Page 27 of Maid of Dishonor

“Right,” I say slowly, my heart starting to work a little harder. Was she…? No. No way.

Was she just checking me out? Is that what just happened?

Before I can say anything else—and really, what would I say?—she turns on her foot and walks away, and I’m left staring after her.

But something inside me is starting to hum nervously as I watch her go. That little part of me is screaming to run far, far away from this situation, from the potential heartbreak it could someday offer. And normally I have no problem heeding that voice. It keeps me from turning out like my father, mourning his lost love as only a shell of his former self.

But this is Sam we’re talking about; I’m not going to run from her. Ican’t. Not even though there’s a sort of panic rolling around inside that can tell exactly how many feelings are starting to creep out of the woodwork.

These feelings aren’t new, exactly. They’re just newlyunlocked.I have years’ worth of practice taking every non-platonic emotion for her and sealing it away in my mind until it’s virtually gone. On most days I’m able to forget those feelings exist at all.

And things can stay that way. I’ve never run from Sam before, and I’m not going to start now. My feelings for her aren’t so strong that they’re problematic.

And I won’t let them get that way.

Seven

Sam

I have seenthe Promised Land, and it lives beneath Carter Ellis’s t-shirt. It is chiseled, it is golden, and it is begging to be touched.Begging.

And look, he and I have been best friends for many, many moons. I have seen him without a shirt before. But today…well, something about today was different.

Also worthy of note?

I. Flirted. With. Him.

And I feel like it’s worth mentioning that I did iton purpose. It should also be noted thathe flirted back.

I mean, he did, right? Didn’t he? There wastouchinggoing on. And also that sexy little smirk with the sexy little dimple and that smooth, low voice he normally never uses on me. The one that says “I could read you the phone book in this voice and you’d beg me to keep talking.”

This is correct, by the way; he could read me the phone book in that voice, and I would, indeed, beg him to keep going.

What can I say? The man was blessed abundantly by the Good Lord.

And one of those blessings happens to include masterful flirting abilities. Because yes—that was flirting. Or it was definitely of the flirtatious variety, anyway. And if I hadn’t started it, it wouldn’t have happened. But…Ididstart it, and he did respond. For like two minutes, I flirted with Carter Ellis, and Carter Ellis flirted back.

It was an amazing feeling, and at first sort of scary, because for a minute there I felt like it wasn’t even me doing the flirting. It felt like my brain had been taken over by some insanely confident woman—the kind of woman who probably knows how to run a full marathon in high heels. The kind of woman who never misses patches of hair when she shaves her legs, who never realizes later, while she’s already wearing shorts in public, that there’s still a full strip of jungle-woman leg hair just blowing in the breeze.

That kind of woman. That’s who I felt like. I’m going to call her Smooth Samantha.

But then Carter touched my leg, and I was back to the more realistic version of Sam—the one who was hoping fervently that she had not, in fact, missed anything when shaving her legs. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum—the one who hoped she hadn’t cut herself shaving, because those cuts never stop bleeding. Ever. At the end of the world it will be dust, cockroaches, and the blood of shaving cuts.

When I get back home and Carter leaves, I rush into the bathroom and prop my foot up onto the sink. I’m relieved to find my legs free of stubble, free of rivulets of blood, and actually feeling pretty soft, due to the peach lotion I use. Just to be safe, my fingers trail the same path Carter’s did—I know this because the places he touched are still on fire—and I relax when I come in contact with nothing but smooth skin.

Phew. Okay.

Before I go to bed that night, I whip up some oatmeal raisin cookies for Carter. I only burn the first batch. I am a regular domestic goddess. Once those are done, I look up the locations of the two wedding venues we’re visiting tomorrow and decide that we’ll do the fun one first and the actually romantic one second. Then I tuck myself into bed, and I fall asleep trying to figure out how to channel Smooth Samantha at will.

* * *

Smooth Samantha has not revealedher secrets by the time I drop by to pick Carter up the next day. I have no idea how to draw her out again, which means I’m back to my usual plan: winging it.

In the spirit of winging it, I’ve got on a pair of jean cutoffs again, as well as a fitted t-shirt and a pair of sandals. I was tempted to go with a regular t-shirt, but then I thought I should probably try a little harder since we’re going to look at wedding venues. My sandals pinch, but they match the rest of my outfit.

I still sort of miss my tennis shoes.

Even though I could just call Carter to tell him I’m here, I walk up the two flights of stairs and knock on his apartment door instead. I wish I could say it’s for a noble reason, like that he deserves to be escorted down to his ride, or maybe even that I want to get in the exercise, but really I just like the way his place smells. The faint scent of his cologne lingers everywhere in his small two-bedroom, which is always tidier than I expect it to be.

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