Adorkable(8)
I wrote down Becks’s quote, making a side note to include it in my next article, while the girl who’d caught Becks’s jersey gripped the shirt to her heart and pretended to faint.
At least, I hoped it was pretend.
CHAPTER 3
“Becks, not so high! You’ll drop it.”
An eye roll. “Relax, Sal, I do this every night.”
Looking at the frilly cooking apron he wore, I raised a brow. “You wear pink lace every night? Wow, Becks. After all these years, the truth finally comes out.”
“If that’s a dig at my masculinity, you know it won’t work.” Becks tossed the dough higher, grinning as I gasped. “Why do you make me wear this anyway?”
Because only one thing beat a shirtless Becks: Becks wearing a hot pink number, featuring “Kiss the Cook” on his chest, making pizza for me and my mom. After practice, he’d followed me home so we could hang out before he went to work. Mom wouldn’t be back for a couple hours because of a consultation in Bixby. Becks made dinner for us at least once a week. The apron was just a bonus. It’d been a gift to Mom, but even she’d said it looked better on Becks. Which reminded me…
“My mom thinks you’re hot.”
He almost missed the dough for real this time, saving it just before it hit the ground. The look on his face was priceless.
Recovering, he said, “That’s nice.” Dropping the dough on a pan, he pushed at the edges and started rolling the crust.
“Nice?” I repeated. “Don’t you mean weird? Creepy? All kinds of wrong?”
Cutting me a sideways glance, he said, “Why are you getting so worked up?”
“I’m not,” I lied. My mother was hitting on the one guy I’d secretly loved forever. No big. Who’d get upset over a little thing like that?
“At least we know Martha has good taste.”
“Becks!”
He laughed as I crossed my arms. Once he’d sauced and topped the dough off with cheese, pepperoni and pineapple, Becks popped it in the oven, set the timer, then came over and mimicked my stance. He was grinning, but I refused to crack.
“Speaking of taste,” he said after a beat, “what’s with this music?”
“Classic ‘80s,” I sniffed. “If you don’t like it, feel free to switch the station.”
“No, I like it.” Becks nudged my shoulder. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I agreed, a smile touching my lips. Becks and I had gone through the same ‘80s phase every kid goes through. A lesser-known rite of passage.
“I seem to remember you having a thing for that guy in that dance movie.”
“I had a thing for his dancing,” I snorted. “And don’t act like you don’t know his name.”
Sighing, Becks ran a hand through his hair. “I won’t deny it. I wanted to be Swayze.”
“Hmm,” I said, taking in Becks’s Swayze blue eyes, the thick dark lashes. “I seem to remember you wearing black t-shirts and slacks for two months straight. I’m thinking you were the one with the crush.”
“I—” Becks froze as the song that was playing ended and a familiar one began. It was as if the radio was tuned into our conversation. “Wanna dance, Sal?”
“You sure?” I said back. “Sixth grade was a while ago.”
“Yeah, but you forced me to practice every day for four months straight.” Before I could remind him that he’d been the one to insist we practice so much (Becks’d always been a perfectionist; one of the reasons he rocked in sports and academics), he smiled, held out a hand. “I think I can manage.”
Taking his hand, I assumed the position. Becks at my back, he placed my arm behind his neck, fingertips doing a slow glide down my arm, the side of my ribs, to my waist. I tried (and failed) not to shiver. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
Learning the final dance from Dirty Dancing had been tough. We’d practiced long hours at my house until we had the moves. The difference between the sixth grade talent show and now, though, was embarrassingly obvious. I hadn’t expected his touch to affect me the way it did. I mean, I’d always been in love with him, but when you’re eleven things are just different. Mom had had to skip the naughty bits so we could watch the movie for goodness sake. The lyrics to “Time of My Life” were as innocent as ever. But I was so aware of him. His grip on my hip, the way he led me across the kitchen floor. Those eyes. The dance had been PG in the sixth grade, but with Becks’s sure touch and my stuttering heart, we were definitely approaching an R-rating.