Page 17 of The Crafting Con

That dulls Mom’s shine, and she frowns at me over Tyler’s shoulder as she answers for him. “Tyler noticed our lawn needed a little TLC, and offered to do a spring overhaul for us. Wasn’t that sweet of him? Such a thoughtful boy.”

“It’s no big deal,” Tyler interjects, a hint of shyness finally breaking through his confident exterior. “My grandfather owns a landscaping company, and I work for him over the summer. He let me borrow his truck with all the equipment, so a job like this is a piece of cake.”

“It is a big deal,” Mom insists, ushering him into her chair at the table as she whisks her dishes away. She has clean ones out in a flash. “Go on, now. Help yourself. I always make way too much.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Aimes, but I really did eat already.” He pats his ridiculously flat stomach, his grin turning sheepish. “Although now I’m wishing I hadn’t. This smells delicious.”

“Oh, please,” Mom protests. “I thought boys your age could eat three breakfasts and still pack more away in between.”

“He’s not a hobbit,” I mutter, then immediately bite my tongue. Since when do I make Lord of the Rings references around my mom? Or my friends, for that matter? One day spent with Declan, and I’m already slipping back into old habits.

Tyler meets my gaze and winks. “I don’t think she knows about second breakfasts, Ava. Or elevenses.”

Um, what? Did Tyler Denning seriously just quote LOTR to me? Man, I have really got to stop stereotyping people. Liking fantasy and being good at sports does not have to be mutually exclusive.

Mom’s voice carries over the clinking of mugs, clearly oblivious to our nerdtastic side bar. “I always dread that first spring clean, and I know Ava does too. Last year we put it off until July, and we only did it then because the neighbors got extremely pointed with their comments.” She holds up a mug. “Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great,” Tyler replies. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” Mom has the espresso made faster than a professional barista, lashes fluttering as she sets it in front of him. “Now if you kids will excuse me, I’ve got some paperwork to take care of.”

“Working on a Sunday?” Tyler gives her a sympathetic grimace. “That sucks.”

“No rest for the wicked.” Mom sighs dramatically before sashaying out of the room. She pauses briefly in the doorway, flashing me a last, knowing look before she disappears. She’s clearly leaving the two of us alone on purpose. My stomach sinks, which is silly, because what’s the problem? Tyler’s a nice guy. Possibly the nicest one I know. And there’s no denying his hotness. I mean, I have two functioning eyes. I get it.

So why do I suddenly want to crawl under a rug and hide?

“Sorry if my coming over unannounced is weird.” Tyler scrubs a hand through his thick, blond hair, his previous confidence slipping in my mom’s absence. Which makes me wonder just how much of it was real in the first place.

I let out a breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. “Nah, it’s fine. My mom wasn’t kidding—we really are the queens of procrastination when it comes to yard work, but we always get around to it eventually. You seriously don’t have to waste a weekend enabling our bad habits.”

“I don’t mind, really.” Tyler’s gaze drops to the frothy surface of his drink. “And if I’m being honest, I didn’t just come here to clean your yard. I mean, I fully plan to do that, but also, like, we’ve been hanging out a lot at school, and with Ben and Stasia, and I thought maybe…” His brows lower, his expression growing determined when he looks back up at me. “That is, I was thinking you and I could⁠—”

“Oh shoot!” I push back from the table in a panicked fluster, cheeks burning while I fumble for my phone. I make an exaggerated show of checking the time, giving a performance worthy of the cheesiest vintage sitcom. “I completely forgot I had that thing this morning. With, um, Stasia. I was supposed to meet her, like, twenty minutes ago.” I slap my forehead. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta run. Talk tomorrow at school?”

Tyler stares back at me, looking thoroughly gobsmacked. “Oh, um. Yeah. Sure.”

I throw him a parting grin that is riddled with guilt, but I don’t hesitate as I race to the foyer, grabbing my sneakers from under the welcome bench and shucking them on without stopping. I’m out the door within seconds, the sun’s warm rays a stark contrast to the ice forming in my gut.

He was going to ask me to prom, I’m sure of it.

He was going to ask, and I… I bolted. Which begs the question: what in the ever-loving fudge is wrong with me? He would have been the perfect date. Mom would have been over the moon. So why am I running?

And more importantly, why am I running to Declan’s?

My steps slow as I turn up his front walk, the bold, burgundy door to his house looming before me like a portal to Narnia. My pulse flutters in my throat, my feet moving of their own accord.

We don’t have plans to meet today.

One foot on the steps.

He’s probably busy.

A second foot lands, propelling me higher.

I should just wait and talk to him at school.

My hand lifts, fist striking the door. Heart beating just as hard. There’s a yip and the scrabble of paws on wood. The door opens, and a tiny bundle of curly white fur comes flying at my legs, begging for attention. I can’t give it, though, because my limbs have frozen in place. Struck useless at the sight of the petite, auburn-haired woman frantically trying to push the eager pup back.