustration, I run my hands through my hair, my head falling against my knees. I wish I didn’t like him so damn much.
There is only one person to turn to. I fire off a text to Katie.
Jillian: Be brutally honest. No smoke up my skirt, hear me?
Katie: Yes, you can buy me tickets to the new Outrageous Record show, and it will, in fact, make me love you more.
Jillian: Oh good, I was worried you’d be annoyed if I snagged first-row seats. Same apply to Jane Black, too?
Katie: Do not ever joke about Jane Black tickets. But what do you really want me to be brutally honest about?
Jillian: Did you mean it when you said you thought there was something up with Jones?
Katie: How can I make this clear??? YES! YES! YES! Also, does that mean something is happening? I NEED DETAILS NOW!
Jillian: No. Nothing at all. Just thinking . . .
Katie: You’re thinking about it? About him? About taking him for a ride around the block? For the record, I’m at my desk, officially squealing as I stop my review of IMPORTANT THINGS like the length of skirts for the spring. Because this is FAR MORE INTERESTING.
Jillian: Nothing will happen. There are all sorts of HUGE obstacles. Also, care to spill on the upcoming length of hemlines?
Katie: There is always a way around obstacles. Also . . . short. Very, very short.
Jillian: Good to know regarding skirts. I’ll stick to pants, then.
Katie: Pants, skirts—whatever you wear, Jones will check you out. I told you he was looking at you!
Jillian: But isn’t that just what he does? Watch people? He’s like a hawk. That’s his job.
Katie: He looks at you because he likes looking at you. Same reason you look at him.
My chest swoops like a pirate boat ride at an amusement park. Up, down, around.
I stand, brushing sand off my tank dress as I fire off a goodbye text. I turn to head to the poolside entrance to the hotel, when the guy in the yellow trunks jogs over to me, flashes a gleaming white set of teeth, and says, “Hi, I’m Marcus. Want to have a drink with me?”
Boldness and confidence are quite appealing. So is his toned, trim body and his fantastic grin. He’s probably twenty-two, and even though it’s nice to be hit on by someone six years younger than me, I say, “Thank you so much, but I’m here for work.”
“Can’t fault a guy for trying,” he says with a huge smile as he jogs backward, his arms out wide.
No, I can’t fault him at all.
I float a little bit to my room, buoyed by the date request, as well as by Katie’s insistent proclamation.
