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

in a room full of imitations. I’d know a Wesley anywhere. Go out into the woods right now and I’ll find you in thirty seconds flat.”

“I don’t mind you noticing me,” he admits, door creaking as he begins to close it behind him. “At least, not anymore. But you’re the only one allowed to, okay?”

“I’ll add it as a clause to our pact.” I shake hands with the air.

I am going to get out of bed. No one can stop me. My last intelligible words that I announce to the empty room are: “I’m allergic to cayenne pepper. Don’t tell anybody.”

Next thing I know, it’s one in the afternoon the following day.

Chapter 19

I AM FACING MY CLOSED bedroom door at 7:59 p.m. on Friday, already sweating through my dress, waiting for that knock that just might mark the beginning of everything.

This is the sixth outfit I’ve tried on—if I had the time, I’d probably change again—light pink with cherries all over. It’s supposed to be a knockoff of a strawberry-print dress I love that’s way out of my budget, and although it doesn’t look anything like the Amazon picture, it fits nicely and twirls whenever I turn. I stressed myself out trying to land on a decent hairstyle, unable to commit to a high pony when I know I’ll end up with a headache, unable to do a fishtail braid like the one in the tutorial. I messed with it until my previously gleaming locks got frizzy, ended up having to wash and style it again, and now it’s damp, hanging loose, because I don’t trust myself to experiment with it anymore.

I have never been this nervous.

There’s no reason to be nervous. This is Wesley. Gawky, shy, uncomfortable, unintentionally charming Wesley.

Knock, knock, knock.

My heart springs into overdrive. This is it. I haven’t been on a first date in . . . it’s best not to count. A long time. What will we be doing? Where are we going? Will he kiss me again? I clutch my purse like it’s a life preserver and rethink my choice of shoes. If we’re doing anything outdoorsy I’m going to regret these heels.

I open the door and all of my intelligent thoughts fall right off the shelf.

The man on the other side is tall, broad shouldered, strong jawed, in a suit of blackest black. Dark blond hair falls in waves that make me think of ivy tendrils. He’s the god of spring, powerful but sweet, burying things to make them come alive. The god of spring carries earth and rain on his skin wherever he goes. His brown eyes are topaz—a glass of root beer held up to the light, widening as he slackens against the door frame like he’s just been wounded.

“Oh . . .” His gaze rakes me. His eyes go wider still, and he rubs his chin. “Wow.”

I resist a million electrical impulses: to look away, bite my lip, cross my ankles, fiddle with my purse, fidget with my hair. To say apologetically, The dress doesn’t look like the one I ordered, or minimize myself with a grimace and a My hair’s misbehaving. When he looks at me that way, I feel like a goddess.

I feel . . .

“Yes,” I agree, drawing myself up strong and tall. “You are a lucky boy tonight, Mr. Koehler.”

He nods, not a whisper of humor in it. “I am.”

In heels, I don’t have to jump to kiss him, but I do have to yank his lapel to get him to dip his head. One hand slides up his smooth cheek, and I leave a kiss on the other. When I pull away, his eyes follow me in such an intimate way that I get tingles all down my spine. “You look incredible, as always. Where are we going?”

Wesley inhales a bracing breath. Puts on a practiced smile that quivers just the slightest bit, trying very hard to cover up his nerves. His hands are clenched at his sides. “I’m taking you to heaven.”

I must be hearing things. “Wesley Koehler. Is that a pickup line?”

He holds out a stick of chewing gum. “You might need this.”

I frown, but he doesn’t move until I accept it. “Is this a commentary on my breath?” I brushed my teeth twice before this. And flossed. And swished mouthwash until my eyes watered.

“You’ll see.” He swallows, smile widening as I side-eye him irritably, popping the gum in my mouth. Then he takes my hand and leads me toward the front door. Just as I reach for the knob, however, he loops an arm around my waist to haul me close to him and turns in a different direction.

“What are you—”

He shakes his head, striding down the hall with me in bewildered tow.

This half of the house is dark. I try again: “What are we—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he admonishes me, clucking his tongue. Then he abruptly spins so that he’s walking backward in front of me, face-to-face. He takes my hands in his, turning again down a different corridor. In my peripheral vision, I see his brilliant smile transform his whole body, but I can’t look directly at him because I’ve been swept away into another world.

There are clouds in the corridor.

A whole night sky: great big puffs of cotton threaded with twinkly lights hanging down like raindrops. I think he made them himself, affixing the cotton to paper lanterns and suspending them from the ceiling. We walk under and around cloud after cloud, the only illumination in this long, dark hallway.

“You’re probably experiencing a change in atmospheric pressure,” he tells me, raising our hands together and flattening our palms before his left laces tightly with my right and his other hand finds the small of my back. He brings me close to him, then reverses our positions in one fluid motion. Then again.

I realize we’re dancing.

He waltzes me down the hallway, eyes sparkling, wholly riveted on my face. Neither of us is getting the steps right, but I’m not even the