Page 18 of The Design of Goodbye
“Are you okay?” asked Liam.
Concerned, he stared at me. All I could concentrate on were his eyes: dark brown around the edges that turned lighter around the pupil. They were theperfectshade, and I could not stop staring.
What was wrong with me?
“I thought I saw a spider,” I lied. “But it was fuzz.”
His lips curved up like he was going to laugh, but he didn’t, and I tried not to be disappointed. When he turned back to finish his review, I silently started panicking. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was cute. Liam Strom wascute. He moved, and the minty scent was back. And crap, I loved Christmas.
“Where do you work?” My question came out louder than I’d intended, but my new revelation shocked me. Liam wasnotmy type. Boys with blond hair and blue eyes were my type.
Right?
Nerdy boys with brown hair and glasses were most definitelynot.
Were they?
He finished reviewing one of my answers before responding, “The Fresh Market.”
“My dad shops there all the time. He’s obsessed with your fresh banana bread. He’s been begging employees for the recipe for years, but they say it’s a secret,” I said. “Do you know the recipe?”
“I do. But I can’t say.”
“Please?” I pouted. “We’ll keep it a secret. Promise.”
“Nope, sorry. I signed a form promising I’d never tell.”
“There’sno waythat’s actually a thing.”
“It is. Trust me.” He flipped to the last question in my packet and squinted at my scribbled answer. Most of my answers were scribbles because I’d been too shy to ask for help after the first five times. When he was done reviewing the last problem, he asked, “Do you work?”
“At Invisible Thread. It’s a tailor shop.”
He was impressed. “So, you can sew.”
“I guess. At least, probably better than you.”
“Definitely better than me.”
“Why’d you agree to tutor me?” I’d been wondering this since that day in Mrs. Webb’s office. “You have even less free time than me, and you’re not getting paid.”
“Mrs. Webb thought it would be a good distraction.”
I perked up. “Distraction from what?”
He adjusted his glasses. “Life, I guess.”
“What about life are you trying to forget?”
“It’s getting late,” he started, “and we still have a lot to do. Let’s go over the problems you got wrong.”
“Okay.”
But I didn’t pay attention. I kept staring at him instead.
chapter eight
