Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot

time—thonk, thonk, thonk. But I swear I nearly drop the bag—hair dryer be damned—when I see that dog.
    “Andrew,” I whisper, whirling around, since he’s coming up the steps behind me. “Do you live…at home? With your parents?”
    Because, unless he’s dog-sitting, that’s the only explanation I can think of for what I’m seeing. And even that isn’t a very good one.
    “Of course,” Andrew says, looking annoyed. “What did you think?”

    Only it comes out sounding like,What did you fink?
    “I thought you lived in an apartment,” I say. I am really not trying to sound accusatory. I’m not. I’m just…surprised. “A flat, I mean. You told me, in school last May, that you were getting a flat for the summer when you got back to England.”
    “Oh, right,” Andrew says. Since we’ve paused on the steps, he seems to think(fink) this is a good time for a cigarette break and pulls out a pack and lights up.
    Well, itwas a long trip from the airport. And his fatherdid tell him he couldn’t smoke in the car.
    “Yeah, the flat didn’t work out. My mate—you remember, I wrote you about him? He was going to loan me his place, since he got a gig on a pearl farm in Australia. But then he met a bird and decided not to go after all, so I moved in with the parentals. Why? Is that a problem?”
    Is that a problem? IS THAT A PROBLEM?All of my fantasies about Andrew bringing me breakfast in bed—his king-size bed, with the thousand-count sheets—crumble into bits and float away. I won’t be making spaghetti due for the neighbors and Andrew’s parents. Well, maybe his parents, but it won’t be the same if they just come down the stairs for it, as opposed to from their own place…
    Then I have a thought that causes my blood to run cold.
    “But, Andrew,” I say, “I mean, how are you—how are you and I going to—if your parents are around?”
    “Ah, don’t worry about that,” Andrew says, blowing smoke out of one side of his mouth in a manner I have to admit to finding thrillingly sexy. No one back home smokes…not even Grandma, since that time she lit the living-room carpet on fire. “This is London, you know, not Bible Belt America. We’re cool about that kind of thing here. And my parents are the coolest.”
    “Right,” I say. “Sorry. I was just, you know. Sort of surprised. But it really doesn’t matter. As long as we can be together. Your parents really won’t mind? About us sharing a bedroom, I mean?”
    “Yeah,” Andrew says, sort of distractedly, giving my suitcase a yank.Thonk. “About that. I don’t actually have a bedroom in this house. See, my parents moved here with my brothers this past year, while I was in America. I’d told them I wouldn’t be coming home summers, you know, but that was before I had those troubles with my student visa…Anyway, they figured, you know, I’d basically moved out, so they only got a three-bedroom. But don’t worry, I’m—how do you say it in the States? Right, bunking up—I’m bunking up with my brother Alex—”
    I look at Andrew on the step below me. He’s so tall that even when he’s standing below me, I still have to tilt my chin up a little to look into his gray-green eyes.
    “Oh, Andrew,” I say, my heart melting. “Your other brother’s given up his room for me? He shouldn’t have!”
    A strange look passes across Andrew’s face.
    “He didn’t,” Andrew says. “He wouldn’t. You know kids.” He gives me a crooked grin. “But don’t worry, though. My mom’s a whiz at do-it-yourself projects, and she’s rigged up a loft bed for you—well, for me, actually. But you can use it while you’re here.”

    I raise my eyebrows. “A loft bed?”
    “Yeah, it’s fantastic. She’s made the whole thing out of MDF, in the laundry room. Right over the washer/dryer!” Andrew, seeing my expression, adds, “But don’t worry. She’s strung a curtain up between the laundry room and the kitchen. You’ll have plenty of