pretty sure it’s mine). Pul ing the brim low, I take John’s apartment key off the counter and head out.

*** *** ***

Dori

I’m assisting with the coffee and donut distribution after Sunday school, waiting for the caffeine to kick in from the cup of coffee I gulped while setting up. The coffee isn’t very good—but Mrs. K gets it in bulk from a discount warehouse, along with powdered creamer, one-ply napkins and flimsy paper plates. High expectations would be unrealistic.

“No chocolate with chocolate sprinkles?” Mr. Goody, the most ancient parishioner in the church, frowns at me over the bar where I stand, completely zoned out. His gaze swings over the several open boxes of various donuts.

“Um, no—what’s out is what we’ve got. There are a couple of chocolate with nuts—”

“Nuts! Goodness, no!” He grabs a plain glazed, and glares at me like I suggested a pastry covered in slime.

“Hmph.” Mrs. Perez glares at his retreating back. “Who doesn’t like nuts?”

“Maybe he’s al ergic,” I offer.

“Al ergic to manners.” She straightens the stack of tissue-thin napkins as I check my cel . My message light is blinking.

Kayla: Me n aimee r goin to see school pride again.

Wanna join? Come on, u know u wanna.

School Pride,Reid’s latest blockbuster hit. My pulse stutters, stop-start-stop-start. After a five day hiatus from Reid, my foolish little infatuation is worse. How is this possible?

I should definitely say no. The last thing I need to see is a movie in which Reid stars.

Me: sure, come get me, i’l be home by 1

I sometimes think Dad can read my mind. In first grade, I was a huge Hel o Kitty fan. One day Annabel e Hayes came to school with a tiny package of HK colored pencils.

During recess, I swiped it from her desk. That Sunday, Dad preached on two thou-shalt-nots: coveting and stealing.

When I started bawling in the pew, Mom ushered me to the bathroom, thinking I was sick. Turned out I was a six-year-old with an easily assessed guilt complex.

Dad’s sermon this morning— temptation. When his eyes meet mine, I imagine he knows every errant thought in my head concerning Reid. There’s no way Dad could know, but there he stands, detailing how to identify temptation and how to resist it. Meaning to pay strict attention and take notes, I click my pen and open the smal notebook I keep in my bag.

And then I can’t stop thinking about Reid’s hands in my hair and splayed at my waist, propel ing me to the wal , his lips brushing over my cheek as I turned my face away.

There is no logical reason for my inability to stop thinking about that almost-kiss. No reason at al . Especially in the middle of church.

The page in my notebook is stil blank at the end of the sermon.

Chapter 18

REID

Dori seemed surprised but appreciative the day I brought her a soy latte (after having heard her tel someone on the phone the previous afternoon that she was craving one), so I add it to my morning coffee run. Just to throw her off balance, I bring Gabriel e the same thing.

When I get there, the two of them are in Gabriel e’s future bedroom, which we’ve painted a stomach-turning shade of pink. Ceiling fan parts are spread in an organized manner on the floor—nuts, bolts and fan blades in neat piles. Dori reads over the instructions while Gabriel e stands with her arms crossed, looking annoyed—until she sees me. “Reid!” she beams.

For a split second, I wish Dori was that enthusiastic about my presence… but no, her unwavering pretense of indifference is a major aspect of the chal enge of her. She doesn’t look up, but she’s so aware of me—hands gripping the instruction packet tightly enough to crumple the edges, ears almost matching the wal s.

Taking my caramel macchiato from the tray, I choke back a laugh at Dori’s apprehensive expression and focus on Gabriel e, who makes a face when I mention the soy. “Is there syrup in it?” she asks hopeful y.

“In the latte? Uh, no…”

“I’m sure Roberta has some sugar packets,” Dori interjects. Her eyes flick to mine and skitter away. Gabriel e gives me an enthusiastic hug (Dori purses her lips but makes no comment) and goes in search of sugar.

“C’mon, Dori—the first hit is always free.” She reluctantly accepts the cup I hand her and says,

“Thanks,” like it takes a herculean effort to speak the word to me.

She studies the instructions and sips the latte while I regard her silently. She’s sporting the faded red M.A.D.D.

shirt again, but today her hair band matches her shirt, and she’s wearing thin silver hoop earrings. And is that lip gloss on her mouth? Interesting and atypical Dori behavior.

On the day I started work here, I stupidly assumed that getting into Dori’s pants would be effortless, and in the same thought I concluded that I couldn’t be bothered to hook up with her. Had she sensed that vain mental verdict and decided to make me pay for it?

“This isn’t the first… hit… for me, you know.” She’s obviously hesitant to use addict jargon, even in jest.

“Hmm. I guess you’l owe me, then.”

She doesn’t respond, just sets her cup on a windowsil and takes one last glance at the instructions. Armed with a screwdriver, she picks up the bulky mechanical component and climbs the ladder directly beneath the hole cut into the center of the ceiling. I gather from watching her that she has to get the wiring hooked up before she can attach the motor to the electrical box in the ceiling. She balances the bulky thing in her right hand while she twists the wires together with her left, pul ing safety caps out of her pocket and affixing them to the connected wires.

Halfway through, she fumbles the motor, almost dropping it and exclaiming, “Popsicles!”

I climb up behind her and take the weight of the motor in my hand, but there is no goddamned way I can keep from laughing. What does popsicles even correspond to? I’ve heard her say fudge—a way more obvious substitute. I’m beginning to think she just tosses out whatever food item she thinks of first.

Without a word, she hooks up the wiring.

If I wasn’t aware of her proximity before, I am now. The light press of her body against mine and the unanticipated sweet scent of her make me abruptly, ful y conscious of it.

Standing on the rung below her places my mouth level with her ear. “You smel good. What are you wearing?” Her breathing goes shal ow, from either threat or desire.

“Deodorant.”

I laugh softly, inhaling careful y. “Mmm, no, something more than that, I think.”

“I… I don’t know. Lotion? Some store brand, I think.” She doesn’t know? My mother and every girl I’ve ever dated, Emma included, coordinated lotions, powders, and colognes. If asked, any of them could have said what scent they were wearing without thinking.

“No… it’s more like… cake, or something else…

edible.” I’m staring at the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, her smal left earlobe, the silver hoop threaded through it, her dark lashes in profile. She’s shut her eyes, as though she’s lightheaded.

“Um… okay…” She opens her eyes, turns slightly towards me. “Reid, I… I want to get down now.” I hop from the rung to the floor, reach up and swing her lightly to the ground, my hands lingering at her waist. She grips my upper arms, not letting go once her feet are on the ground. We look as though we were dancing and someone hit the pause button. Common sense tel s me not to try to kiss her again. She’s not ready yet. So we stand there, staring at each other, silent and unmoving.

She’s conceding ground already; it’s in her eyes. I suppress a smile at the conflict I sense in her, because she’s scrutinizing every nuance of emotion on my face, looking for anything that might betray my intentions.

“Hey.” Gabriel e’s voice startles both of us—perfect timing.

I drop my hands as she jumps away. Turning to snatch my cup from where I set it on the stack of fan blades, I say,

“Later,” giving Dori a surreptitious wink and bumping fists with a confused Gabriel e on the way out the door.

*** *** ***

Dori

If I can just get through one more week, I’l never have to see him again.

The fan motor was heavy and unwieldy, and I should have waited for Gabriel e’s help to hook it up. But I could feel his eyes on me from the moment he walked into the room, and I couldn’t pretend to look at those instructions another minute.

Then my heart was slamming from nearly dropping the stupid motor, and in the next moment he was behind me, laughing at me for my choice of swearword-that-isn’t while taking the motor and holding it aloft like it weighed nothing. I would have chastised him for breaking the one-person-on-the-ladder rule, but I couldn’t speak.

His chest pressed against my back while his arm reached around, his bicep hard against my ribcage, just grazing my breast. I stretched up, my arms burning, and worked to get the wiring hooked up as quickly as possible.

Once the part was snug against the ceiling, I thought he’d step back down. Instead, he remained where he was, our bodies connected, however slightly, in several key spots.

Then he told me I smel ed good.

Trapped on that ladder, al I could do was close my eyes and concentrate. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Until his hands were at my waist, lifting me down like I weigh nothing.

I’ve never been so pleased to see Gabriel e.

Once Reid disappears, I tel her to take the fan boxes to her brothers’ and parents’ rooms and get them unpacked so we can instal them before lunch. That should give me enough time to attach the fan blades… and recover from what he just did to me.

Chapter 19

REID

Javier, one of the new volunteers, is a member of a frat group that’l be here for the week—Pi Kappa something. I think he’s decided we’re BFFs for the duration. We’re the same age, but for the most part, I feel like I’m talking to a kid.

During lunch break, I entertain him with celebrity anecdotes—the websites, the starlets, the parties, the fan mail—while he’s rubbernecking at al the photographers hovering in neighboring yards. “So there might be pictures of me on celebrity gossip sites? Like, tomorrow?” I can’t help laughing—celebrities go miles way out of their way to dodge being harassed by the paparazzi, but Javier is ecstatic over the prospect. “They’l probably be up by this afternoon, if not in half an hour,” I tel him.

He pul s his phone from his pocket, starts typing a text.

“Seriously? Awesome.” Ten to one he’s texting a friend to check websites to see if he’s made it into any shots yet.

Ultimate photobombing. “So, like, what do you do with al those pictures girls send you? Do you ever, you know, cal up one of the hot ones and hook up?”

I shake my head. “No way. The more, er, stimulating photos don’t make it to me—my mail and email is prescreened. I get the ful y-clothed shots. And the you’re a god and I think you should have won an Oscar mail, not the You suck and I wish you’d curl up and die shit. My manager shreds or deletes anything inappropriate.” We each take a paper plate and head for the food.

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