Read Online Hard to Get by Emma Carlson Berne - Free Book Online Page B

Shakespeare, so he made this garden like it would have been in Shakespeare’s time, same flowers, everything. My dad’s a contractor—he did some renovations on the house, that’s how I know.” He paused as if something had occurred to him. “Hey, what are you doing back here?”
    â€œWhat? I, um, back here?” I fumbled, still caught up in the whole Shakespeare thing. What a weird coincidence. “Uh, just taking a break, you know. Getting some air. Heh-heh.” I let out a weird little laugh.
    But Adam didn’t seem to notice anything strange. “So,” he said, shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You want to go back to the torture chamb—oops, I mean, party?”
    I giggled and he grinned.
    â€œSure,” I said.
    He drew his hand out of his pocket, and at the same time, a piece of crumpled paper dropped to the ground.
    â€œHey, you dropped something,” I said. I reached for it and cracked my forehead against his as he bent down at the same time. “Ow!” I straightened up fast, rubbing my head.
    â€œUh, thanks,” Adam said, quickly reaching for the paper. “I got it—” His voice faltered as I smoothed it out. “That’s nothing, just some scribbles …” I stared at the rough charcoal sketch. My own face stared back at me.
    I looked from the sketch to Adam and back again. “This is me,” I pointed out. He had drawn me in profile, my ponytail curling over one shoulder. I was leaning forward, my chin resting in my hands, flowers and vines swirling behind me. I looked up at Adam again. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or creeped out.
    Adam cleared his throat. “I was sitting here and I saw you come in but you didn’t see me and you were sitting there on the bench, so …” He blushed. “I don’t know. So I just sketched you. I don’t know. Sorry.” He held out his hand to take the paper back but I held on to it. He didn’t seem that creepy, I decided, just shy and awkward.
    â€œCan I keep it?” I asked. “No one’s ever drawn a picture of me before.”
    His eyes widened. “Sure,” he said.
    â€œThanks.” I slid the paper into my back pocket. Then I noticed the purple swelling on his forehead. “You’re getting a giant bump.”
    â€œSo are you,” he said. Only then did I feel the throbbing on my own forehead. I brushed my fingers over the hard swelling.
    â€œIt hurts,” I confessed.
    â€œLet’s go get some ice for it,” Adam suggested.
    I followed him down the path toward Kelly’s. Inside the house, the vast stainless-steel kitchen was deserted. I banged cabinets, looking for dishcloths, while Adam extracted ice cubes from the freezer.
    I studied his hands as we held little matching bundles of damp blue-striped dishcloth to our heads. Long fingers, knobby knuckles. Then he shifted his grip on the ice and I noticed with a shiver that he was missing the tip of his ring finger on his left hand.
    â€œSo, what were you, an FBI informant in your previous life?” I teased. He looked at me, startled.
    â€œWhat?”
    I pointed at his missing fingertip. “That’s a gruesome injury, I have to say.”
    He lowered his ice bundle and glanced at his hand. “Oh, that. Yeah, I was wearing a wire and the Mafia realized it.”
    I laughed. Adam grinned. “Um, yeah, Isliced it off cutting mats last year,” he said, dumping the ice in the sink and pitching the dishcloth on the counter. “It was great—I bled all over my junior project.”
    I shivered. “Ick. Did you freak out?”
    â€œYeah, it was kind of freaky. But I had a great excuse for postponing my calc final.”
    We laughed. Adam gently removed my bag of ice and inspected the bump on my forehead. My face tingled as his fingers brushed my skin and I suddenly thought of the GNBP. Was this a violation?
    No, I