Page 3 of Fall Fake-Out

That’s when his smile stretches into something dripping with charm. “Fifteen, but who’s counting?” He grabs my hand and begins wiping the blood off my fingers. “When I’m done here, you can bend over, and I’ll sew up the back of your skirt.” Playful eyes shoot to me, but it’s his mischievous smile that makes me laugh.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but”—innocence morphs over his face—“my mom’s a seamstress, remember? I know a thing or two about sewing things up.”

“Why are you really here?” I tilt my head so I can meet his gaze.

“I live here. Why are you here?”

“No, I meant at the school, and I’m here because I’m waiting for your dad.”

“My dad?” His brows lift at that, but he keeps his focus on treating my wound.

“Yeah, I’m here for an interview. There’s an opening for an English teacher. I guess Mr. Jeppson fell and needs hip surgery. Early retirement.”

“I think he’s, like, eighty, so I wouldn’t call it an early retirement.”

“True.” I watch as he holds a small piece of gauze to my finger while his free hand sifts through the first-aid kit. “Are you waiting for your dad too?”

“I work here.”

“You work here? At the high school?”

“Why is that so shocking? We’ve already established that my maturity level is at fourteen.”

“Fifteen.” I smile, liking the way he meets my gaze for one second before going back to medic. My eyes drop to his casual apparel. “What are you, like, the P.E. teacher?”

The corner of his mouth curls as his eyes lift to mine again. Instead of answering my question, he leans forward and slowly blows on my finger where he just applied rubbing alcohol. And I thought the boy I grew up with was charming. This man-version of him could run circles around teenage Wade.

His charms worked on every girl, including me. But that was just childhood stuff. Immature crushes. Flirtatious games. Meaningless banter. Nothing real. Nothing that amounted to anything. We were friends who flirted, and that was it. Though, back then, if Wade had wanted to be more, I would’ve been game.

But he never did want to be more, and I don’t know why.

I guess I should be counting my blessings that I never had my heart broken by him.

“A P.E. teacher seems like a very Wade kind of job,” I muse out loud.

This evokes a soft laugh from him as he wraps a Band-Aid around my finger. “A very Wade kind of job?”

“Yeah, perfect for the high school player who got by on his good looks and football skills.”

His smile grows bigger, loaded with provocative undertones. “So you admit I’m good-looking?”

“Were.” I flick my eyes up and down his body, feigning indifference. “But that was a long time ago. Time hasn’t been kind to you.”

How easy it is to lie.

“What? You don’t like this?” His thumb and his index finger smooth out his mustache.

“Do you have a white, windowless kidnapper van to go with it?”

“Kidnapper van?” His head kicks back in offense. “No, I look like Benson Boone.”

“You look like something,” I say sarcastically.

“Well, you look just the same.” Now he’s the one appraising me with his stare, and I’m not sure I like the expression on his face. “Maybe even better.”

The way my heart immediately reacts to his compliment is troubling. But I regroup.