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Shifting her backpack off the chair, Evie sat down, maintaining a respectful distance. “Thanks, but I, uh…I’m not really an autograph person.” She lied. “When I said I knew you, I meant your character Jake, of course…”
His chin dipped in a cautious nod.
“I’m taking drama in school, and watching you play him is so inspiring. You make it look effortless—although I know it’s not. Acting is hard!”
Nikolai’s face softened. “Aw, that’s kind of you to say. Thanks.”
An embroidered name above the right breast pocket of his shirt caught her eye. Louis? Cute! She picked the frayed edge of the songbook. “No doubt you’ll slay these moldy songs, too.”
“Moldy?” He slid the pen back into his bag.
“From the ’60s.” She flipped the hardback, showing Nikolai the cover. “It’s all Mr. Remington lets us sing.”
“So what’s his deal, anyway?”
“God, where do I start,” said Evie. “He’s gross, has no sense of humor, acts overly familiar, like him calling you Nick. Did it bug you?”
“Nah, Nikolai is a mouthful. When I was little, I hated it. Could never spell it. Writing my name, I was always like, ‘Cheers, Mum!’”
Evie cracked a smile, delighted by this inside information.
His eyes drifted to the orca and roller skate bag charms hanging from her backpack then bounced back. “My middle name is even worse. Have you heard it?”
If this were a ‘How Well Do You Know Nikolai Balfour?’ trivia quiz, Evie could ace it in her sleep. What wasn’t so easy, though, was figuring out whether mentioning the correct answer would forever slam the door on a possible friendship, never mind a romance.
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.
Putting her drama lessons to the test, she adopted a blank expression and shrugged nonchalantly. “Is it…Louis?”
He glanced down. “Oh! No, I’m not sure who Louis is. This is a vintage bowling shirt, second-hand from Camden.”
“Ah, okay.” Evie played along.
“My middle name is Crispin. Nikolai Crispin Balfour. If that’s not a name that’ll get you beat up, what is?” His laugh, all open-mouthed exuberance, signaled it was okay for Evie to giggle, too. “I get called all sorts of ridic things, but to my friends I’m just Nico or Nick.”
There’s nothing ‘just’ about him. She clasped the silver Evie pendant hanging from a delicate chain around her neck. I’d die if he let me be his friend.
“You can call me Nick—if you want.”
OH MY GOD—YES! Evie tussled with the fizzy impulse to full-on squeal ‘I love you, I love you, I love YOU!’ rising inside her. Instead, she nodded calmly. “Okay.”
“Evie’s a pretty name.”
Her heart swelled as her mind plunged pushpins into the corners of his unexpected compliment, saving it for posterity and a squee later. “Thanks! I don’t have a middle name, though. Mum and Dad couldn’t agree on one,” she babbled. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Trust me, you had a lucky escape.” His fingers looped through a yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet on his right wrist.
“There’s a village here called Evie and a lovely beach.” She rambled proudly, fondly remembering her former home on the north coast of the West Mainland. “It has an old stone fisherman’s hut, wildflowers, lots of sand. My parents lived there when I was born.” She smiled, drinking him in. His upper lip and chin were dotted with fine, dark stubble, and a tiny scar she’d never noticed before blighted the bridge of his nose.
With a hard blink, he pulled back slightly. “Erm…” He flitted between her eyes and hair, down to her t-shirt and old Swatch, and back up again.
“What’s wrong?” Evie let go of her necklace and looked down. S Club 7’s squeaky clean grins were shining through the unzipped opening of her hoodie. Oh god. Tugging it closed, she remembered swimming at Scapa Beach the day before. Mortification rushed through her. “Oh shit!” She sprang back in the chair and whisked a panicked hand through her ponytail. “There’s seaweed in my hair?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s just…”
She froze mid-swipe.
Nick let go of his yellow charity bracelet. “You’re kinda staring.”
