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Her cheeks grew hot. “Yes. It’s all very stupid. I’ve ruined my life. What are you afraid of?” Her glare, warding off further questioning, must have worked.
Josh grimaced. “Ketchup.”
“You don’t like ketchup?”
“No,” he extended the vowel in emphasis. “I don’t like radishes. I’m afraid of ketchup.”
“That’s not funny. I told you a real thing.”
“I’m not joking! The sight of ketchup skeeves me out the way other people can’t look at bugs. It’s the viscosity or something.” He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh, seriously I can’t even talk about it. It’s making my blood run cold.” He held out his forearm, where the hairs stood on end, as evidence.
“All right, but if someone dared you to eat ketchup, you could do it?”
“Why would someone dare me to eat ketchup?” He balked.
Clara shrugged. “You’re playing one of those games. Truth or dare.”
“Have you ever played truth or dare?”
“Of course I have.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“Yeah . . . but I bet you only ever picked truth.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve completed many dares.”
Josh’s mouth pulled to one side. “Oh yeah? Name one.”
Despite a prolonged sip of coffee that she used to barter for time, nothing came to mind. “Well, I can’t think of any off the top of my head. It’s been a while.”
“That’s a shame.” Something bright sparked behind his eyes. “Dares are fun.”
“Fun for whom, exactly?” Why did her voice sound so breathy?
“Everyone?” A blast of charm accompanied his words.
Spoken like someone who’s never been mocked. “No, they’re fun for the person issuing the dare and various spectators. The person performing the dare feels mortified at worse and inconvenienced at best.”
“So dares are against the rules, huh?”
“Guidelines,” she said automatically before clearing her throat. “I think it’s safe to say they are now.”
A high-pitched jingle sounded from her nightstand.
Clara grabbed her cell. Crap. She forced false cheerfulness into her tone. “Hi, Mom. . . .”
Yes, everything’s fine. . . .”
Mm-hm. Just unpacking.” She glanced over her shoulder to find Josh watching her with obvious interest.
“Everett?” Clara shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Um, no. He’s not here right now. He ran to get coffee.”
She lowered her voice. “Sure, I’ll tell him you said hello.” Clara was so not ready to confess her humiliation to her perfect mother.
“Listen, Mom, I have to go. I’ve got a pot on the stove. . . .”
Yes, I’m cooking. . . .”
Uh . . . soup. And it’s burning. . . .”
