“That you, er…like me,” she whispers.
I count to eight. “Celine. WHY WOULD I NOT BE SURE?”
“Well, I don’t know!” She throws up her hands. “This all just seems very out of the blue—”
“It is not—”
“We’ve only been friends again for forty-nine days,” she says, then adds guiltily, “give or take.”
I stare. “You’ve been counting?”
She lifts her chin, defensive. “Haven’t you?”
“Well, of course I’ve been counting. That’s my thing! I count things! And I like you, remember? What have you been counting for?”
She folds her arms and shrugs.
I cannot believe this. I cannot believe this. “YOU LIKE ME BACK.”
“Shut up!” she whispers. “Your brother is probably lurking outside like a sneaky alligator.”
I’m so busy losing my mind I don’t even have time to enjoy the nonsense coming out of her mouth. “Why the hell did you decide to argue with me about this? You impossible human being! Do you realize we could’ve been making out this whole time?”
Her whole body perks up like a meerkat. “Well, do you want to?”
“Of course I want to! Why do you think I even said anything?”
“Your heart was burning with tender sentiment?” she suggests dryly.
God, she is so annoyingly fantastic. “I was being assertive.”
“I see.” She considers this for a second. “My turn?”
This takes the wind out of my sails and I finally absorb the truth: the person I like simultaneously likes me back, and anyone who’s ever liked anyone knows that that almost never happens. Also, the person is Celine, which is like adding rocket fuel to a firework. Or to me. There is rocket fuel in me. “Okay,” I say, but what I mean is: Yes, definitely your turn, do something please, right now.
She bites her lip and grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. Closer. To her. I shuffle over with all the grace and dignity of a Labrador puppy. My right knee touches her left. She leans into me and she smells like a holiday. I can see the texture of her skin. I can count her eyelashes. I can—
“Brad,” she says softly, smiling, for real this time. “You’re supposed to close your eyes.”
But she’s so pretty. “You first.”
“On three.”
I’m laughing as we count. One, two, three. My world is dark and Celine-scented. I feel her breath against my mouth as she speaks.
“You’re right,” she says. “I do like you too.”
Fuck yeah.
“We should talk about it,” she continues, and this time I think I feel the slightest brush of her lips against mine. Sensation glitters in my stomach. She’s going to murder me.
“You’re volunteering to talk about something?” I rasp, trying to sound amused and unaffected and seriously missing the mark. “You really do like me.”
“Smartarse,” she mutters. Then she very gently presses her lips to mine—only for a second, the single softest second of my life. An electric shock runs from my head to my toes and I’m vibrating with it.
“More,” I tell her, and put a hand on her cheek. The curve fits my palm perfectly.
I feel her smile. “Okay.”
This time, I kiss her. Longer. Harder. Her mouth is warm and silky and her breaths come quick. My brain falls out of my head. She holds my wrist again, and I can feel my pulse against her fingers, and it is very fast.
I should’ve been doing this for the last five thousand—
“Dad!” Mason shouts. “Brad’s having sex!”
Great: my brother has arrived, right on schedule, to ruin my life. I jerk away from Celine, stomp over to the slightly ajar door （that absolute pervert freak）， and shove it wide open. Mason’s already running downstairs.
I turn around. Celine’s eyes are wide and unfocused, her chest is heaving, and for a second, I forget to be pissed because I’m very pleased with myself.
“Hey,” I murmur.
She blinks hard, presses her lips together, and stands up. “Crap. We should…go downstairs.”
“Probably.” I’m going to creep into Mason’s room tonight and smother him while he sleeps.
As we head out onto the landing, our elbows touch. Something zips up my stomach. Cel slides me a scandalized sideways look and rubs her arm like I just bit her.
My own arm tingles. “I really like you.”
“Shhh.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at me and leads the way downstairs. “I don’t want your dad to hear!”
Aw. She’s so easily embarrassed but trust me; Dad’s going to love this. Celine is one of his favorite people. Still, I keep my mouth shut because she’s spooked, and I know feelings aren’t her thing. We just had a moment and now she needs space. （God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.）
We reach the kitchen in adult silence and find Dad chopping spring onions at the island while staring at us with raised eyebrows （which is very poor kitchen safety; eyes on the knife, Dad）。
“Hi,” I say.
His eyebrows somehow get higher.
“Obviously,” I announce, “Mason is a liar.”
Mason, who is eating a rice cake over the sink, says, “Mo am mot.” Crumbs spray across the front of his red Notts Forest shirt.
I eye him in disgust. “How are we related?”
He flips black curls out of his narrowed eyes. “You’re afopded.”
Dad sighs heavily. “Mason, don’t talk with your mouth full, stop tormenting your brother, and go upstairs.”
Mason snorts and heads for the door.
“By the way,” Dad calls after him, “you’re not going to no party tonight.”
Mason whirls around. “What?”
“Remember our discussion,” Dad reminds him, “about what good men do and do not say about ladies?”
Aha! Yes! I remember this! He is so screwed.
“I wasn’t talking about Celine!” Mason wails. “I was talking about Brad!”
“But you were talking about Celine,” I say solemnly. “You were violating her bodily autonomy with misogynistic lies for your own ends, Mason. You were treating her as collateral damage in a war between brothers. Mum is going to be so disappointed in you when she gets home.”
Mason sputters. Celine looks very much like she is biting her tongue bloody, trying not to laugh. Dad seems amused, but he rolls his eyes and says, “That’s enough, thank you, Bradley. Mason, go upstairs.”
Mason huffs and stomps away.
“Now,” Dad says seriously, doing that I Am Being Parental thing he does with his face. “You two. What’s going on?”
He’s asking a direct question and meeting my eyes. I try to mentally solder my jaw together, but I can already feel myself cracking under the fatherly pressure. “On? What do you mean? Nothing is…going.” What is this sentence missing? Oh yeah. “…On,” I add.
Celine eyes me like I’ve been abducted and replaced with a Brad-shaped scarecrow. Then she says, “I should head home. I told Giselle I’d make dinner tonight. Bye, Trev.” She flicks an almost shy glance at me. “Um. Bye, Brad.” Then she scurries off.