Page 70 of Down Bad

“This room is just for dramatically standing in place during a thunderstorm,” he announces grandly, like a tour guide.

I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself.

He peers over his shoulder at me. “Did you just—?”

My face is already flat again. “Nah.”

“I just made you laugh.”

“Are we even looking for a bathroom anymore?”

“Did we ever have to pee? Or was it an excuse to get away?” He walks across the room to the windows and peers through the curtains. “We probably walked right past all of them.”

“Dunno. Wasn’t looking.”

He turns from the windows. “You weren’t?”

I shrug.

His eyes are on me for a while. Then he squints. “What were you looking at, then?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

It’s like I actually don’t know for a minute.

I wasn’t looking at the fountain outside. Or the big-ass stage and its lame, uninspired flowerpots at the front of it.

Wasn’t really looking for a bathroom, either, clearly.

Somewhere between getting up from the table and wandering into this giant rich-person museum, I stopped paying attention to everything else.

“What?” says Wyatt, like he’s still waiting for an answer.

I look at him. Really look at him.

The cute, almost stern way his eyebrows lift while he waits.

How the jacket fits him better than anything has a right to.

The knot of his tie, slightly loose, maybe out of nervousness, or because he felt hot and tugged at it absently.

That curl that keeps falling onto his forehead no matter how many times he brushes it off.

What the hell have I been looking at?

“You.”

Then I freeze.

I’m not sure who said that. It didn’t feel like me. But it wasn’t Wyatt. And we’re the only two people in this room.

There was a trace of a smile on his face a second ago.

It’s gone now.

“Me …?” He’s breathing a bit deeper now. Belatedly brings a hand to his chest, as if asking “Me?” again without his voice.

Well, there’s no taking it back now.