Lovestruck Summer by Melissa Walker (the best motivational books TXT) 📗

Help Falling in Love.”UB40 did a cover of it in the nineties, but I know it’s originally an Elvis song.

90 When Russ leans over to give me another history lesson, I turn to face him. “This one I know,”I say. “I’m glad to hear that,”he says. “And as a reward for having such in-depth musical knowl- edge of a song that everyone in the world should be familiar with . . . may I have this dance?”“Hmm, let me think. Insulting me and then asking me to dance . . .”I say, narrowing my eyes at his smug face. “No.”I turn my back to him. He taps my shoulder. “Pretty please, Priscilla?”he asks, holding out his arms. “No way,”I say. “Quinn?”he asks. Against my better judgment, I turn to him. The smugness is gone, and he has a look of sin- cere hope. I feel my heart melt a tiny bit. “Oh, fi ne,”I say. When I give in, Russ instantly envelops me with his arms, which feel even stronger than they look. He actually knows how to dance—it’s like we’re doing some ballroom steps or something, and the way he puts pressure on my back helps me know where to move and how to stay in step

91 with him. I feel like we’re gliding. “You’re good,”I say, looking up at him. “When I’m dancing with the right person,”he says, smiling back. I blush. I actually blush. What is up with me tonight? And how is it that Russ, who always makes me feel slightly off balance, is suddenly making me feel perfectly at ease?

92 Chapter 10 I wake up Wednesday morning determined to change my profile playlist and take down the snapshot of me and Sebastian. Until I check my phone. There’s a text from him that says, Mother’s tonight? I have to ask Penny to fi nd out that he doesn’t want me to meet his parents—Mother’s is this legendary vegetarian spot. It’s like guys have this sixth sense about when you’re about to erase them from your life, and they just keep you holding on. Pick me up at 7, I text back to him, along with Penny’s address. Then I lie down on my pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Last night when I got home, I down- loaded that song—“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”It’s an old song, but it sounds nice in a southern

93 twang like the band had last night. Cornfl ower Blue sang it a little more quickly than the Elvis version, and that made dancing to it kind of fun. I smile to myself and sigh as I put in my head- phones to listen to it—just once—before I start my day. After one—okay, two—listens, I get up to dress and take Miss Tiara for a quick walk around the condo complex. She doesn’t like going very far, which is convenient since being out in the fi ve-hundred-degree weather doesn’t agree with me either. It looks like it’s going to rain today, though, which might cool things off. Just as I get back to the door, the sky opens up and it starts to pour. I stumble inside quickly, holding Miss Tiara under my arm so a drop doesn’t touch her—she’s incredibly particular about getting wet. Penny says she insists on bubble baths, and somehow I believe that. I’ve come to accept the myths of Miss Tiara’s life without question. I look up and see that Chrissy is sitting in the living room holding the DVD of Made of Honor. “Patrick Dempsey in a wedding mooovie,”

94 she says in a singsong voice. “I doubt there could be anything better for a rainy summer day.”I’ve found lots of ways to occupy my Tuesday-through-Friday lulls—driving through town, meeting up with Jade for lunch from the taco truck, sitting on campus and dreaming about college, reading (four books so far, thank you very much!)—but watching romantic com- edies with Chrissy isn’t high on my list. She tends to do it at least three afternoons a week. I hesitate, but this Patrick Dempsey vehicle is a new one, at least. “I’ll pop some popcorn,”I say, heading into the kitchen to hunt for Orville Redenbacher. Chrissy fascinates me. She’s your typical sorority girl, but she really is that way. I guess I always thought the giddiness, the bubbly behavior, and the never-ending concern about boob saggage were fake, but Chrissy is as genu- ine as I am. She’s just a different person. I notice that her legs are all banged up under her skirt, and I almost ask her about the bruises, but I don’t want to seem nosy. Still, I get the feeling there’s a lot I don’t know about her. By the end of the movie she’s crying with happy tears and

95 I’m crying with tears of relief that it’s over. Okay, I’m not really crying. But she is. And I’m truly glad we’re done here. “That was sooo sweet,”she says, sniffl ing. “Yes, and totally unpredictable,”I say sar- castically. She nods earnestly and grabs a tissue from the coffee table to blow her nose. When she asks if I want to watch Bridget Jones’s Diary (again), I tell her I have some work to do and go upstairs to Miss Tiara’s room with my laptop. As I stalk people from my high school on Facebook, the sound of Chrissy’s laughter at Renee Zellweger’s über-hilarious antics echoes downstairs. By the time seven o’clock rolls around, I’m so ready for Sebastian’s double-honk, and I fi nally hear it outside. Not that I’m going to let him off the hook easily—he deserves some chastising. I swing a leg over the back of the Vespa, and feel a thrill rush through me. It’s a moment when I’m allowed to be close to him, to pull his lanky frame into me and lean my head on his shoulder. I intend to enjoy it. As we park at Mother’s, I force myself back

96 into slightly mad mode. I get