Flirting with Boys by Hailey Abbott Page A

inside, letting the door bang shut behind him.
    Whew! Celeste took a deep breath as she hurried to the pool for water and towels. That could have gotten very ugly. She threw a few towels and a glass of water onto a tray (forget the toast, she wasn’t going to start making his breakfast) and hustled down the path to the Saunders villa, the Perrier slopping out of the glass with every step. She skirted the main building and headed through the palm grove. She was just rounding the bend when she spotted a tall, white-shirted figure puttering along the path, weed-whacker in hand.
    Travis! His name flashed in Celeste’s mind in big red letters. The figure ahead of her stopped to examine his machine and Celeste saw her chance. Still balancing the tray of towels and water, she jumped behind an azalea bush at the side of the path and crouched down. She peered through the skinny leaves in front of her. The dirt behind the bush smelled sour, and a mosquito buzzed up to investigate. Celeste swatted at her ear. A woman’s heels clicked down the path and Celeste glimpsed a pair of gold sandals going by. Not Travis, obviously. Where was he? Communing with his weed-whacker?
    Her right foot was going to sleep. Gingerly, Celeste tried to shift her cramped position. The mosquito bit her viciously on the lower back where her shirt had riddenup. She reached around to smack it but fell backwards onto the tray instead. “Shit!” Celeste whispered. The glass had tipped over, soaking the towels, which were now scattered with mulch. Not the most appealing setup, but then again, not the biggest of her worries right now.
    Just then, to her immense relief, Celeste heard the weed-whacker start up out on the path. The noise grew closer and after a minute she could see Travis’s size-fourteen New Balances coming slowly down the path as he guided the weed-whacker along the grass at the edge. The machine noise grew almost deafening, and Celeste wrinkled her face as Travis carefully guided the weed-whacker right along the grass by her azalea bush. She held her breath, despite the grass blades now spraying her face, and let it out only when he had moved on and the machine noise had faded to a safe distance. She rested her forehead on her knees. This kind of stress surely wasn’t good for her complexion.
    Celeste extracted herself and her disgusting tray from the bushes, trying not to fall over on her tingling right foot. She took a deep breath and balanced the tray on a pillar for a minute while she tried to smooth her now-wild braids with the palms of her hands. Whatever. Maybe Nick would lay off once he saw her looking like such a crazy lady.
    As she walked up the path to the Saunderses’ frontdoor, she noted that the black Mercedes was gone from the driveway. Just deliver the empty water and the soaked towels and get out of here , she told herself. Thirty seconds. No more. She knocked carefully. There was no answer, but the door was ajar, so she cautiously pushed it open. “Hello?” she called, just in case Nick’s parents were there. “It’s—”
    â€œBack here!” Nick’s voice came from the back deck. Celeste made her way through the cool, airy rooms to the back. The guesthouse the Saunderses were in was the only one that came with its own private pool made totally of desert sandstone. One of the Pinyon bathrobes was thrown over a beach chair pushed askew on the deck. Celeste could see Nick’s figure bobbing in the turquoise water.
    â€œHey!” he greeted her enthusiastically. He swam to the side of the pool and rested his tanned arms on the edges.
    â€œHi,” Celeste said warily, as she set the tray down on a side table. “Here’s your stuff.”
    â€œThanks,” Nick said, not even glancing at the tray. He stared up at her. His straight blond hair was plastered to his forehead and he wore a pair of baggy navy swimming trunks. In one clean motion, he hoisted