Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

get to work and it’s a relief that Wesley’s away doing a job. Why did I think friendship with Wesley would be a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. I’m going to catch a crush on him. He’s dreamy, but until now his grumpiness has saved me from making an idiot of myself. If he shows me the barest hint of warmth, my weak knees will buckle like clockwork. It’s my worst habit.

Right now, a crush swelling with the most dangerous undertow I’ve ever laid eyes on flits at the horizon, tearing it up at warp speed, but I’ve still got time. I’ve got willpower. I am resolving myself here and now to keep my distance, which should be easy enough. Wesley loves distance! We’ll ignore each other. Wesley loves ignoring each other! I’ve picked so many insensitive, cold hearts to give mine to, but his is a new record. I’d be the least safe in his hands: What if we dated and it went south, as most relationships do? We share a house! Neither of us wants to give it up. I’d be living directly under my ex, unable to escape him. If he cheated on me like most of the others did, that would ruin Falling Stars for me forever. It’d be too painful to stay—I’d have to give up the hotel of my dreams. Unacceptable.

I can’t decide if that scenario is better or worse than another contender: that I’ll develop feelings, and those feelings will be unrequited.

I’ve got to stamp out those feeble quiverings now, before they become a problem. He’s gone and dug a tent out of storage—one tent, singular—to use on Saturday, as he casually mentioned the trip will take us all day and most of the terrain we have to explore will have to be trod on foot. If it gets late, we’ll camp out. In the same tent. Together. Maybe he’s able to be blasé about it because he finds me so unattractive that I’m not even a shadow on his radar; I’m like a shovel, just part of the expedition gear. Or maybe he plans to seduce me. I envision us lying next to a roaring fire as he feeds me s’mores . . .

“You don’t like him,” I tell myself sternly. “He’s a grouch.”

I walk into the ballroom, determined to lose myself in cleaning. The first thing I see is the handmade tinfoil star that’s appeared at the top of my Christmas tree, which I’m not able to reach. Someone has indulged my untimely holiday spirit.

I groan louder, spin on my heel, and walk right back out.

“He doesn’t like me,” I growl at myself. “I’m just the pesky equal inheritor. The necessary evil he can’t get rid of, so he’s sucking it up and making the best of a bad situation.” I smack my face lightly. “Even if he does like me, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that muddying those waters is a bad, bad, bad idea.”

Think long-term, Maybell. Priorities. Eyes on the prize.

I open the dumbwaiter longingly and despair that it’s empty. He made me a tree-topper. It’s even better than a store-bought one, with its cute little irregular edges . . . I have no willpower at all.

I smack myself again.

There’s only one tried-and-true method to escape dwelling on this. I pace back and forth, giving myself a workout, mentally reaching for the door of my café. It won’t open.

A sign on the door reads out for lunch.

“Can’t stop me,” I grumble, probably losing it, as I pick the lock and the door in the clouds shoves open with a tinkling chime.

I definitely didn’t put all these ferns here. Moss creeps up tables, swarming napkin dispensers and condiment bottles. I hack vines out of my way, sidestepping hazard signs, breaking a sweat to get behind the counter. A gurgling sound of rushing water is coming from the jukebox. My doting parents pop their heads in, concerned. “Are you open?”

“Yes! Just give me a minute. It’s . . . ah . . .”

“You’ve got a forest,” Mom notes, eyes large as she stares around.

I scratch my head, three small birds circling. I’m going to get cited by the health inspector. “It would appear so.”

A familiar figure nods politely to my mother as he saunters over, making himself at home on a stool. “What are you doing here?” I exclaim, dropping a pot of coffee. Glass shatters everywhere. “Oh, goodness. So sorry, that’s never happened before.”

“Hi, Maybell.”

“Hi . . . you.”

He grins wider, propping his chin in his hand. “Not gonna say my name?”

“Don’tseetheneedto,” I mumble under my breath. “You really shouldn’t be here right now.”

“Why’s that?” He flicks open a menu. “I’ll have one of these.” Taps the Grumpy/Sunshine Platter: a frowny face of blueberries and banana slices on French toast with a sunny-side-up egg.

“I don’t serve French toast and eggs!” I grab the menu from him, panicking. “Where’d that come from?” Other options I never approved write themselves into existence. Forced Proximity Pancakes. World’s Biggest Cinnamon Roll: Recommended by the chef! Crispy outer layer conceals a soft, delicious center.

“Slow-burned toast,” he begins to read over my shoulder. I snap the menu closed, my cheeks hotter than a stove. “Did I just read something about a secret baby?”

“We’re all out of toast. And secret babies. You can have a donut. We serve donuts.”

“I’ll take your special of the day.” He points at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “Opposites Attract: coffee cake and sweetheart tea. Aw, isn’t that cute.” A dimple pops in his cheek. I die.

Fireworks begin flaming up behind him, huge heart-shaped bursts that transform into confetti. He turns. “What was that?”

“Oh no.” My heart sinks. Flutters. I wring my hands. “It’s happening.”

A skywriter zigzags through the clouds outside the window, barely visible between dense branches. I leap in front of it to block the view, shielding the banner proclaiming MAYBELL LIKES—

He spins back toward me and tosses his head, giving me a knowing look. He has no idea how sensual it is. The tingles that course through me