“Don’t,” he whispers almost silently against my ear. “She’s not worth it.”
I consider this for a second, deciding that he’s probably right—no matter how badly I hate admitting that. Courtney’s probably still mad that Brody dumped her right before the dance. I can let her horrid comments slide. Then, as I relax a little and absorb the sudden silence, something disturbing happens. I start to notice things. Weird, unsettling things.
Like how warm Quince’s chest feels against my back.
And how his breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
And how his arm is resting just below my chest.
The total silence must be playing tricks on my mind, because for a second—half a second, really—I almost think his touch feels goo—
His arm tightens, quick and sharp, around my belly.
“Uungh,” I grunt.
Why on earth did he—
“Ew,” Courtney whines.
Oh, great. Now I’m more than humiliated…. I’m constipated.
Thankfully, before things can get worse—I can’t imagine how, but I’m sure they could—the tardy bell rings and they finally make their way, heels clacking across the floor, to the door.
As they leave, I hear Tiffany say, “Did you see the boots in that stall?”
“Yes,” Courtney scoffs, and raises her voice. “Must be that butch girl from the football team. Doesn’t she have a mother?”
God, Courtney is such a sea witch.
Their voices trail off, and Quince and I are left in the quiet of an empty bathroom. Still, he doesn’t release me.
Maybe he’s mad at what she said about his boots.
Though for the life of me I can’t figure out why, I feel compelled to make him feel better. “Your boots aren’t that bad. You know she thought you were Em—”
Before I can finish, he bursts out laughing, nearly shaking me off his lap and onto the disgusting bathroom floor.
“Wha—” I squeal as I slide off to the left.
His arms tighten around me, securing me in place. After a few more seconds of holding on for dear life while Quince indulges in some seriously rumbling laughter against my back, he finally releases me and helps me stand.
“Sorry, princess,” he says, still sitting on the toilet. “That was just too damn funny.”
Twisting around in the tight space, I glare at him. “Well, I’m glad you found humor in your humiliation. I don’t happen to enjoy being ridiculed and—”
“Aw, come on,” he teases, an annoyingly bright grin shining on his tan face. He’s got one of those strong faces that completely transform with a smile. Dark and foreboding one second, fun and playful the next. “Couldn’t you see through her?”
I must look confused, which I am, because he explains, “She’s jealous.”
“Right,” I say, thinking back to the cafeteria. “I’m plucking Brody right out from under her perfectly sculpted nose.”
Squeezing up against one wall, I try to open the stall door. I need to escape, to get out into the open, away from him. Only the stall is so small and Quince takes up so much space that I can’t open it while he’s sitting on the toilet.
“Stand up.”
He complies but stays in front of the door. Hovering over me, he says, “Hard as it is to believe, I won’t say ‘I told you so’ about the dance.”
As if.
“In fact,” he says, leaning over me to brace his forearm on the wall above my head, “I’m going to help you out.”
At the moment, helping me out would have to include getting out of this bathroom stall. Quince is more than filling my personal space and I’m feeling uncharacteristically claustrophobic. The graffiti-covered walls are closing in. Sweat droplets form on my forehead.
“Let me out,” I demand, ignoring his offer of help. “It stinks in here.”
I give him a look that implies he is the source of the odor, even though he smells like leather and mint toothpaste. He doesn’t get offended like a normal guy would. No, he flashes me that arrogant smile and leans closer. Just when I think he’s going to press his entire body into mine, he scoots sideways, next to the toilet, and out of the way of the door.
Yanking the door open, I burst into the bathroom and take a deep breath of non-Quinced air.
“As I was saying,” he continues when he follows me out of the stall, “I’m going to help you catch your big fish at the dance.”
“But,” I argue as the oxygen returns to my brain, “he doesn’t want—”
“He doesn’t know what he doesn’t want.”
Leaning back against the edge of the sink, I cross my arms over my chest and nod to show I’m listening. Though mostly I’m thinking about how relieved I am to be out of that stall and several feet away from Quince.
“To get Ben”—he clears his throat—“nett’s attention, you need to do something special. Surprising.” He smiles. “Shocking.”
“And what,” I ask, skeptical, “do you suggest?”
He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, stretching his T-shirt tight across his chest. From a purely objective standpoint, I admit it’s a nicely formed chest. Probably sculpted from all those hours trying to keep his motorcycle running and his part-time job at the lumberyard. And he does have yummy dark blond hair and those great blue eyes that remind me of home. If he weren’t such an obnoxious jerk, Quince might actually be an attractive guy.