Proposal by Meg Cabot Page A

well.
    â€œWell, I thought I’d combine work with pleasure,” Jesse said, assuming a properly shameful expression. “I suppose you caught me, Ashley.”
    She grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, Jess. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot there.”
    That’s when I noticed an unfamiliar flash of green on her wrist. Looking more closely, I saw that she was wearing an emerald and diamond tennis bracelet with white gold links. It looked expensive.
    An emerald and diamond tennis bracelet? Where had Ashley—­who’d had to pawn all her jewelry to pay off the criminal fines she’d accrued during the height of her disorder—­gotten hold of such an expensive piece of jewelry?
    Then I remembered the bulky envelope I’d stuffed into my messenger bag.
    Swiftly, I opened the bag and pulled out the envelope. It had been opened and re-­sealed—­cleverly, so that it would have been difficult to tell if I hadn’t already been suspicious. But I probably would have observed it earlier if I’d taken half a second to look.
    Now I slid open the envelope and found inside it only an empty jewelry box—­one of those beautifully wrapped ones that come from the high-­end jewelry stores, with the wide silk ribbon and certificate of authenticity—­and a card.
    The card was tacky, a mass-­produced Valentine’s Day card, the kind Jesse had said I was too good for, in the shape of a heart, with a cupid on it, aiming an arrow at the viewer. You Slay Me , it said, in a goofy font.
    When I opened it, Paul had written, in his atrocious handwriting (he was used to typing, texting, and gaming, not writing with a pen, like Jesse):
    I know you’ ll hate this, but I saw them (both the card and bracelet), and thought of you. The emeralds match your eyes (I know, I’m getting sentimental in my old age, aren’t I?) and you slayed me long ago.
    I know your first impulse is going to be to send the bracelet back, but why? That undead cholo boyfriend of yours can’t afford to get you anything nice for Valentine’s Day, so just pretend it’s from him. It can be our little secret, like the other little secrets we have from him ;-­)
    Love always,
    Paul
    I lifted my gaze—­not to look at anything in particular, only because I couldn’t stare for a second longer at those words anymore—­and found Ashley looking in my direction, her face bright red. She must have seen what I was doing, noticed my expression, and thought my anger was targeted at her as the only likely suspect for filching the gift that should have been inside the package.
    She thrust the wrist encircled by the bracelet behind her back, then, looking even more sheepish, brought it out again, and pointed to it.
    Sorry , she mouthed guiltily, looking anguished. I’ll give it back.
    I nearly laughed out loud. Yes , I mouthed back. You will.
    But only so I could mail the bracelet back to Paul, with a note advising him that he could take both it and his Valentine and stuff it up his—­
    â€œAre you ready to go?” Jesse asked. Then he noticed the card in my hand. “What’s that?”
    â€œOh,” I said, and shoved everything—­the card, envelope, and empty jewelry box—­into a nearby pedal bin. “Nothing.”
    Jesse seemed bemused as he watched me try to close the lid of the trash bin. I might have been hitting it a little more violently than necessary. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
    â€œTrust me, it is.” The lid finally went down and stayed down. I straightened. “And yes, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

 
    Ocho
    â€œI T LOOKS LIKE the Farhats are having a party.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Jesse’s voice startled me. I’d become hypnotized by the sound of the wipers against the windshield as we’d navigated our way through the flooded streets of