Page 60 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
“Thank you, Mrs. Broussard,” I said. “I can’t even tell you how amazing this is.”
“You don’t need to,” she said. “Use it well. And let me know if it’s a smart purchase for the design program.” She winked.
Rhett and I headed toward the parking lot in companionable silence. We had a lot of those moments when we ate lunch together or hung out post-seminar while I waited for Livvie to finish up at track. He was easy to be with. And kiss. A lot.
After a minute, he shifted his hold on the machine. “I can take you home and haul this in for you, so you don’t have to mess with it,” he said.
I tensed. We’d spent hours texting during our homework, and two Saturday afternoons in a row hanging out down in the French Quarter, but we’d still never discussed my complicated home life. I wasn’t sure how to broach it, but I knew he wondered why I never invited him over. He’d invited me to his place twice when he knew Angelique would be gone, but both times it had conflicted with my work schedule. He hadn’t pushed it. Until now.
“I can handle it,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
He frowned. “Are you going to get Bran to help you? Does he get to see your house?”
“Whoa.” I stopped and looked at him. “Are you jealous of Bran?”
He rested the sewing machine on the top rail of a low wooden fence next to a rose bed. “A little. I get to make out with you, which is pretty awesome. But he and Livvie get way more access to you than I do. You feel more like their girlfriend than mine.”
My breath caught. “You think I’m your girlfriend?”
A dull red stain crawled up his neck. “Uh.” That’s all he said. He grabbed the sewing machine and started walking again.
I hurried to catch up. “I want to be your girlfriend!” The words flew out of my mouth. He stopped again, this time depositing the machine on the sidewalk. “I mean, I didn’t know you were thinking of us that way.”
“Is that okay?” He sounded uncertain. “I guess we haven’t talked about it.”
Not that, no. Music, art, NFL football, college, books, fashion, and LaSalle, yes. Not us. But it looked like we were about to talk about it on the front lawn of the school.
“It’s okay,” I said.
A smile played around his lips. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against my mouth, a sweet but unhurried kiss before he stepped back. “Better than okay.”
I couldn’t fight the grin dying to break out. “Not okay. Great.” I couldn’t believe this was me, making googly eyes in front of the curious volleyball players trickling past at the end of their practice. “When did you become my boyfriend?” I asked.
“What?”
“You knew before I knew, so when did you know?”
He tilted his head and smiled at me. “I’ve been your boyfriend since you cornered me backstage and tried to make out with me.”
I smacked his arm.
“Seriously,” he said, “that’s when I knew I wasn’t going to be kissing anyone else.”
“Oh.” The goofy grin wouldn’t go away. I didn’t care.
“What about you? When did you become my girlfriend? Right now? Did I have to perform manual labor to earn boyfriend status?” he demanded, pointing at the sewing machine. “Because I would have done it sooner if I knew.”
I shook my head. “I think it’s when you poured the beer in the sink.”
“It tastes nasty anyway,” he said, smiling. Then his expression grew intent. “So do boyfriends get to bring sewing machines inside your house?”
My smile faded, too. “Let’s go to the car,” I said. “I don’t want to talk out here.”
“Mine or Livvie’s?” he asked, and I flinched because it was a test I was about to fail.
