carrying something sharp.
I stick my hand out the window and open my palm. My forearm touches his hand where it rests on my door, and I feel a little zing. “Hand over your pocketknife, and I’ll give you a lift.”
He grins and produces his pocketknife, dropping it in my palm. I curl my fingers around it and tuck it in the side pocket of my door.
“Hop in.”
He circles the car and gets in. His legs are so long he has to slide the seat back a foot, and even then, his knees almost touch the glove compartment. The last person to sit there was Paige, and she’s half an inch over five feet. And very proud of that half inch.
“Where to?” I ask as I get back on the road.
He hesitates, as if he’s not really sure. “Just stay on the highway. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“So,” I say, cringing a bit, “I’m sorry about my mom. She gets a little carried away sometimes.”
“I think she’s nice. Passionate, but nice.” He’s looking down, to where the sun is glinting off his ring. He’s wearing a wristband that matches the ring—silver with a stone-like vein. I wonder where he got them, and if they mean anything special, but it feels like such a nosy question to ask.
“This probably isn’t exactly an ideal vacation day for you,” I say instead. “First, getting harangued by an overzealous screenwriter, and now car trouble.”
“Actually, it’s been a great day. And anyway, I’m not on vacation.” He glances at me, then back to his ring. “I came here to work. For a little while.”
“For the summer?”
He purses his lips. “I hope so.”
Even though I only just met him, I hope so too. He seems like someone I’d like to get to know better. “Where are you working?”
“I … I’m not sure yet.”
“So you’re still looking for a job?” I almost tell him to apply at the Chocolate Couture to replace the guy Dad fired yesterday, but I would never hear the end of my sister Sophie’s teasing if I brought in a cute guy for Dad to hire. “What kind of work are you looking for? Maybe I know someone who’s hiring.”
The lines of concentration deepen between his brows as if he’s making a mental inventory of his skills. “I’m good with my hands. Fixing things. And I spent last summer working in a vineyard.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand, as though I’m Vanna White presenting a grand prize of vineyard-wrapped hills.
He nods in agreement. “I’m sure I’ll find something.” My window is still down, and he lowers his too. The humid air rushes in, swirling around us, pulling pieces of hair free from my messy bun. He gazes out the window at a passing orchard, watching rows of apple trees fly by. Then he sticks his hand out the window and spreads his fingers to catch the wind. He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the sensation. And I find my own hand slipping out the window to do the same.
After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have guessed white.”
“White what?”
He tugs gently on my sleeve. “For a chocolate shop uniform.”
My heart gives a little lurch at his touch. “My black apron is on the back seat.” I slide a hand over my stomach, like I’m touching an imaginary apron. “My dad’s shop is like a fine restaurant. Black and white uniforms, stuffy decor, and gourmet chocolates you can’t find anywhere else. And at least with white, stains can be bleached.”
He goes back to catching the wind, appearing to contemplate this. “Wouldn’t it be nice if people could be bleached too?”
I give a breathy laugh. “You mean like your hair?” I can’t quite get over how white his hair is, and how it makes a stark contrast with his dark lashes and eyebrows.
His hand goes to his hair, and he meets my smile. “I didn’t do this. It just … happened.” And then his expression stills, grows serious. “What I mean is,” he says slowly, “what if whenever we were
I stick my hand out the window and open my palm. My forearm touches his hand where it rests on my door, and I feel a little zing. “Hand over your pocketknife, and I’ll give you a lift.”
He grins and produces his pocketknife, dropping it in my palm. I curl my fingers around it and tuck it in the side pocket of my door.
“Hop in.”
He circles the car and gets in. His legs are so long he has to slide the seat back a foot, and even then, his knees almost touch the glove compartment. The last person to sit there was Paige, and she’s half an inch over five feet. And very proud of that half inch.
“Where to?” I ask as I get back on the road.
He hesitates, as if he’s not really sure. “Just stay on the highway. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“So,” I say, cringing a bit, “I’m sorry about my mom. She gets a little carried away sometimes.”
“I think she’s nice. Passionate, but nice.” He’s looking down, to where the sun is glinting off his ring. He’s wearing a wristband that matches the ring—silver with a stone-like vein. I wonder where he got them, and if they mean anything special, but it feels like such a nosy question to ask.
“This probably isn’t exactly an ideal vacation day for you,” I say instead. “First, getting harangued by an overzealous screenwriter, and now car trouble.”
“Actually, it’s been a great day. And anyway, I’m not on vacation.” He glances at me, then back to his ring. “I came here to work. For a little while.”
“For the summer?”
He purses his lips. “I hope so.”
Even though I only just met him, I hope so too. He seems like someone I’d like to get to know better. “Where are you working?”
“I … I’m not sure yet.”
“So you’re still looking for a job?” I almost tell him to apply at the Chocolate Couture to replace the guy Dad fired yesterday, but I would never hear the end of my sister Sophie’s teasing if I brought in a cute guy for Dad to hire. “What kind of work are you looking for? Maybe I know someone who’s hiring.”
The lines of concentration deepen between his brows as if he’s making a mental inventory of his skills. “I’m good with my hands. Fixing things. And I spent last summer working in a vineyard.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand, as though I’m Vanna White presenting a grand prize of vineyard-wrapped hills.
He nods in agreement. “I’m sure I’ll find something.” My window is still down, and he lowers his too. The humid air rushes in, swirling around us, pulling pieces of hair free from my messy bun. He gazes out the window at a passing orchard, watching rows of apple trees fly by. Then he sticks his hand out the window and spreads his fingers to catch the wind. He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the sensation. And I find my own hand slipping out the window to do the same.
After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have guessed white.”
“White what?”
He tugs gently on my sleeve. “For a chocolate shop uniform.”
My heart gives a little lurch at his touch. “My black apron is on the back seat.” I slide a hand over my stomach, like I’m touching an imaginary apron. “My dad’s shop is like a fine restaurant. Black and white uniforms, stuffy decor, and gourmet chocolates you can’t find anywhere else. And at least with white, stains can be bleached.”
He goes back to catching the wind, appearing to contemplate this. “Wouldn’t it be nice if people could be bleached too?”
I give a breathy laugh. “You mean like your hair?” I can’t quite get over how white his hair is, and how it makes a stark contrast with his dark lashes and eyebrows.
His hand goes to his hair, and he meets my smile. “I didn’t do this. It just … happened.” And then his expression stills, grows serious. “What I mean is,” he says slowly, “what if whenever we were
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