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Cim elbows me in the ribs. Hard. “You can’t go alone. Find someone, anyone to go with you.”
I note a pair of long legs in my periphery and turn my head to see who it is. My jaw nearly drops to the ground when I see Babs. She’s in a silky sleeveless button-down shirt that shows the definition in her muscular arms, a leather skirt that hugs her hips and stops just above her knees with a slit up the front that flashes thigh with every step, and these thin, strappy heels that make her calves look amazing. I drag my eyes from her body to her face, and I stop in my tracks.
I’ve never seen her in make-up. At the boating party, and every day at school, she always wore sweats, a T-shirt, no make-up, and her hair pulled back into a French braid. The outfit was the same day after day, only the colors changed.
Now, her brown hair reaches down her back in soft curls, with long eyelashes, rosy eyeshadow, and lips possessing just enough lipstick to make me want to reach out and kiss her till every speck of that lipstick is gone.
Cimmeron elbows me in the ribs again. “Wow. Who kidnapped her and played dress-up?”
“I dunno, but I want to thank them,” I say, watching Babs walk past us.
Cim chuckles. “Then thank the volleyball coach. The girls have to dress up for away games.”
She doesn’t even notice me. She’s talking animatedly to another girl, completely lost in conversation.
“Wait.” I jerk my head to look at him when she’s out of sight, but not a second before. “The volleyball team dresses up with every away game? How did I not notice this?”
“Because you’re an idiot. They’ve dressed up like four times now.”
My eyes widen. “She’s been like this three other times?!”
He shrugs. “Yes. No? Probably? I dunno. This is the first time I’ve seen Carrie. I’ve seen other girls from the team dressed up though.”
I straighten and shove my helmet into Cim’s gut.
“Oof!” he says, wheezing out the word.
“I’m gonna ask Babs out,” I say, turning and striding after Carrie and her friend.
Cim grabs me by the scruff of my T-shirt. “Dude! You can’t.”
“Why not?” I ask, wriggling out of my grasp and smoothing down my T-shirt.
“Because she was asked by Chase Whittaker last week.”
“What–who?”
“Didn’t you hear about it? It was some huge thing. He’s a rich California kid whose parents bought a vineyard and are trying to elbow in on the local growers.” Cim’s lips thin. “He’s been after Carried hard. Rented a hot air balloon, took her on a ride, and took her to a field where he’d spelled out ‘will you go to homecoming with me’ in some guy’s field.” Cim shakes his head and starts to snicker. “She said no. So he sent her like a dozen roses every day for a week, each day a different color, until she finally said ‘yes’.”
I press my eyes closed. My stomach churns and gurgles. Crap. I’ve missed my chance.
Chapter 19
A Camping We Will Go
Carrie
It’searlywhenRyanknocks on my hotel door. I grab the duffel bag I purchased last night and do one more quick glance at my hotel room to make sure I got everything before opening the door and plastering a smile on my face.
After the barbeque last night, I hired an Uber and purchased anything I thought I might need for an overnight camping trip. It’s been so long since I’ve been camping. Probably not since college. Earlier maybe?
Hilloria was never much for camping. But it was something our family liked to do before Dad married her. When I overheard Ryan and Livvie talking about camping, I couldn’t help myself. When would I have another chance to go camping? Never, probably.
I spent the rest of the evening and well into the night pulling off price tags and packing everything. I hope we don’t go hiking. I won’t get far in these new boots before I end up with blisters the size of Manhattan.
Ryan’s eyes travel from my head to toes, seeming to catalogue everything from my flannel shirt to, new khaki shorts (lingering on my legs), to the new hiking books. When his eyes finally return to mine, he holds out his hand. “I’ll take your bag.”
“You sure?” I say, slowly handing it over with a grunt. It’s heavy, and I’m not used to having someone carry my stuff.
