How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (24 page)

“It’s all the Seven Wonders,” I said, knowing I was rambling but unable to figure out what else to do. I had to convince her I wasn’t crazy. Wasn’t some kind of obsessed stalker, despite all the evidence to the contrary. “New . . . Industrial . . . Underwater . . . Ancient, although you can’t visit the ancient ones because they don’t exist anymore—”

“Oliver—”

“But you can see what they looked like, or at least an artist’s rendition—”

“Oliver—”

“And I know,” I said, the frantic pounding of my heart echoing in my head as I clutched at my hair. “I
know
this is weird. God, I’m weird. I just wanted to get you something, and this”—I waved at the pile of gifts, my notebook, as if to encompass everything that was my weirdness—“this is how I do it. Just can you not . . . don’t be creeped out—”

“Oliver.” Ainsley’s eyes were wide and dark and much closer than I realized. Somehow in all my rambling, I’d missed the fact that Ainsley had rounded the bed to stand right in front of me. Still, I couldn’t stop.

“I know I kind of go overboard, but it’s really not that big a deal—”

“Oliver—”

“I’m
sorry
—”

“Oliver,” she said, reaching up to grab the sides of my face, “shut up.”

And then she kissed me.

Ainsley
kissed
me.

Her fingers slid up and back, tightening in my hair as she tilted her head, soft lips moving over mine. I was paralyzed, shocked, my brain unable to catch up with what was going on. I didn’t even think I was breathing.

Pretty sure I wasn’t, actually, because when Ainsley pulled back, lips parted in a soft gasp, I inhaled sharply, my vision a little blurry around the edges.

What?

“What?” My brain, evidently, was still having problems keeping up.

Ainsley stared at me for a few shaky breaths, then jolted, pulling her hands away like she’d gotten an electrical shock. She took a step back.

“Oh. Oh wow, I’m sorry,” she said, lifting one trembling hand to touch her mouth. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“What?” Why was that the only thing I seemed to be able to say?

“I should go,” she backed away, bumping into the edge of the bed. “I really should . . . I’m sorry.”

And finally my head cleared enough to realize that Ainsley was leaving. She was leaving. Because . . .

Because I didn’t kiss her back. Because she thought I didn’t want it. Want her.

She was right. I was an idiot.

And Ainsley was almost to the door.

“Ainsley, wait.” I crossed the room, and she whirled around, her hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. I saw all that”—she waved toward the bed, her voice trembling, and I realized she was on the verge of tears—“and I thought—”

For once, I didn’t think it through. I didn’t consider all the options or make a list of pros and cons. I just reached up, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her. I knew it wasn’t the best kiss—I couldn't remember a single item from
The Elements of the Perfect First Kiss
, and let's face it, I had no experience to speak of. Well, no experience except for one ill-fated behind-the-swing set encounter with Lucy Fitzsimmons in kindergarten—but I hoped I made up for my lack of technique with an abundance of enthusiasm.

I thought maybe I was doing something right because Ainsley made this little breathless sound, grabbed on to my upper arms, and kind of . . .
melted
against me. I slipped one hand around her waist to hold her up, my fingers brushing against the soft skin where her shirt had ridden up under her coat.

Okay, so maybe the melting was a little mutual. My knees were definitely shaking when, quite a while later, I pulled back to catch my breath. Ainsley’s eyelids fluttered open, and she licked her lips. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated with only a slip of blue around the edges. A sure indicator of attraction, according to—

“Oliver?” Ainsley whispered, lifting up on her tiptoes, her breath teasing my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Stop thinking so much.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I pulled her close to kiss her again, happy to oblige.

14.
Tell Her How You Feel

Lay it on the line. Don’t be a coward. Be honest. Man up, Holmes.

Three Weeks Later

I glared at the mirror and pushed and prodded at my hair. I really needed to get it cut again. With a shrug, I gave in to the inevitable—it was as good as it was going to get—and checked my teeth one last time before I turned out the light and headed downstairs.

“Wow, you look nice,” Mom said, curled up next to Dad on the sofa as they watched some reality show. “Big plans tonight?”

Big plans? Well, since I’d been making them for weeks, I guess you could say so.

I shrugged, playing it off. “Dinner. Cake. Presents. The usual.”

“You need any money?” Dad asked, reaching for his wallet.

“No, I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”

Mom smiled at me. “Well, tell Ainsley happy birthday from us. And we’ll see her next weekend.”

“Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Bye, honey. Have a good night.”

I left them to—whatever. I’d never admit it out loud, of course, because being a teenager, it was pretty much required that you be grossed out at anything that might indicate your parents have a love life, but it was nice to see them like that. Holding hands and touching hair and making out in the kitchen. Okay, so that happened a little too much for my tastes, but it was kind of nice. Reassuring. Good.

Of course, that didn’t prevent me from complaining about having to rent a tux for when they renewed their vows the following weekend. Sherlock and I would be standing at my dad’s side—dual best men, or whatever—which meant I’d have to give a speech.

Perfect
. I’d gone through about fifteen drafts so far, and they all sounded stupid. Ainsley said I should just speak from the heart.
Right, has she even
met
me?
But like Hank used to say, sometimes a man has to take action and not worry so much about the consequences. So I tried not to worry about it too much.

Anyway, it had been almost a month since the whole laying-it-on-the-line episode when I’d finally manned up and kissed her, and things were good. Better than good, actually. Great. Amazing. Pretty close to perfect. We spent a lot of time together—a lot. Ainsley was doing really well preparing for the SATs, and Ian had even begrudgingly apologized for hitting me. After what Ainsley had told me, I couldn’t even stay mad at him. I’d gotten the girl in the end, after all.

But after three weeks of planning, it was finally Ainsley’s birthday, and my nerves were acting up again. After much research, I’d planned a romantic evening—dinner at Ainsley’s favorite restaurant, a glitter-topped cupcake filled with this chocolate cream that she said was to die for—her words, not mine—and presents.

Presents. Yes, plural.

She’d seen them all, of course, and in the end, I couldn’t narrow it down to just one. So I’d wrapped them all in shiny paper, not even worrying about the dent to my college fund. Hey, I had a whole new list about how to get scholarships. It’d be fine.

I pulled up to her house, the familiar flip of nervousness in my stomach making itself known yet again. Ainsley whipped open the door just as I lifted my hand to knock, and I almost fell forward in surprise.

Ainsley giggled. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I smiled shakily, taking in her new dress. “You look pretty.”

Her smile widened, lighting up her eyes. “Thanks. So do you.”

I winced, unsure if that was really a compliment, but it was her night, so I let it slide. I stared at her for a beat before I remembered the plan. “Oh!” I fumbled, holding out a bouquet of roses and lilies and little white flowers that I couldn’t remember the name of at that moment. “These are for you. Happy birthday.”

The roses were red this time, by the way. No, I hadn’t said the words yet, but I was working my way up to it.

Ainsley gathered up the flowers, admiring and smelling them before she popped up to kiss me on the cheek. “Thank you, Oliver. They’re beautiful.”

I gulped, my throat dry like it always seemed to be when Ainsley was close. “You’re welcome,” I croaked.

She invited me in, and I did the whole obligatory dad-handshake-where-are-you-kids-going-and-when-will-you-be-home routine as she put the flowers in some water. As much as I’d been a nervous wreck the first time I met Ainsley’s dad, he was actually a nice guy. She’d come clean to him about college and the SATs, and although surprised, he’d been pretty supportive. He’d hired a nurse to come help care for Ainsley’s grandma so she wasn’t so overloaded and even took time off work to go on some college tours with her.

In the end, the night went as planned, a perfectly executed date, if I did say so myself. After dinner and dessert, I’d presented her with her birthday gifts, all of them, each encased in an oddly shaped box to keep her guessing. After much laughter—and many thank-you kisses—we walked slowly through the park in the center of town. It was chilly, but I held Ainsley’s mitten-clad hand with my own, toting the rest of her gifts in a bag in my other hand.

“You didn’t have to give them all to me, you know,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I couldn’t decide which one was best.”

Ainsley leaned onto my arm, her head touching my shoulder lightly. “They were
all
the best. But it’s not about the presents, Oliver.” We came to a stop at the top of the bridge, overlooking the murky water below. “You know why I kissed you that day?” she asked.

“You felt sorry for your crazy stalker?” I grinned, although I half-wondered if it was true.

Ainsley laughed. “It was your list,” she said. “I mean, I knew you were pretty amazing. I’d pretty much fallen for you already. I just didn’t know it yet. But when I saw that list . . .” She looked off into the distance, a small smile on her face, before she turned back to me. “I couldn’t believe you spent all that time getting to know me like that. I couldn’t believe you cared, actually.”

“Of course I did,” I stammered, feeling my face heat. “I do.”

She stepped away from the edge of the bridge to move closer to me, and I turned around to lean back on the railing as she moved between my legs, linking her arms behind my neck. I dropped the bag to rest my hands on her hips.

“It just . . . it means a lot,” she said quietly, blue eyes wide and earnest. “Thank you.”

I reached up to touch her cheek, and she leaned into my hand, and I knew it was time to check off that last box on my list.

Tell her how you feel
.

“I love you.” No hesitation. No cracking voice. No regrets.

Ainsley’s face lit up, her smile wide as she leaned up to kiss me. “I love you, too, Oliver,” she said against my lips, our mixed breath puffing out in warm clouds around our heads.

I tilted my head to kiss her properly—I’d gotten much better at it in the past few weeks, thanks to the Internet and a bit (a lot) of practice—and we stood wrapped in each other for I didn’t know how long, finally pulling apart when the cold and the lack of breath forced us to.

“I should probably get you home,” I said, lightly kissing her once more before we set off across the bridge and back through town to where I’d left my truck. We chatted quietly, in no big hurry, bumping shoulders and laughing at nothing.

Then I saw it. In the window of the stationery store on the corner. Flashing red letters keeping pace with the speeding beat of my heart.

Only 34 shopping days until Christmas.
As I stood, frozen, the
34
changed to a
33
.

No
. How could I forget? How did I not realize?

“Oh no you don’t,” Ainsley said, yanking on my hand to drag me away from the window.

“But—”

“You’ve given me enough gifts for the next ten Christmases, Oliver!” she said through her laughter. “I mean it. Promise me you won’t get me anything.”

“I have to get you
something
.”

She stopped and pulled my arm back around her waist before kissing me soundly. “You’ve given me everything I want.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did you get that from a movie?”

“Maybe.” She looked at me sternly. “No gifts, Oliver. I’m serious.”

“Oh, well, if you’re s
erious
.” I nodded, eyes wide and innocent.

Her sober façade broke, and she shook her head, smiling softly. “You are the
worst
.”
But she didn’t ask me to promise again, so I didn’t.

I would get her something. Something thoughtful.

We reached my car, and I opened the door, kissing her once more before she got in. She shivered as a chilly breeze ruffled her hair, and I grinned.

Maybe a nice, warm scarf or a hat. I’d think of something.

I’d make a list.