“Do you think the puzzle analogy is bad? I don’t know if they had puzzles during Shakespeare’s time, so maybe it’s inaccurate. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Meyer.” Amanda raises her hand into the air.
I immediately pull it down, my fingers circling around her wrist. I can feel her pulse and it seems a little fast. Did I do that to her? I smooth my thumb along the inside of her wrist to calm her down. “Don’t ask her. Not right now.”
She frowns. “Why not?”
“I don’t want her to interrupt us.” I gently squeeze her wrist before letting her go.
“Oh.” She visibly swallows. “By the way, I, um, didn’t mean anything by those love references. Just to let you know.”
“I understand.” I pause. “You were just—getting into character.”
“Right.” She nods. Flips her hair behind her shoulder, reaches up to twist the tiny pearl earring in her ear. She fidgets when she’s nervous. I’ve noticed that about her.
I’ve noticed lots of things about her.
I let my gaze roam over her face, drinking in every tiny detail. Her pretty dark brown eyes and smooth cheeks and perfect, sexy lips. I’m kissing her tonight. I don’t care what happens or how she acts toward me, it’s been too long and nothing is going to stop me.
I’m kissing her. And I’m going to kiss her for a long time. Until we’re both out of breath and our mouths are sore and she’s probably late for her curfew but she doesn’t care. I won’t care either.
Yeah. That is definitely going to happen.
“Where’s your next diary entry?” she asks, her sweet voice knocking me out of my thoughts.
“You wanna read it?”
She rolls her eyes, a big smile on her face. “Yes, I do.”
I make a production out of pulling it out of my backpack, then glance over it real quick, frowning when I realize just how…needy this thing sounds. I wrote it last night, thinking about that hug in the parking lot. I sort of poured all of my own feelings into Romeo’s diary entry and now I’m having second thoughts about her reading it.
“You can’t back out now.” She tries to snatch the paper out of my hands, but I lift it up, away from her grasping fingers. “Hey! That’s not fair. I let you read mine.”
“After I already let you read mine,” I remind her.
“That you shoved into my locker like some sort of love note.” She blushes. I love that I can make her do that. If she’d give me half a chance, I can do a lot of things to her that would make her blush. And I’d get to see if that same pretty shade of pink blooms all over her body.
“Maybe it was a love note,” I say as I set the paper on my desk face down. Her blush deepens. “To Juliet from Romeo.”
“Whatever.” She shoves me and I grab her hand, linking our fingers together. I rub my thumb against her fingers, her soft, soft skin. Her nails are painted a pale pink and cut short. She wears a ring on the index finger of her right hand and I touch it. Trace it. It’s a braided silver ring, thin and delicate, old and worn.
“Where’d you get this?” If she says that dick ex-boyfriend gave it to her, I will rip it off her finger and crush it.
“It was my grandma’s.” She meets my gaze and smiles, but it’s sad. “We were really close. She died when I was thirteen.”
“I’m sorry.” I have no idea what that’s like, losing someone I love. I honestly feel like I’ve never really loved…
Anyone.
“She gave this to me right before she died of cancer. Said her dad gave it to her when she was little. My mom tried to take it and put it away for safe keeping after Grandma passed, but I told her no. Grandma wanted me to have it.” She studies the ring and I touch it again, tracing it all the way around her finger.
“A family heirloom,” I tell her.
Amanda nods but doesn’t say anything. If she cries, I’m gonna lose it.
“How’d you get this scar?” I touch a jagged one across the top of her hand, between her thumb and index finger.
“My cat Stubbs. He was super feisty when he was a kitten.” The sadness is gone, replaced with a faint smile.
“Did it hurt?”
“Not really.”
I hate the thought of her in pain. Which means—holy shit—I’ve got it bad for this girl.
Really bad.
“How’s it coming, kids?”
Amanda jumps in her seat and rips her hand from mine, looking up at Mrs. Meyer. She watches us with full on amusement in her face, like she knows exactly what we’ve been up to. “We’re sharing our entries with each other,” Amanda says. “Well, I did. Jordan hasn’t yet.”
Mrs. Meyer looks at me. “And why is that, Mr. Tuttle?”
She is the only teacher who adds the mister to the front of my last name. Everyone else just calls me Tuttle. No one ever calls me Jordan.
Except for Amanda. Oh, and Lauren Mancini when she thinks she can get something out of me.
“I’m still working on mine. Amanda’s is so good, I want to make sure my next one is too,” I say smoothly.
Amanda glares. Mrs. Meyer smiles. “Well, that sounds like a compliment. Don’t you agree, Amanda?”
She mumbles, “I guess,” and then Mrs. Meyer is gone, moving on to the next group project.
“She saw us holding hands,” Amanda says.