He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
I explain the project details to him and hand over the list. He scans it thoughtfully, and I remain quiet. Impassive. I don’t want him to think I’m excited about any one choice. I want him to make with his own decision.
“You want to work on one of these in particular?” he asks, lifting his gaze to mine.
My breath catches at the gleam in his pretty blue eyes. He has such long, thick lashes. It’s kind of ridiculous. “Not sure yet.” I hesitate. “Do you?”
“Mmm.” He glances over the list again. “Is she serious with the Moby Dick thing?”
I nod, barely able to keep a straight face. “You can take on Ahab and I’ll take on Moby Dick.”
“No.” His voice is firm, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement when they meet mine. “I’m thinking something a little more complex than that.”
“How much more complex do you need to get? There’s a whale and a man in a power struggle. I would say that’s a little odd.”
“True.” He taps a pencil against his slightly pursed lips, his gaze still trained on the paper. This gives me time to look at him, and look I do. My eyes are like greedy little addicts as they trail over him, lingering on his dark hair, that firm, sexy line of his jaw I might’ve kissed once or twice in the not so distant past. His thick brows are slightly furrowed and he’s squinting a little bit as he keeps skimming that list. Yet this all works for him.
Or maybe I’m just unnaturally fascinated and can’t stop looking at him ever.
“I want to do Romeo and Juliet,” he finally says, lifting his gaze to mine. He waits, ready for me to challenge him, and I wonder at his choice and his motives behind it.
I wonder if he chose them for the same reason I did.
Lifting my chin, I say, “I think that’s a good idea.”
Surprise crosses his face, but then it’s gone. “I’ll be Juliet.”
“No, you won’t.” I nudge him with my elbow and he tugs on one of my braids. I sort of melt inside. “We need to run this by Mrs. Meyer. Make sure no one else has chosen them.” My arm shoots up into the air and Mrs. Meyer is standing by our desks within a minute.
“What’s going on? You know who you want to do your project on?” she asks pleasantly, her gaze drifting between the two of us.
“We’d like to choose Romeo and Juliet as our literary couple,” I tell her, and she smiles in response, looking pleased.
“I think that’s an excellent choice, especially considering my sneaking suspicion that you, Jordan Tuttle, are a closet romantic.”
His cheeks actually turn the faintest shade of red. It’s fascinating. Did Mrs. Meyer just embarrass him?
“Bring out the best in each other with these diary entries.” Mrs. Meyer turns to me. “Share them with each other as you work on the project. Maybe even have your characters respond to each other, as if you’re having a written conversation. What do you think?”
“Sounds good,” Tuttle says with ease.
“Okay,” I add weakly.
Great. Our assignment just turned into the two of us basically writing love letters to each other.
“Ready to be my Juliet?” he asks the moment Mrs. Meyer walks away from us. He leans across his desk, his fingers going to the end of my braid again. They brush against my chest and I feel that touch through my hoodie, my T-shirt, all the way down to my skin.
And it burns. Tingles. Makes me want more.
“Stop pulling on my braid,” I tell him, ignoring his question. I don’t want to be his Juliet. I don’t want to be his anything.
Liar.
“What? Am I bothering you?” He tugs again, gently this time, before letting my braid go. He trails a finger along my plaited hair. “I think you look cute.”
I say nothing. I can’t. It feels like my vocal cords are paralyzed.
“Your hair is so soft,” he murmurs. “Does it get wavy when you wear your hair in braids all day?”
I give the barest nod in answer.
“Maybe someday you’ll let me undo them for you.” His intense stare makes my mouth go dry and I part my lips, ready to come up with some lame answer. But then the bell rings, and I grab my backpack and bolt out of the room before I say something stupid.
After school I head toward the senior parking lot when I sense someone falling into step beside me.
Livvy.
“Where’ve you been all day?” she asks nonchalantly, like we didn’t have a big blow up this morning.
“I could ask you the same question,” I say coolly. Best to confront the issue and get it over with. “I thought you were mad at me.”
She stops me with a light hand on my forearm and we turn to face each other, people rushing past us to get to their cars and make their escape. “I thought you were mad at me too! You were just so…awful this morning.”