Bisque was dripping from the front of his tweed jacket, the crushed plastic container still clutched against his chest. He looked down at himself and then back at me. “Pres? Is this some kind of Paladin thing? Was the soup poisoned or something?”
I didn’t answer; I was too busy looking for Blythe, but there was no sign of her. She was gone.
Dropping my hands to my knees, I bent forward, taking deep breaths, trying to slow the slamming of my heart.
“I thought you had a date tonight,” David said, and I don’t know why that’s the thing that did it. The tears that had pricked my eyes earlier suddenly came back full force, and to my absolute horror, I burst into tears.
“Whoa, whoa, Harper,” David said, the plastic container tumbling to the sidewalk. He gripped my arms, holding me slightly away from him and ducking his head to look into my face. “What happened?”
“I was on a date, but Ryan and I got in a fight, and he likes Mary Beth—MB—I think, but it’s like I don’t even c-care, which makes me a-a horrible person, and then I saw Blythe, or I thought I did, and I vandalized a fence, and now we smell bad, and that s-s-soup wasn’t poisoned, I just ran into you, and—”
I didn’t get any further before David carefully wrapped his arms around me. He held me like I was a bomb he was afraid was seconds from going off, keeping our bodies as far apart as he could while still technically hugging me.
“It’s okay,” he said, patting my back once. He apparently decided that was a good move because he did it a few more times. And the weird thing was, it was kind of a good move. I lowered my forehead to his tweed-covered shoulder and let myself be patted until my tears slowed to a trickle. A few weeks ago, if you had told me that being held in David Stark’s arms was one of the nicest things I’d ever feel, I wouldn’t have laughed at you. I would’ve been too busy choking on my own horror. But leaning against him, crying into his stupid tweed, I thought I could maybe stay there forever. It was such a relief to be able to sob and have someone know all the reasons why. Once I was calmer, I lifted my head to find David watching me with an expression I’d never seen before. Before I had time to figure it out, he turned behind him and opened the tea room door. “Well, I’m going to need another order of soup to go, so why don’t we go inside and have a cup of tea. Tea fixes stuff, right?”
I looked back across the square at the theater. Ryan was in there, waiting for me. Or sitting next to Mary Beth and not worrying about me at all. Besides, I smelled like crab.
So giving one last glance to the theater, I nodded and followed David inside.
Chapter 29
David and I sat at the same table in the corner where The Aunts and my mom had had lunch last week. Miss Annemarie brought us a stack of napkins along with our tea, and we both did our best to blot the bisque from our clothes. As we did, I told David about Blythe.
Taking a sip of his tea, he mulled that over. “So you think she was following you just to, uh, mess with you?”
I dropped a sugar cube into my Earl Grey. “I guess. If she was even there. And it’s okay, you can say the F-word.”
To my surprise, David shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve kind of become fond of the euphemisms. The other day, I said ‘mother trucker’ when I dropped a book on my toe, and I have to admit, it was every bit as satisfying as the actual curse.”
“See? I told you there were acceptable alternatives.”
Raising his tea cup in a salute, David inclined his head. “You were right.” Then he widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Hey! Saying that didn’t even burn my tongue! We’re making progress, Pres.”
I tossed one of the crumpled up napkins at him. “Ha ha.”
He tossed the napkin back, but there was a smile playing around his lips.
I sipped my tea, feeling the warmth of it in my toes. The tea room was always so overstuffed and tacky during the day, but at night, it felt cozy. There were tiny lamps in the middle of all of the tables, and we were the only people in the place. Everything smelled pleasantly spicy—well, everything except me and David—and the atmosphere was almost . . .
No, I wasn’t going to say romantic. There was nothing romantic about Miss Annemarie’s Tea Room. Or David Stark for that matter.
“What?” David asked. He was frowning slightly, the dim light making shadows underneath his cheekbones. There was the lightest smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose, and I wondered why I’d never noticed those before.
I looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You shook your head,” he said. “What were you saying no to?”
“Oh.” I took another sip of tea so that I wouldn’t have to answer right away. “I was thinking how crazy this night has been.”
Leaning back, David stretched his arms over his head. “Yeah, I was planning on eating crab bisque tonight, not being doused in it.”
“Oh, please. That jacket cost you what? Two bucks at Goodwill? I will never get the smell out of this sweater.”
David reached down and gripped the lapels of his jacket, straightening it. “Hey, I like this jacket.”
“That makes one of us,” I replied, tucking my hair behind my ears.
David and I had been snarking at each other since we learned how to talk, but tonight, our barbs seemed less pointed. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them affectionate or anything, but there was a definite lack of sting.
“We need to tell Saylor about tonight,” I told David.
He was turning his tea cup around in his hands, steam drifting up to fog his glasses. “I will, when I get home.”
Silence stretched between us. Not awkward, really, but heavy somehow. Laden with something I couldn’t name. “I’m sure he doesn’t like her,” David said.
“What?”
“Ryan,” he clarified before draining his cup. “You said you think he likes Mary Beth. I bet you’re wrong.”
“Oh, right. That.” Now that the moment had passed, I felt my cheeks flame at the memory of how I’d vomited up all of my feelings out there on the sidewalk. I should’ve just told him Blythe freaked me out. There was no need to drag my personal life into all of this.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mary Beth is . . . well, she’s not objectionable or anything, but she’s not . . .”
My hands were tight around the tea cup, the heat radiating on my palms. “She’s not what?”
David tugged at his lapels again before leaning back in his chair. “You.”
The lamplight shone on David’s glasses, but behind them, his eyes were very blue and intent, and then I suddenly couldn’t meet them anymore.
Thank God for Miss Annemarie who chose that moment to waddle over to the table, a plastic bag in hand. “Here you go, sweetie,” she told David, handing him the soup. “Try to be more careful with this batch. I’m closing up now, so this is your last chance.”
“Oh, r-right,” David said, fumbling slightly with the bag. “Thanks, Miss Annemarie.”
Our tea was gone, so we both got to our feet, thanking Miss Annemarie again. “Don’t mention it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s nice to have young people in here at night for once. Most of the other kids, they all go somewhere fancy on their dates. Like Ruby Tuesday.”
I waited for David to insist we weren’t on a date, but he gave Miss Annemarie a little smile and a nod. I didn’t say anything either, and, as weird as it seems, it was like by letting Miss Annemarie think it was a date, it had somehow . . . become a date.
I shook my head again. Crazy thought. Stupid.
After the warmth of Miss Annemarie’s, the square seemed even colder. I shivered a little as the breeze made my still-damp sweater cling to my body.
“Here,” David said, handing me the takeout bag. “Hold this.”
I did, and he slipped out of his tweed, revealing an actually halfway decent button-down dress shirt underneath. He slid the coat over my shoulders before taking the bag back.
“Thanks,” I said, a little awkwardly. I never thought I would be grateful for the scent of crab bisque, but as I pulled the coat tighter around me, I was glad that was all I could smell. I felt weird enough as it was without adding nice boy smell to the mix.
David and I walked down the sidewalk, our arms a few inches apart.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” he asked as we passed the antique store.
“I should probably get back to the theater,” I said. “Ryan . . .”
I let that trail off, and David shoved his hands in his pockets. “Right. Ryan.”
We had reached David’s car by now, but both of us were sort of hovering beside it. “So,” he said.
“So.”
David rocked on his heels, frowning slightly. “Is it me, or are we being weird?”
I laughed, nerves making it sound high and thin. “We are being weird. Which is saying something for us.”
Grinning, David let his shoulders drop a little. “Okay, good. It’s only . . . I should’ve said something to Miss Annemarie about us not being on a date, but—”
“No,” I rushed into say, slipping my arms into his jacket. “That would’ve been awkward, too, and probably bad manners to correct her.”
“Right!” he said, a little too loud. “It would’ve made her feel bad, and we don’t want to do that. Not when she’s made me delicious soup. Twice.”
“Exactly,” I said, feeling like my voice was a little too loud, too.
His mouth lifted in a half-grin, revealing a flash of teeth and making me realize for the first time that David Stark had surprisingly nice cheekbones. “You actually look pretty good in tweed, Pres,” he joked, reaching out to straighten the lapel of my—his— jacket.
“No one looks good in tweed,” I insisted, going to push his hand away. But as I did, our skin touched, and the little pulse that went through me had nothing to do with prophecies or magic.
David must have felt it too because his eyes suddenly dropped to my mouth. I saw him swallow.
Oh my God, David Stark wants to kiss me. In public. In the middle of the street.
I waited to be horrified by that thought, but for some reason, horror wasn’t coming. Neither was awkwardness or being freaked out or any of the other perfectly acceptable reactions to David Freaking Stark wanting to kiss me.
Instead, I felt myself swaying forward a little on the balls of my feet. But before anything profoundly stupid could happen, a car drove by, some country song blaring out the windows, and David and I stepped away from each other.
My heart was pounding, and I shoved my shaking hands into the pockets of the jacket. “Okay,” I said at last. “So I’m going to go back to the theater, and you go home and eat soup and talk to Saylor about Blythe, and I’ll see you Monday.”
David wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, rubbing the back of his head so that even the hair there stood up. “Monday,” he repeated, jangling his keys in his pocket. “And speaking of, do you think Bee could maybe sit out on training that day?”