The Sweetest Thing (12 page)

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He smiles. “Don’t worry. Give me ten minutes, and you’ll be begging me to let you drive. Come on. Get in.”

I hesitate, still back by the BMW.

“You know I’m a very trustworthy individual,” he says in a mock serious tone.

My feet walk me over to the open car door. “Hmm . . .

that’s not the story I’ve been told.” I slide into the car, and he leans in, grabs my seat belt, pulls it across my lap.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, okay?” He’s so close I can smell his shampoo. I attempt a cool smile. If I leaned forward, our lips would touch.

He closes my door, crosses over to the driver’s side, and slips behind the wheel. The garage door inches open as he sticks the key in the ignition and revs the engine. We pull out with a loud
vroom
, announcing to the entire town that I, Sheridan Wells, am skipping school and going who knows where in a bright red sports car with a boy that I really just met.

Ethan turns the car around in the circular drive and peels out onto the street. School, the restaurant, my mother, the TV show, even my cakes—they’re all dropping away behind us. This is a scary, out-of-control sensation, like jump-ing from an airplane. I might be petrified that the chute won’t open, but the free fall is awesome.

Ethan shifts gears like a race car driver as we climb up-hill, still-dormant trees passing by in a blur.

“You’re not worried, are you?” Ethan asks.

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“No.” That’s a lie, but I am trying to relax. I may never get an opportunity like this again, and I don’t want to waste it. “I’m not worried at all.”

His profile is so handsome that it’s all I can do not to reach out and trace it with my finger. Mr. Roz, who doesn’t speak English very well, likes to use the phrase, “the greatest thing since sliced bread.” He usually uses it in the wrong context. But those are the words that come to mind as I fix Ethan in my peripheral vision.

And it’s so true, really. I mean, where would we be as a society without sliced bread? It makes life so easy. No matter how crazy things get, you can always slap two slices of bread together, make a sandwich, and go.

Yep. Sliced bread. Best thing ever.

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Ethan drives and talks, a lot, which gives me some time to pull myself together. I remind myself that I am not shy.

Ethan is just a boy (though an incredibly hot one), and I am not afraid of boys. I can do this!

“You have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.

“Nope. Just me,” I say. “You?”

He tells me about his half sister, who lives in Paris, down the street from the Cordon Bleu. After he graduates, he wants to go to school there and learn how to cook. “Yeah, I’ve got half siblings all over, but I pretty much function as an only child.” He revs the engine as we climb a steep hill.

“When did you start cooking?” I ask, relieved that I am no longer mute around him.

“I was eleven when my dad left and my mom was always working. When I got home from school, she wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything. She thought he’d abduct me or something. So I stayed home and watched cooking shows.

After a while, I started trying some of the recipes on my own.”

I picture him as a kid, all alone in a fancy kitchen, cooking for just himself. Kind of sad.

“What about you? When did you become Cake Girl?”

I laugh at the way he says “Cake Girl,” all loud and echo-ey like it’s a superhero name.

“My mom started teaching me when I was little.” I smile, remembering. “She could make anything out of cake. She got me into it. And my grandmother, too. Then when I was like twelve, I started doing it on my own.”

“You love it?”

I look out my window; I’ve lost track of where we are.

“Yeah, I do.” If I knew him better, I might tell him more.

Like how sometimes when I’m decorating cakes, I can almost feel Mom there with me. And how I worry that if I ever stopped, I would lose her forever. But I keep that to myself, for now.

He rounds a corner fast. I hold onto the door handle.

“What kind of food do you cook?” I ask, trying not to watch as he zooms around blind corners.

“Just about anything. No cakes, though.” He winks at me. “But French, Southwestern, Italian. I make a mean clam linguini.” He suddenly shifts the car into a lower gear and 121

turns onto a small, one-lane road. “What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

“I guess I’ll run the bakery, eventually.”

“No college?”

“No, my father will make me go. But I can go to Grand Valley State and still live at home.”

Ethan’s head flips toward me. “You serious? I thought your dad was gonna have a show. Aren’t you gonna move to New York or L.A. or something?”

“Not me. I like it here,” I say, desperately searching for a change of subject.

“Really?” He sneers. “What’s to like? Just a bunch of nosy freaks and pain-in-the-ass tourists.”

I pick at the edge of my seat, like a little kid. Then I realize that this is not cheap fake leather, so I stop. “It’s not so bad here.”

“No, not if you like hick towns.”

Most of the kids I know feel the same way about St.

Mary, like it’s the most boring place on the face of the earth.

But to me it’s perfect.

“Seriously, the only thing that town has going for it is your dad,” Ethan continues.

“My dad?” I can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah. Your dad. He is an awesome chef. Last week, I had his veal marsala. Oh my God, best I’ve ever eaten.

And I’ve eaten everywhere—in Paris, Rome . . . Your dad is phenomenal.”

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“All right, all right. Jeez, why don’t you marry him?” I laugh and roll my eyes.

“You know, if he looked like you, I might consider it.”

He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh. I peek down at it, just resting there, on my leg. Not believing this is happening. He moves it off to shift gears, but I can feel its imprint.

“You don’t know how good you’ve got it, Cake Girl. And a TV show? Man, that’s crazy.”

My fingers twine together and I shrug. “I’m actually pretty happy the way things are.”

“Come on. You don’t really think that.”

Actually, I do. Or I will, once I talk to Mom and convince Dad to say no to New York City. I twist my hips in the seat to face Ethan. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

He smiles and makes another turn, this time onto a narrow gravel road. At the entrance is a sign that says cree-kwood in fancy letters, and below that, no trespassing, private property.

My eyes follow the sign as we pass, and I silently pray that I won’t end up in jail by nightfall. “Where are we?”

“This is my dad’s place. Don’t worry, he’s in Milan.” He stops the car and points to the snowy hillside, thick with bare trees. “Look at that.”

I follow his finger to a family of deer in the woods.

“They’re hungry . . . probably sicker of this weather than we are.”

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That’s when he turns to me, our faces so close now that I wonder if he might kiss me. And then he tilts his head to one side and wrinkles an eyebrow. “Why haven’t we met before?”

He moves closer and I smile.

There’s a sudden thunderstorm in my head. Nanny’s been lecturing me about this for years, ever since I was twelve and Lori was caught French-kissing a boy under the bleachers at school. I asked Nan what French kissing was, and man, she gave me the Baptist “boys are evil” lecture of a lifetime.

Her exact final words: “It’s simple. Your body is a temple, youngin’. Don’t go lettin’ any boy deface your temple. You will regret it.” I was twelve and had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

But it’s clearer now. With Ethan. Does he want to deface me? Do I want to be defaced? Okay, this is the weirdest train of thought ever. He’s close, moving closer. There is nothing simple about this. Nothing simple at all.

“What are you thinking about? Cakes?” I can almost taste his words. He lifts a hand, touches my cheek, brushes my hair back.

“No.” A little giggle escapes. “Not exactly.”

Then his lips come closer, and I know it’s going to happen. Those lips touch mine, light and sweet. No big deal.

Only it’s a hugely big deal. It’s my first real kiss, and I can’t even believe it’s coming from the mouth of Ethan Murphy.

He pauses, then pulls away, leaving my smiling face hanging in midair. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long 124

time,” he says. Then he faces forward and guns the engine, moving us up the hill.

Really? I wonder how long he could have possibly been wanting to do that. Before the day he came into the bakery, I thought I was invisible to him.

I tell myself to stop it. Just be happy. My first kiss is under my belt, and from the most gorgeous guy on the planet.

I let out a big internal “whee!” and try not to worry about what will happen next.

He doesn’t speak as the steep hill evens out into a circular driveway in front of a cabin. It’s another huge house, built onto a bluff. Ethan puts the car in park, gets out. “Let me go shut off the alarm.”

I emerge from the passenger seat, still feeling the kiss, the weight of those lips. I walk to the edge of the driveway and glimpse, far below me, Lake Michigan. I’ve never seen it like this, from so high up, surrounded by tall, dense forest, churning and reaching beyond the horizon. It’s beautiful.

I have this crazy thought that maybe we took one of those turns too fast and collided with a truck or something, and now I’m dead. I think this would make a pretty good heaven.

Ethan comes back, stands at my side.

“This is so beautiful.” I can’t think of anything more profound to say.

“Yeah. It’s my favorite place.”

I choose to ignore the fact that I’m probably not the first 125

girl he’s brought here. In fact, Haley may have been the last.

“Let me cook for you?”

That sounds relatively innocent. I nod. “Sounds good.

Clam linguini?”

“Of course.”

I stare out at the lake. I’ve got this insane feeling that I might cry. I am so happy. But I concentrate really hard and push that feeling back. Crying right now would maybe be the dumbest thing ever.

Ethan leans toward me and grabs my hand, and I turn to him. Before I know what’s happening, our lips are touching again, and all I can think is,
Am I doing this right?
I want to savor the moment, but I’m so unprepared. Two kisses in ten minutes is a lot to handle. I think of big movie love scenes and try hard to pretend I’m one of those stars who make it look so easy. His lips are soft and his mouth tastes tooth-paste-y. But I’m not keeping up with him. He pulls away first. Not a good sign.

“Come on.” As he gently pulls me toward the giant house in front of us, my cell rings in my pocket.

“It’s Lori.”

“Who?” he asks. Of course, he doesn’t know my friends.

I pull the phone out, hit Ignore. But a few seconds pass and I’m hearing her ringtone again.

“What’s up with her?” he says, opening the door to this amazing house.

I press the phone to my ear. “Hey.” I try to sound irritated. But by now she knows I didn’t come to school. I’ve got 126

some explaining to do.

“Hey yourself, nerd. You’d better get your butt back here.

They let us out of school. The Monster finally croaked.”

“What?” I say, in shock.

“You heard me.”

The Monster, the legendary ancient furnace at the high school, is dead?

“They let us out early, Sher. And if your dad or Nanny catches wind of it, they’ll wonder where you are. By the way, where are you?”

“Um. Sick?”

“Don’t even. I was right inside the front doors waiting for you with a muffin. Saw the whole thing. So did Jack. We were late. Got detention.”

So much for being sneaky. I suck at it. Ethan walks inside the house, but I haven’t made it over the threshold.

“Not that I have anything against you getting a little action,” Lori continues. “But consider yourself warned.”

“I can’t come back now,” I say, even though I know that I have to.

Ethan returns and leans on the door. “Come in,” he mouths, and disappears inside.

I shake my head. Lori’s right; the St. Mary telegraph will get me in the end. My father will find out.
What was
I thinking?

“Hello?” Lori says, then laughs. “You do anything you regret yet?”

“Good-bye.” I flip my phone down, and Ethan is back in 127

the doorway, holding a saucepan. My mouth contorts into an embarrassed grin. “I’ve got to get back. The furnace died.

School’s out.”

His arm drops to his side. “Why? You’re not skipping if there’s no school, right?”

I scrunch my eyes up, and I hope, hope, hope that he’ll understand. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be in so much trouble if I get caught. I can’t get in trouble now …”

Before I can finish my sentence, he turns around and walks away. “Fine,” he says, over his shoulder.

“Sorry.”

He carries the pan into the depths of the house, which I still haven’t entered, and comes back empty-handed. He moves to the alarm pad on the wall and resets it, then comes outside without a word. As he descends the porch steps and gets into the car, he won’t even look at me. I follow, arms crossed.

I slip into the passenger side. He doesn’t help me with my seat belt this time; just waits for me to close the door. The engine roars and he backs up, turns around, and speeds off down the hill, kicking up dead leaves like a tornado.

He doesn’t talk, and I feel this dream going bad really fast. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like this. There’s something really important I’m trying to do, and if I’m grounded for eternity, it won’t happen.”

He twitches his head toward me. Maybe he can tell this is important, because his eyes soften, and I feel like maybe 128

we’re okay again.

“Sounds pretty mysterious.” He laughs. If he asks me now, I will tell him about bringing my mom back and convincing a major TV network that we don’t need to live in New York City. But he doesn’t ask. “Whatever. I was just looking forward to spending some time with you.”