Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I laugh, feeling the tension ease as we fall into a rhythm, gluing flowers side by side.
“Definitely better than solving for x. I’m not sure gluing fake flowers is much of a mental workout, though.”
“Hey, don’t underestimate the complexity of floral arrangements.” Easton grins, dramatically twirling a vibrant yellow daisy between his fingers. “It’s practically rocket science.”
I raise a mocking eyebrow. “Oh, totally. I’m so sure NASA is looking for people who can hot-glue flowers as part of their astronaut candidacy program.”
Not.
“Is that what you want to do after you go to college? Work for NASA?”
“Uh, no.” Not even close. I suck at science and failed our astronomy unit my sophomore year. “I have no idea what I want to do when I get to college. My grades didn’t have a single university tripping over themselves to give me a scholarship.”
I feel him glance at me.
“They don’t hand out scholarships for doodling on notebooks and daydreaming?”
“Very funny.” But also: Omg, he was totally listening when his mom and I were talking at his house and I mentioned doodling. “So. Have you met Mr. Grazz before?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have art classes, but he’s the wrestling coach. I see him around—mostly in the locker room. Never taken art.”
“I only took art my freshman year.”
While I futz with the flowers, I gaze at him beneath my lashes. Easton has three flower stems in his hand and is attempting to place them all in the same spot at once.
Great. Now he’s getting lazy and I have to be bossy or it’ll look like total shit.
“Um, hey. Uh. If you don’t dial it down a notch, our knights are going to end up looking like they’re lost in the floral section at Michaels,” I tease, hoping he’ll get the hint. “Can we stick to putting them on one at a time?”
He snorts and picks up a gaudy neon pink daisy, twirling it between his thumb and middle finger, not fazed by my critique.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Should this one go in the center? Really accentuate the majesty of the occasion?”
“Majesty of the occasion?” I take the flower from him and hold it up, pretending to seriously consider it. “Hmm, let me think. How about no. We’re going for enchanted castle, not plastic flowers from Temu.”
Easton makes a mock pouty face. “But it’s so pink. You’re crushing my artistic vision.”
“Your vision needs glasses,” I reply, placing the neon daisy to the side and grabbing a more subdued light green hydrangea. “Here.”
“Fine,” he concedes, reaching for a cluster of white lilies. “But don’t come crying to me when this looks too classy and not fun enough.”
“Too classy? Is there such a thing?”
“Plenty of things are too classy—like brunch and those boutiques downtown.”
He’s talking about the gift shops all the girls at our school love going to, like the perfumery and the cooking store.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll take the risk.”
As we work, the scent of plastic flower and chemicals mingles with hot glue—unpleasant, but oddly satisfying. Every now and then, Easton sneaks in a brightly colored flower just to spite me, and I swat at him to keep him in check.
I hate to admit it, but he’s meticulous. There’s a surprising precision in the way he spaces and balances each flower, making sure everything looks just right.
Impressive. For a guy.
My gaze drifts to his mouth, which is curved in a content smile, his focus steady. Something shifts between us. Is this what romantic tension feels like? The kind that makes you want to make out with someone and think about it way too much?
It can’t be. Not with the way Easton keeps looking toward the gym doors.
At first I ignore it—I’m looking, too, wondering if more people will show up to help. But then he does it again. And again.
And suddenly, I wonder if he’s waiting for someone in particular.
Maddie.
My stomach twists. She said she might come.
I know I shouldn’t care. He can like whoever he wants. And I know he doesn’t like me.
But we kissed!
And no matter how much I try to brush it off, there’s an undeniable sting at the thought of him pining after someone else—especially when he’s been so flirty with me.
Desperate to shake the feeling, I step back, tapping a white rose against my chin. “This doesn’t look terrible.”
“See?” Easton shoots me a smug grin. “Told you adding color would make it better. Maybe I should be a decorator, not a hockey player.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s glue.”
We settle into a comfortable silence. After another minute, I risk another peek at him. “Thanks for coming today, by the way. I know you’re busy. And, well—do you ever get that feeling like you don’t even want to go home because the air is…heavy?”