My mother is responding to something my father said when Mick’s bare arm rubs up against mine.
Deep breaths. It’s no big deal. Just act like nothing’s up.
I keep eating, but then it happens again. And again. I can hear my heartbeat in my own ears. Is he doing it on purpose? Does he feel it like I do?
He leans over and whispers in my ear. “Can you pass the hot sauce, please?”
“Ew, hot sauce,” says Shasta. “I like mild salsa.”
“Mild is for quitters,” Olympia says.
The two of them commence a minor girl-slap fight, but Mick ignores all of it. He’s staring at me as he waits for me to comply with his request.
Holy hot sauce. Breathe, Quin, breathe. I reach my arm out like a shot and knock the bottle over in my haste. “Oh, fuck,” I say as the cap flies off and lands in my sister’s plate.
“Hey, language, Quinlan,” my mom says, frowning. My sisters high-five each other. Jersey’s tapping the bottom of his fork on the table to some rhythm only he can hear as he stares off into nothingness.
“Sorry.” I hand the bottle to Mick.
He wraps his whole hand around it, trapping mine against the glass container.
I turn quick and open my mouth to complain, but he’s smiling and his mouth is just two inches from mine. “Nervous about something?” he asks, flicking his eyebrows up once.
I yank my hand away. “No. Should I be?” I take a bite of beans, acting like I’m not having a heart attack right here at the dinner table.
My family is so busy arguing about which is better, mild or hot salsa, that nobody notices I’m being freaked out and messed with by a true master player. Mick is just plain dangerous. I seriously underestimated his skills.
“Maybe you should be. Depends.” His leg brushes up against mine, and I both hate and love the fact that I chose to wear shorts today.
“Shut up,” I whisper under my breath. I’m about to give him a heavy dose of reality when his hand goes under the table and touches my bare thigh.
“You’ve got great legs,” he whispers. Then in a louder voice, he says, “Quinlan, could you pass the guacamole?” He takes his hand off my thigh and uses his napkin to wipe his mouth. “Mrs. Torres, the food is amazing. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.”
“What? Are you serious? What are you eating?” she asks, totally falling for the charm that oozes out of every pore of his body.
“Hot Pockets, I’ll bet,” says Olympia.
Shasta starts singing a Hot Pockets song I’m pretty sure she made up since it involves mention of bodily functions.
I want to hate him for what he’s doing to me and my entire family, but I have to respect him on some level. I’m pretty sure my mom’s about to offer to adopt him and my sisters are just turning into complete and utter fools in his presence. Thank God at least Jersey has found his happy, calm place. Dinner usually chills his gills and I’m glad tonight is no exception.
“I eat frozen pizza and TV dinners, mostly. Life of a bachelor non-cook, I guess.” He shrugs like he didn’t just invite himself to the next fifty family meals. Man, he’s good.
“Well, you’re welcome here anytime,” my mom says, while my dad nods.
Suckers. I drop my fork in frustration. It’s ridiculous how naive my parents are. Can’t they see he’s just working us over?
“No, he’s not,” I say, a little sharper than I meant to.
Everyone stops talking at the same time and looks at me. Jersey’s expression goes into the land of the lost. My sisters appear excited over the events that are about to unfold. Apparently, I’ve thrown down the gauntlet without even realizing that’s what I was doing.
“Quinlan, what is wrong with you tonight?” My dad leans in and squints his eyes at me. “Are you feeling okay?”
I throw my napkin on the table next to my plate, flustered and angry at myself and the current circumstances I’ve created. “I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little pissed that you blew off my best friend Teagan when she needed a place to stay and you’re about to adopt this guy right off the street without even knowing him. No big deal.”
I leave the room in a huge hurry, knowing I just showed off the very worst part of my personality - the one that speaks before thinking and the one that is sometimes stuck with the brain of a twelve-year-old girl. Something about Mick completely throws me off my game, and it’s freaking me out. Why am I an idiot whenever he’s around? Why can’t I just be cool?