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Well, at least I didn’t actually
do
anything. “I don’t have a date.”

Her jaw drops. “Who the heck told you no? Ugh.” She scans the restaurant. “Give me twenty seconds and I’ll have a date for you.”

I grab her wrist as she starts to stand. “Hannah. Chill. I don’t want to go.” If I did want to go, it’d be with someone who doesn’t go to our school. I mean, I
could
ask Marisa, but would that be too weird? And besides—

Hannah gasps, snatching my attention. “Are you trying to break my heart?”

“Austin!” Laura calls from the register. I glance over my shoulder. She drops a bulging paper bag onto the counter. “Your order’s up.”

I never even ordered.
Do not look at the angry line
.

“Well,” Hannah says, “if you bail on prom in May, I’ll kill you in your sleep. Tell Jay and Brett to let me know if they decide to go this weekend. I’ll get them hooked up.”

Yeah, I have a feeling the last place they’ll want to be is that dance. They’ll be locked up at Jay’s all night, thanks to his parents going out of town for the weekend.

“You won’t have to look hard,” Becca chimes in, taking a sip of her tea. “I’ll go with Brett in a heartbeat. Have you
seen
that guy’s hands?”

Bri shoots me a look that pretty much screams
HELP
. Can’t help her much there.

“Good Lord have mercy, yes,” Hannah says. “If his hands are that big, just think—”

I jump up. There are some things a guy doesn’t need to hear. “Have a good night, ladies.”

“Bye,” they call in unison as I head for the counter.

I take the paper bag, peeking inside to make sure it’s all there. It is, including the extra “just in case she stays” barbecue I’ve been ordering for Marisa. I look to Laura, who’s soloing the register. She catches my eye and hurries over. I reach for my wallet, but she waves me off.

“No charge.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Direct order from Mr. Joyner himself. I’m not allowed to charge you for the rest of the season.”

Ah, yeah. Most wonderful time of the year, indeed. I tuck the bag under my arm. “You’re sure?”

Laura grins and winks. “Go Bulldogs.”

chapter nine

I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day. There’s all this pressure to buy the perfect flowers for whatever girl you’re dating (which I’m actually good at, but that’s not the point), to buy the perfect gift, to set up the perfect date, blah blah blah. When you work in a floral shop, the holiday is 500,000 times more annoying. It’s scientifically proven. Just trust me.

Basically, you’ve got people rushing in and out all dang day while yelling that you’re not going fast enough, even though their sorry butts are the ones who waited until the last minute. It sucks for Momma and Marisa, who’ve been through the ringer all day. Coach even excused me from practice so I could come give them a hand at three.

I got out of class at two. But there’s no reason to tell them that.

As soon as the last customer is out the door with his date’s bouquet in hand at 5:59, I rush over and lock the door behind him. I watch him climb into his truck and drive off, probably on his way to pick up that date. The stool behind the counter scrapes against the floor. I turn right as Marisa plops onto it.

“Holy cow,” she says through a yawn, redoing her ponytail. “I thought you were full of crap when you
told me how crazy it’d be. I’m pretty sure I waited on half the population of this town.”

That’s not hard when your town’s population is less than 5,000. I walk over to her, untying my apron along the way. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She rubs her hands over her face. “I’m tired,” she groans as I hang up my apron behind the counter. “And people can be psychotic. They’re just
flowers
, for cryin’ out loud. How can people get so mean over flowers? Flowers make you happy!”

I move next to her and lean against the counter. “A little hard work never killed anybody, you big baby.”

She stares across the room, slack-jawed. “See, I can’t even argue with you. I’m too sore. I’m seriously considering sleeping under this counter instead of driving home.”

The collar of her red shirt slipped down at some point, exposing freckled skin. I swallow hard. Her shoulders are right there, just begging to be rubbed. She said she was sore, right? Girls always go for that stuff.

Of course, she’d probably go for a restraining order if I grabbed her shoulders without asking first.

Momma clears her throat from the stairs. “I’m making the dinner run. Any requests?”

Marisa drops her head onto the counter. “FOOD,” she says, her voice muffled. “Lots and lots of food.”

Momma shakes her head. “I’ll be back in a bit. Y’all start cleaning up.” She stops in the middle of the display room, scanning the near-empty shop. “Actually, it looks like the customers already did that for you since the last time I came down.” She glances over at Marisa, who still has her head down, and then back to me. She raises an eyebrow.

What?
I mouth.

She bites back a smile and opens the door, the bell jingling as she leaves.

With a sigh, Marisa raises her head, turning to me with droopy eyes. She glances down, her eyebrows furrowing as she grabs my hand from the counter. “Austin, your fingers look awful. They make Band-Aids for a reason, you know.”

My heart hammers as her fingers wrap around mine. This is a million times better than a shoulder rub. I follow her gaze to my hand. It does look bad, but it’s no worse than normal. I came by the shop last night to help put together a gazillion flower arrangements, which was hell on my skin. Coach will be pissed when he realizes I didn’t wear gloves like I’m supposed to.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I tell her. “Just wait until tomorrow, when you’ll be putting together all the corsages for the dance this weekend.
Those
are a pain in the ass.”

She scoffs, but her eyes are shining. “You’re really going to make me do all those by myself? You know there are, like, almost 200 orders, right?”

My lips curve slowly. I wish I could be here to help her. As much as I love being on that field, practice starting this week has been a double-edged sword. I’m not getting nearly enough Marisa time.

Good God, I’m pathetic.

“There’s no way Momma will let you do them alone. She’ll help. Trust me.”

She lets go of my hand. I fight a frown.
Come back
. “That sounds good. Are you…” Looking down at my now-lonely hand, she clears her throat. “Will you be going to the dance?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Dances are a lot more fun when you’ve got a date to spoil all night, which I don’t. Never thought to ask anyone.” And if I did ask someone, it’d be the girl in front of me.

She sighs and leans onto the counter, putting her chin in her hands. “Well, congratulations. You’ll hang on to your soul.”

Or not
. I bite back a smile. “Not a dancer, I’m guessing?”

She shakes her head. “Never been a fan. Formal dances are the invention of Satan.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You have dances confused with Chem. That’s where Satan focused all his energy.”

She pushes me, smirking. “I’m serious. A girl has to suffer through frilly decorations, spiked punch, and the guy trying to get in her pants afterward, and for what? A corsage, maybe some dinner, and two hours of dancing, which results in foot blisters.” She hops off the stool and grabs the push-broom. “I’m so glad I’ll never have to go to another one again. Homeschooling for the win.”

’Kay. So now I’m really glad I never asked her.

“See, I’m insulted,” I say, moving around the counter. “Guys don’t always try to get in your pants. And dances aren’t
that
bad.” Maybe a little bad, but not complete torture.

She starts sweeping, huffing a little. “So says Lewis Creek’s god of baseball. Of course dances are awesome for you.” She holds the broom to her chest, throwing her hand up to her forehead like she’s in
Gone with the Wind
or some crap. “Oh, Austin! I never knew there was a difference between fastballs and sliders, but whisper it in my ear while we dance all night in the bed of your truck.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “And by ‘dance,’ you mean what, exactly?” She swats the broom at me. I hold up my hands in surrender. “All right, all right! But I will say that, after a few beers, truck dancin’ is a blast. You should try it.”

She rolls her eyes and resumes sweeping, turning her back to me. Okay, then. Challenge accepted. I dig my phone out of my pants pocket and scroll through the music app until I find a halfway decent slow song.
You can never go wrong with some Luke Bryan. Girls eat that shit up.

As the opening notes of “Crash My Party” fill the room, Marisa stops. Her head pops up, and she whirls around, cocking an eyebrow. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?”

Grinning, I place the phone on the counter and hold out my hand. “I’m on a mission to prove that not
all
dance dates are evil. I’ll have you know, I’m a darn good date.”

Her gaze flickers from my outstretched hand to my face. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” With the way my heart’s pounding, that’s entirely possible. Even though it sounds cheesy as hell, I think I finally know what girls mean when they talk about having butterflies in their gut, or stomach, or whatever. But even that’s not a good way to describe it. The butterflies feel like they’re all over the place.

And now I’m thinking about butterflies. Lord, help me.

She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been drinking moonshine again, haven’t you?”

Maybe the Luke Bryan song wasn’t as foolproof as I’d thought. “Please?”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue again, but instead she sighs and sets the broom against one of the coolers. “That’s not fair,” she says, crossing the distance between us. “No one in her right mind can resist that accent.”

When she slips her hand into mine, I pull her against me in one swift movement. She sucks in a breath, looking up at me with wide eyes.

“What?” I ask, resting my hands just above her hips. “Too close?”

She smiles. Looping her arms around my neck, she says, “I think it’s just right.”

Works for me.

We sway to the music, slow and steady. Those darn shoes of hers squeak against the floor, and she hangs her head and laughs right along with me.

“I’d be a great date, you know.” I pull her a little closer. “I’d wash my truck. Pick you up. Talk about guns with your dad. Even bring you flowers.”

Pressing her lips together, she nods. “Flowers?”

“I know a guy.”

Another song switches on, this one a little slower and a lot more appropriate for truck “dancing.” She doesn’t say anything, though. She keeps rocking side to side, keeps smiling, keeps looking up at me with those Lord-help-me gorgeous eyes.

“You know,” she says, “this experiment isn’t entirely accurate.”

“And why’s that?”

Her smile wavers. “You’re not like most guys, Austin.”

Her gaze drops to the floor. I’d pay anything under the sun to make that ache in her voice disappear. I think I was screwed from the get-go with this girl. Nobody’s ever made me fall this far, this fast. Nobody’s ever made me care so much so soon. And it’s scary. Exciting, but scary.

Instead of telling her that, though, I say, “Good. Because you’re not like most girls.”

She lets out a breathless laugh. “No, I’m not. Most girls don’t have the issues I do.”

I stop dancing, and she finally looks me in the eye. “That’s the biggest bunch of BS I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “Every girl has issues. Hell, so does every guy. Anyone who says they don’t is lying through their teeth.”

Her cheeks flush. She blinks quickly. My heart lurches because, God, I better not have made this girl cry. I take her hand and back away, holding my arm up. The corner of her mouth twitches as she spins, her
cheeks returning to normal. And there are no tears. Dodged that one.

“Is that right?” she says, beginning to sway again. “So what’s your issue?”

My feet are killing me, but I refuse to let her go. I’d dance around this shop ’til daylight if she wanted. “My biggest issue,” I say, leaning down to her ear, “is that I’m trying to decide whether or not friends can kiss each other.”

She winces. “You shouldn’t want to kiss me.”

Ouch. Did she have to wince? I mean, is the thought of kissing me actually painful? ’Cause that’s brutal. Forcing the biggest smile I can, I ask, “And why’s that?”

“You deserve so much better than me.”

Huh. So people
do
drop that line. “I see. We’re really going with, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”

She giggles as we come to another standstill, but there’s something under that giggle—something nervous, something unsure. I should probably regret even asking, but you only regret the chances you don’t take. She’s a chance worth taking.

She takes a step back, lacing her fingers together. “Here’s the thing,” she says. “I think that sometimes, people get so caught up in a moment that a kiss feels right. And even though both people really,
really
want it to happen, the time isn’t right.”

I gape at her. “Congratulations. You just put more thought into a kiss than anyone in the history of ever.”

She shrugs. “Maybe people should think more about them. Then so many hearts wouldn’t be broken.”

That actually makes a lot of sense.

“I like you,” she says with a tiny smile, and my heart slams against my chest. “I won’t even try to lie about that. You’re fun, and you’re sweet, and you’re, well, kind of hot.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” I ask, smirking. “You just called me hot. How am I supposed to look?”

She shakes her head, but her smile grows even more. “You’re also a good friend, and friends are safer. Right now, I need safe. I need a friend.” She takes a deep breath. “So can we do the friend thing?”

Safe is good. Friends are good. It’s better to be safe than sorry and all that. And getting slammed into the friend zone kind of sucks—okay, it really sucks—but I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all. “We can absolutely do the friend thing.”