13LULU
The second he strides down the aisle at An Open Book on Saturday night, he announces, “It’s tucked into the corner of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay.”
I search my brain, but it goes blank. I’m good with riddles, not geography.
“Tell me what this wonder is.”
“The two hundred seventy-five falls of Iguazu. One of the most stunning waterfalls in the entire world.”
He whips out his phone and shows me a stunning image of water pouring over cliffs at sunset, and it takes my breath away. “That is definitely a natural wonder.”
He gives me a satisfied smile. “Your turn.”
I rub my palms. “Riddle time. It’s shorter than the rest, but when you’re happy, you raise it up like it’s the best. What is it?”
Leo hums, his dark-brown eyes deep in thought. As his brow furrows, it’s as if I can see the cogs in his brain whirring. “I want to say flagpole, but that makes no sense.”
I rock back and forth on my wedge sandals. “Definitely not a flagpole.”
“Happy.” He seems to turn the word over in his hands. “Raise it up.” He stares at the shelves beyond my head. “When you’re happy, you raise the roof, you raise your arms, you raise your . . .” Leo’s smile spreads, that warm and buzzy kind of smile that makes the air crackle, as he lifts his hand and in slow motion raises the shortest digit. “Thumb.”
I thrust my arms into the air in victory, then set the book down on the shelves. “You are a riddle master.”
“Hardly. Just analytical.”
I give him a duh look. “Yes, that’s what it takes to solve riddles.”
“And that would make you analytical?”
I tilt my head. “Yes, I’m analytical. Why does that seem like such a surprise?”
“Well, lady in sequins, I wonder.” He gestures to my red sequined tank top that slopes off one shoulder, my skinny jeans, and my silver sandals. “Analytical is not the first adjective I’d use to describe you.”
I park my hands on my hips, considering his monochrome wardrobe—dark jeans and a gray T-shirt that hugs his pecs and shows off arms that are stronger than I remembered. Or maybe I never noticed his arms before. “Then what adjective is the one you’d use, Mr. Black-and-White Wardrobe?”
He mimics me, setting his hands on his hips. “Rainbow-loving.”
“That’s not an—” I let my shoulders fall dramatically. “Damn, that is an adjective.” I poke his shoulder. “But why can’t color lovers be analytical, you pigeon-holer, you?”
“Actually, they can. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense that you’re a riddle lover. It’s analytical, and creating recipes is too.”
“Exactly. I’m so damn analytical, you’re going to call me Miss Analysis from now on. Except confession: I hate spreadsheets.”
“Confession: I love them.”
“Spreadsheet lover,” I tease, enjoying the back-and-forth with Leo. We’ve always exchanged rapid-fire words, and it feels so natural, so right to slide back into that kind of repartee. “To each his or her own. Also, should we look at more riddle books or don leg warmers and do calisthenics?”
“No to the latter. As for the former? You do realize it’s not a riddle contest?”
I glare at him. “If it’s not, it should be.”
“Nor is it a hide-and-seek contest. You were touting your prowess in that to Kingsley.”
“But that would be so fun. Hey, maybe we could join a hide-and-seek league. I bet Noah would be all over that.”
“I’ve no doubt he’d be all over any league.”
“Do you think hide-and-seek leagues truly exist?”
“If I were betting, I’d say yes. There are leagues for hacky sack and Monopoly, so I suspect you’d find one for hide-and-seek.”
I glance around the bookstore, bustling with evening shoppers out hunting celebrity biographies, travel guides, sudoku puzzles, and more, then whisper, “Let’s practice. See if you can find me.”
I dart around the brainteasers and into the neighboring section of cookbooks, Leo’s laughter trailing behind me. In exaggerated fashion, I duck. Seconds later, he taps my shoulder. “Tag, you’re it.”
“We’re playing tag now too?” I set my hand on my chest. “Be still, my beating heart.”
“Lulu, is there a game you don’t love?”
I stand, raising my chin defiantly. “I had a very rich and fulfilled childhood. Don’t mock me for liking to have fun.”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Consider yourself thoroughly unmocked.”
“Great. And I’m holding you to a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game at some point.”
“I will consider it a date.” He stops short on that last word, as if it’s strangling him. “I mean, I’ll consider it—”
I touch his arm, wanting to remove any weirdness he feels. “I know what you mean.”
