Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

Wesley does not need or care to be liked at all; I doubt my opinion could touch him. Those who care less always have the upper hand.

I’ve only ever wanted to be liked, and I’ve only ever wanted to be liked by absolutely everybody I come in contact with, however temporarily and inconsequentially. It’s my most dominant and simultaneously weakening driving force, which leads to my toning down various wants and needs in order to make myself digestible, easy to get along with. The essence of Maybell Parrish is painfully sensitive, and if you touched it, it would retract and try to surrender. For better or worse (and I’ve certainly tried to be anyone but myself), I am a wobbly white flag.

No. Just like that.

My natural reaction is to say okay and pack myself up nice and small and out of the way, too unobtrusive to be a bother ever again. But even though my idea is only a few hours old, it is burning up in me like a fire demon. I want it. Nobody can make it happen for me but myself.

I lean forward, matching his determination. It surprises us both. “Yes.”

“You’re suggesting that instead of living in the house myself, I let a bunch of strangers sleep in it. There is no possible way you can convince me to agree to that.”

“Let me try.”

He welcomes the dare, gesturing for me to go right ahead. I’m abruptly jittery—he doesn’t realize how much voltage it took for me to push back and I’m crackling now with an excess of electrical energy my body isn’t used to supplying; I have to grip the seat of my chair to keep from jumping out if it. I can play it cool.

The sales pitch I’ve spent the morning rehearsing is dust in the wind. My mind is a wide white void.

“I really, really, really want it,” I plead, throat scratchy.

I watch my flow of power redirect in midair. Wesley leans back in his chair, crossing his impressive, tanned arms, siphoning it off. My brain blinks. Forearms.

Shh, I scold myself. Not now.

“Do you know what kind of an undertaking this would be?” he inquires placidly.

I have found myself in a job interview without warning. The most important interview of my life. I am wearing a Sonny & Cher shirt with a broken zipper and there’s a streak of flour in my hair. I should have an overhead projector beaming pie charts onto the wall and more than five hours of sleep on deck.

“Actually, yes. I have experience in the hospitality industry.”

A modicum of my power changes hands, passing back to me. “I was an event coordinator at a hotel. One of the biggest hotels in Pigeon Forge, Around the Mountain Resort and Spa.” He can’t deny that I definitely worked there. No one alive has more Around the Mountain Resort & Spa merchandise than I do. It’s all I have to show for a decade of hard work, along with a text message from Paul that landed half an hour ago: You’re fired. I’ve been expecting it. I’m surprised it took him this long to swing the axe, actually. But I’m a Goody Two-shoes to the core, priding myself on my strong work ethic, and reading that message threw me into a cold sweat. I’m still keyed up over it, stomach playing badminton with my breakfast.

Wesley acquires a calculating look, rubbing his chin. “What kind of events did you coordinate?”

Ahhhhhhhh. A fine question. I am fine with this fine question.

I flash a winsome grin to conceal how badly I need him to say yes. “All sorts. I planned an indoor fall festival in September. Very large-scale.” It’s technically true. I did plan a fall festival, with the works: Scarecrows, fog machines, hot chocolate and cider. A booth where you can bob for apples and then decorate them with chocolate, caramel, and candy. Hayrides. Halloween-costume and pumpkin-carving contests. Cozy, family-oriented activities appealing to all age demographics. It took me two sleepless weeks to crunch budget numbers, reach out to local vendors who might contribute supplies, and put together a seamless proposal. Haggling for discounts, bargaining, exhaustion slumping me over the keyboard, discovering I was more likely to persuade contacts over email than by phone, especially if I changed my signature to the gender-ambiguous M. Parrish.

The project didn’t clear the first hurdle, which was getting a sign-off from Christine, my co-coordinator. I cried in my car during lunch break and loathed myself for it. Mean Christine has probably never cried when somebody told her no. She probably just jammed a nail in their tire and then felt better.

With my own hotel, I can green-light any project I want. No overhead management to tell me my ideas are too big or impractical, that I’m being idealistic or missing the forest for the trees . . . I snap off that dark trail of thought, the condescending internal voices that bubble up.

“Okay, so you do have some experience, then,” Wesley concedes grudgingly.

“Mm-hmm!” Lying doesn’t come easily to me or sit well with my conscience, so I hope I sound suitably innocent.

I prod the plate of donuts closer to Wesley, my resolve ironclad. He’ll be more congenial on a full stomach, and no one can be grumpy when they’re eating jelly-filled donuts. It’s biology.

He takes one. Polishes it off in three swallows. “That’s good.”

It ought to be, with all the blood, sweat, and tears I’ve put into mastering the recipe. “Baking donuts is a hobby of mine. They’re almost as delicious as Violet’s, I think.” I feel myself starting to glow with pride and take it down a notch. People call women who brag about their accomplishments unlikable. “Hers were legendary.”

“Violet used to bake?”

His gaze slides to the purple sheet of paper taped to the living room wall, then back to me. There’s a strange glint in his eye.

“She loved to bake.” I can’t believe he doesn’t know. “She never made donuts when you lived with her?”

He shakes his head. Taps the