Chapter 10 #2
“Edward?” I ask, one eye still on the frog. “Like from Twilight?” Honestly, my sisters plague me with those damn movies whenever they can.
Sarah, however, sniffs as though she’s smelled something foul. “Certainly not.” She gives the frog a loving smile and sets him back on her shoulder. “Edward, as in Edward Hopper.”
“Ah. Because of the hopping. Cute.”
They both give me a look of disdain.
“Because he’s an artist.” She motions toward a framed painting. It’s a white canvas covered in a rainbow of squiggly smudges, presumably made by a paint-covered Edward hopping around with glee. But what do I know? Maybe he holds a paintbrush too.
Swallowing hard, I nod with due gravity. “You must be very proud.”
A snuffle, like a laugh quickly smothered, sounds to my right where Pen sits. I don’t look that way. If I make eye contact with her, I’m going to lose it. I doubt Sarah’s mood will improve if I crack up laughing in her living room.
I shift my weight on my feet, edging just a little bit away. But I’m ready to spring if shifty-eyed Edward does. It’s a game of chicken now. Sweat breaks out on my lower back.
Sarah doesn’t fill the silence but looks at me expectantly. Okay, then.
“So, how does his little hat stay on?” I push a smile. “Let me guess. Magic?”
Her upper lip curls. “Another comedian.” She shoots an accusatory glance at Pen, then thankfully moves away, heading for the back hall.
“His hat stays on with a little elastic band, of course.” The orange of her ponytail swings with her stride.
“Maybe try being less of a funny guy and concentrate more on playing football.”
At that, she stops and glares at me from over her shoulder. Edward does too. “True fans are counting on you, Luck.”
Unable to help myself, I give her a quick salute. Her eyes narrow, but she leaves without saying anything other than, “Turn off the record player when it’s done, Pen.”
As soon as she’s gone, I let out a breath and finally look at Pen. “She seems nice.”
“She has her moods but she’s okay.”
“I admit, I was not expecting the frog.”
Her laughter sounds so good and warm, my lingering tension vanishes. “No one does. I think she gets off on disarming people with him.”
She picks up her dishes, and I follow her into the kitchen. “I can’t believe it keeps the hat on.”
Pen grins wide, her brown eyes alight as she puts her plate and fork in the dishwasher. “I couldn’t either at first. But she’s got dozens of them.”
“Frogs?” The horror.
“Hats.” Pen laughs. “Cowboy hats, baseball caps, boaters, derbys, newsboy caps . . . you name it.”
“Dear God.”
“It’s cute.”
“If you say so.” I suppress a shudder.
“You don’t like the hats?”
“Frogs. They give me the willies. But don’t tell your roommate.”
“Oh, really?” The question is filled with glee. I would expect no less.
“Jan hid one in my football kit when I was thirteen. And I didn’t find it until I got dressed.” My skin crawls at the memory of that clammy frog wriggling over my torso in a desperate bid for freedom. “I don’t know who was more upset, me or the frog. But the fear remains.”
She makes a sound of sympathy. “I’d be scarred for life too. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets, I lean against the counter. “Why did Sarah say ‘another comedian’? Have other guys said the same?”
I’d like to think I’m subtle here, but I doubt it. Then again, Pen simply shakes her head, clearly not getting my query into the topic of any guys she may or may not have dated.
“No. She meant me.” Her eyes light up again with humor. “When I met Edward, I asked if it was magic that made his hat stay on.”
This pleases me more than it probably should. “It’s a perfectly logical conclusion. Anyone who can get a frog to dress in hats and stay put has to be practicing some sort of magic.”
“Exactly!”
We share a grin but then I shoot a wary glance toward the way Sarah exited. “He stays put, right?”
Pen pats my arm kindly. “Don’t worry, Pickle. If he hops out here to have a word, I’ll protect you.”
“Ah, Sweets, I knew I could count on you to save me.”
I thought it would make her smile some more, but her happy expression dims.
“Speaking of that,” she begins in a tone that sets off alarm bells in my head.
She’s going to turn me down. I know it. Before she can get another word out, I take her hand. “Let’s go for a walk and talk.”
When her brows draw together, I give her hand a gentle tug. “Come on. I need to be far away from Frogville. And I’m in the mood for a hike.”
“Huh.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing, really. I was planning to go on a hike today, is all.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.” I take her hand again. My fingers curl over hers and something deep inside of me seems to click into place. And for one thick moment, I just want to stay right here and hold on. The feel of her hand in mine centers me. I like it. A lot.
Oblivious to my turmoil, Pen makes a sound of amused exasperation. “Wait, wait. I’ve got to change first.”
For the first time since I got here, I notice her clothes.
She’s wearing an oversize ivory T-shirt with Murder, She Wrote printed in gold across her chest and tiny frayed jean shorts.
I swallow hard. Pen’s legs are slim and pale with ankles so delicately thin, I could easily wrap my thumb and forefinger around them.
Lust tightens my core with unexpected speed and strength.
It’s far too easy to imagine sliding my hands up those smooth legs and wrapping them around my waist.
My breath punches out in a gust. “You look perfect.”
It’s clear she doesn’t believe me. But I don’t give her too much time to think about it. Instead, I hustle her out of the kitchen and ask where her shoes are. Trained or not, there’s a Mad Hatter frog on the loose in this place and we need to get out of it as soon as humanly possible.
“Stop rushing me,” she grouches. “I know you’re doing it so I won’t argue with you on my choice of attire.”
Choice of attire. She’s too adorable for words.
“You caught me. Now my dastardly plan is foiled.” I glance around. “You got a purse or something?”
“I have a bag, which I’m going to get ready,” she corrects, one delicate eyebrow raised in affront. “And you can hold your horses.”
“I love it when you talk grandma to me.”
“Being cute won’t help your case either.”
“But you love it when I’m cute.”
God, I hope she does; I need all the help I can get.
Thankfully, Pen huffs with a smile and heads for her room.
A lack of denial means she agrees with me.
That’s what I’m sticking to, at any rate.
I watch her go. Her posture is prim straight and correct, but her peachy butt sways like a pendulum.
I want to take a bite out of it, out of her.
I settle for stopping the record and putting it back in its sleeve.
I have no idea if the massive collection of records is Pen’s or her roommate’s, but I’m guessing the latter.
Hovering by the front door in case I need to escape a sneak frog attack, I try to see anything of Pen here.
I can’t. Pen’s true place is back at her grandparents’ house.
Not that there’s any of her things there either, but she can make it her own.
I want that for her, and I want to be there to witness the whole thing.
The trick is convincing her to let it happen.