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I shrug and tap my index finger to my temple. “My last name is Smart for a reason.”
Chad stands and spins around simultaneously, knocking into the board as he does. The tiles go flying, scattering across the table and onto the floor.
The Coffin Dodgers all jump to their feet, shouting over the disruption, and I hear phrases like “You klutz!” and “That’s a forfeit!” and “His score gets set back to zero!”
Chad pushes his glasses up onto his nose and gives them a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.” He looks at me. “Wow. You look really nice.”
The Coffin Dodgers stop talking and glare at him.
“Emaline,” Mr. Ridgemont says. “Is this boy here to. . .take you out?”
“On a date?” John frowns.
“Well, he’s better than the vandal,” Marco says.
“Even if he is a palooka,” Ernie says.
“Pssh. Another made-up word.” John plops back down.
“All words are made up.” Ernie also sits.
Mr. Ridgemont kneels to pick up the Scrabble tiles and Marco takes a step toward Chad.
“Emmy is special,” Marco says. “If your intentions aren’t honorable, speak now.”
Chad’s eyes go wide.
I grab onto his arm and tug him toward me. “Okay! Great! Thanks, guys! We’re fine, gotta go!”
“I’m serious, Emmy,” Marco says. “I want to hear him say it!” He points a finger in the air, and I shake my head at him.
They remind me of Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show, if they had two brothers.
I lead Chad to the door, and step outside. I realize I’m still holding onto his arm, so I drop it, a little more abruptly than I mean to. “Sorry about them. For some reason they’re all really protective of me.”
“Oh! Yeah, no problem. It’s nice,” he says.
And that’s all he says.
I follow him over to the white Ford Taurus parked in front of the shop, and he holds up a hand and runs in front of me. He opens the car door, and once I’m inside, he closes it, giving me a moment to take a few deep, calming breaths.
I do another gut check.
No sparks. No embers. No flickers.
I remind myself, that’s not what I’m after.
I’m after practical.
And judging by the car and the khakis and the loafers, that’s exactly what Chad Rober is. Practical.
Is it a little troubling that he’s not wearing socks with those loafers? Yes.
Is it a deal breaker? I’m going to say no for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind.
We’ll see how much it bothers me. All I can picture is sweaty feet.
He slips into the driver’s seat and pats the steering wheel. “This is Babs.”
