“You’re not horrible,” Jordan said. “You’re incredible.”
Emily peeked at Jordan bashfully. “I think you’re incredible, too,” she whispered.
Jordan placed one finger on Emily’s knee. Instead of pulling away a split second later, she let it remain there. Emily stared at Jordan’s pink, moon-shaped nail, then slid closer. Her heart started to pound. Before she knew it, their lips were touching. Emily’s nose filled with the heady aroma of jasmine perfume. She ran her fingers up and down Jordan’s bare arms. Her skin was as soft as petals.
They pressed close together, inhaling each other, and when they broke away, they stared into each other’s eyes.
“Yay,” Jordan whispered giddily. “I was hoping that would happen.”
“Yay for me,” Emily insisted, curling in Jordan’s lap and staring at the clouds.
“Yay for us,” Jordan corrected. And then she took off the captain’s hat, placed it on Emily’s head, and opened her arms again.
14
SPENCER’S UNEXPECTED SWIM
“Here you are!” A Latin waitress plopped down a large tray in front of Spencer and Reefer. “The six ceviche tasting menu! ¡Buen apetito!”
As she strode away, shaking her ample hips, Spencer stared down at the six small bowls. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. I’ve been to the Caribbean seventeen times, and I’ve managed to avoid ceviche until now.”
“Aw, a ceviche virgin!” Reefer pushed a fork at her. “C’mon. You have to try some. You’ll love it.”
Spencer looked up, stalling. It was Thursday night, and they were at an outdoor Latin restaurant in Old San Juan. Palm trees surrounded them, and every table bore a flickering votive candle and a vase of tropical flowers. A band played upbeat, wild music, and several couples were salsa-dancing near the stage. To add to the sexy vibe, a blue infinity pool rippled off in the distance. Spencer had already seen two couples strip down to bathing suits and dive into the pool as an alternative to dessert.
Before their dive that morning, the dive class had watched a film about Jacques Cousteau. For the rest of the afternoon, Spencer had prepared for their dinner out. Now her blond hair spilled down her back, her skin glowed from a body facial, and her nails had been painted a shade of red called Vixen. She’d pored through her and Kirsten’s cruise wear until she’d decided on a turquoise strapless linen dress that screamed I’m gorgeous, but I don’t try very hard. As soon as Reefer had seen the dress, he’d remarked that it was his favorite color.
She’d chosen this restaurant, too, clicking through San Juan nightlife websites and picking the place that seemed the most romantic. Other kids from the boat had the same idea: In the corner were two couples from Tate. Across the way, Lanie Iler and Mason Byers snacked on fritters. And Naomi Zeigler had just sat down with a bunch of girls from Rosewood Day, shooting Spencer a nasty look when she spotted her and Reefer together. Spencer gritted her teeth at Naomi’s clonelike turquoise dress. What, had Naomi spied on her while she was getting ready?
Then again, Spencer was the one on the date with Reefer, wasn’t she?
But on the heels of that dart of triumph came a stab of dread. Perhaps Naomi had followed her here because she was A.
Swallowing her worry, she took the fork from Reefer and daintily tried a bit of ceviche. A sharp, acidic flavor hit her first. Then she tasted something cool and mild. “It’s okay,” she decided.
“Have the one with the chilis.” Reefer pushed another bowl closer. “It’s amazing when you make it with real chilis, not the dried kind. I was on a ceviche kick for a while a few years ago. I’m trying to remember my favorite recipe …” He tapped on his iPhone, tilting it toward Spencer. REEFER’S RECIPES FROM A TO Z, read the screen. Ceviche, naturally, was filed under C.
Spencer snickered. “You’re so organized.”
Reefer covered the screen with his hand, looking embarrassed. But Spencer wasn’t surprised. He kept his pot supply in little individual, carefully labeled drawers. Earlier, when he’d opened his wallet for his fake ID, his cards were alphabetized, an AAA membership at the front, a business card for Justin Zeis, Personal Trainer, in the back.
“I like everything in its place,” he admitted. “I can’t stand it when things are messy.” He bit into a chip. “You can say it. I’m a dork.”
Spencer leaned forward on her elbows. “If you’re dorky, then so am I. All of the money in my wallet has to be in order according to the serial number on the front of the bills. If it’s out of order, I panic.”
Reefer’s eyebrows rose. “How long have you been doing that?”
“Since my first allowance. And before that, I arranged my bath toys along the side of the tub by height and color.”
Reefer grinned. “I used to sort my LEGOs by size and theme. And I insisted on ironing my school clothes myself—I hated how my mom did it.”
“I still iron my jeans sometimes,” Spencer admitted, then felt a little self-conscious for saying so.
Reefer chuckled. “When I first got into botany, my mom gave me a spice rack to organize my seeds. I woke up several times a night to check to make sure no one had put them in a different order.”
Spencer grabbed a chip and popped it in her mouth. “I begged my father to let me do his filing. He thought there was something wrong with me.”
“You would have been such an asset to the Ivy Eating Club,” Reefer joked. “A perfect secretary.”
“Too bad that’ll never happen.” Spencer stared morosely at the salt on the rim of her margarita glass. She’d been so desperate to get into Ivy, but after the pot-brownie fiasco, it was clear that would never happen.
When she felt Reefer’s large, warm hand cover hers, she looked up in surprise. “You’ll have way more fun at Princeton without being part of an eating club, you know,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You will?” Spencer dared a smile.
“Of course. We’re going to have an amazing time. I know tons of fun things to do—things that are much cooler than what those Ivy people are into.”
Spencer’s heart thumped. He’d said we. Like they were going to be a couple. Maybe even an exclusive couple.
A trumpet blared in her ear, and she turned. The jazz band stood next to their table for a private serenade. The guitarist strummed a slow rhythm. The drummer shook a maraca. The singer launched into song. Even though the lyrics were in Spanish, Spencer recognized the melody as “I Only Have Eyes for You.”
“You’ve got a beautiful girlfriend, man,” the singer said in a broken Spanish accent between verses.
“I know,” Reefer said, glancing at Spencer cautiously, as if he’d said too much. Spencer smiled giddily. Girlfriend? She tried it on like it was a dress, and it felt pretty damn good. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.
“Want a picture?” A waitress materialized with a Polaroid camera. Spencer and Reefer leaned close and smiled. The flash went off, and the device spat out a photograph. Spencer took it from the waitress and laid it on the table to dry.
Reefer stood and offered his hand. “Want to dance?”
“Yes,” Spencer breathed.
They chose a spot on the dance floor close to the pool, and Reefer wrapped his arms around her.
“I never took you as the dancing type,” she murmured as they swayed.
Reefer made a tsk noise with his tongue. “You should know by now that looks can be deceiving. I like to dance—especially if it’s with the right person.”