"So, yesterday, he came over while I was painting, and he told me that I held the brush like it was an extension of my hand. And the way he said it . . ." She shivered happily. "Anyway, if he's looking at my hands that closely, then I should probably redo my raggedy polish, you know? Because—"
Emily cut off midsentence as a pair of arms wrapped around Claire's waist from behind. For a wafer-thin moment she tensed, but then the familiar hint-of-cinnamon smell that meant only one thing—Matthew—wafted over her. She melted back against his solid chest.
"Hey, babe."
"Hey, yourself," she said.
Emily was staring at her expectantly. It was obvious that she wanted to say something more about Art Guy but that she didn't really want Matthew around while she rehashed the goings-on in her romantic world.
Matthew bent down and tucked his chin over Claire's shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" There was a heavy, serious note in his voice that made Claire's skin prickle.
Emily's eyes widened.
"Hey, guys!"
From down the hall, Amy Harper's blond ringlets bounced as she waved frantically. She was loaded down with posters, and she had a roll of masking tape around her wrist. Even though she'd only been in town a couple of months, Amy had managed to get on practically every committee in the school. She had a dentist's-dream smile and boundless energy, and she was genuinely one of the nicest people you'd ever meet. She was also into pottery—seriously into it. Apparently, some gallery back in Pennsylvania sold her stuff.
She and Emily spent a lot of time together in the art room and had gotten close fast, which Claire had sort of appreciated, since it took some of the pressure off her. Amy was there for Emily when Claire couldn't be. Claire had to admit that itmade her a little jealous—as much as she loved being a werewolf, all the power and freedom and feeling of specialness that came with the transformation had come with a price. And having to share her best friend with the petite, perky-sweet Amy was part of it.
"What's up?" Emily called back.
"Can one of you guys please help me tape up these posters? I have a quiz in precalc, and I don't want to be late!" Amy shifted the stack of paper from one arm to the other, blowing an errant curl out of her eyes.
The "you guys" surprised Claire. Amy wasn't friends with Claire or Matthew, but then again, she was so nice, she probably automatically included everyone. Like a kindergarten teacher trying to make sure everyone got a turn.
"Sure thing. Be right there." Emily looked pointedly at Claire, let her eyes skitter over to Matthew, and then twitched her lips. Which was Emily-speak for I'm going now, but you will tell me what the hell he wants to talk to you about, and I don't mean next week.
"We'll finish catching up at lunch," Claire promised, distracted by the catalog of things that might make Matthew sound so serious. Emily zipped off down the hall, arms already outstretched to catch the sliding pile of posters.
Claire turned to Matthew, her heart doing a sort of hiccuping stutter-step as she looked up at him. Claire had spent her entire sophomore year nursing a huge crush on Mat thew—along with most of the girls in her class. Somehow, she'd been the one lucky enough to catch his attention. That he'd stayed with her after finding out she was a werewolf was nothing short of a miracle.
"You sound strange," she said. "What's up?"
Matthew nodded his head toward Emily and Amy. "It's about that, actually."
Claire looked at him expectantly. Her heart quivered against her ribs, nervous.
"The posters that Amy's taping up everywhere? They're for the Autumn Ball." He reached up and rubbed the back of his hand. "I—I really want to go. To take you. But I know that you're not exactly into dances, and I don't want to drag you if you'd be supermiserable."
Claire blinked, wondering briefly if she'd be less confused if she hadn't been so worried that he was going to tell her something terrible. "What makes you think I'm not into dances?" she finally asked.
Matthew cocked his head at her. "Well, I've never seen you at one before. Emily's usually taking over the dance floor, but I just thought . . ."
Heat rushed into Claire's cheeks. She cleared her throat, trying to get up the courage to admit the truth. Matthew was the one person she could always be honest with, so lying about something so small, so human—it seemed stupid. But that didn't make it any less embarrassing. "I . . . um. Yeah. See, the thing is, no one's ever asked me before. And Emily always had a date, so I didn't want to tag along stag, and it was easier to just pretend that I didn't want to go in the first place."
There. She'd said it.
Matthew's mouth dropped open. If he laughed, she'd kill him.
"So, you're saying you'll go with me? You don't mind the dress and the corsage and the awkward photos and stuff?"
The girliest, most human part of Claire did a little dance of glee at the words "dress" and "corsage."
"Of course I'll go with you. I would love to!" She grinned, swatting his chest with her hand. "Geez, the way you looked before, it was like you were going to tell me that you were moving to Arkansas or something."