“Yeah, that sounds cool. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you deflected from telling me about your crush history.”

“Is that what I did?”

“Uh-huh. And yesterday you filibustered me about why you’re attending an American school.”

“You can’t possibly find it of interest.”

“Why don’t you try me?”

He paused, seeming to consider his answer. “Perhaps,” was all he said. Then he reached into his pants pocket. “Here.” He withdrew a chestnut, now with what appeared to be a white shoelace running dead through a newly created narrow hole in its center, with a knot at the bottom to keep it hanging in place. It kinda resembled an itty-bitty, adorable medieval nut-mace.

“A corker!” I exclaimed, as he handed it to me.

“Conker.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not. Which you’ll know once you’ve played.” He then took out a second conker. “I took the laces from my trainers, so I’ll need them back, and I placed both conkers beneath my mattress last night because heat helps get them hard—” He stopped at once.

The double entendre struck both of us at the same time and our eyes met. Then he proceeded to flush so deeply he could have blended with the lower half of his sweater.

I burst out laughing. How could I not? Deep guffaws. And I didn’t stop until Arthur’s face cracked and he joined in, not as boisterously, but grinning in embarrassed amusement.

I reached out and grabbed his arm, much like I had in the kitchen yesterday, perhaps naturally seeking connection.

Our eyes met again, both filled with amusement, mine to the point of tears, and they held longer this time.

And that’s when I felt it. Undeniably, amazingly. A frisson that reached out from me to him or him to me or both, I wasn’t entirely sure. But the origin wasn’t the point. Only that it was there. For a moment, I honestly couldn’t breathe. I saw the column of his throat move as he swallowed. And our eyes stayed locked as the laughter started to die out . . .

“What’s so funny?”

I blinked and pulled back my hand, ending our connection, and looked over to see Val Limekiller lope her long-legged way into the lobby with a puzzled expression in her sleepy eyes as she glanced between Arthur and me. She was about five years older than I was, and if Jeff Spicoli had a baby with Olive Oyl, it would’ve been Val.

“Nothing,” I replied reflexively, my mind and every other part of me still buzzing.

I saw Arthur draw away and blink a few times himself, which I took as confirmation that I wasn’t imagining things. There had been something there, enough to make his blush somehow deepen and his formal posture return.