Stepping Out Read Free

Hunter does not, I guarantee, feel the same way about me.
    “You need to get over yourself and tell him,” Carly says.
    “We’re friends. I’m not going to take a chance and spoil that.” It’s a conversation Carly and I have had so often in the last few months, I can practically recite the lines in my sleep. “Besides, Hunter doesn’t like redheads. He likes brunettes.” In fact, last year I was pretty sure Hunter and Carly were going to hook up. I’ll bet Hunter would go for it. But Carly likes the athletic types, and Hunter’s only declared sport to date is potato-chip eating. (His record is fourteen bags of Salt & Pepper chips in one twenty-four-hour period.)
    “It’s not about the hair, Paige.” She dabs her lips with a napkin.
    That’s easy for her to say. Carly has long dark Kate Middleton hair. Mine is the female equivalent of Prince Harry’s: red and frizzy, especially in the rain. And in Seattle, it’s either raining or about to rain.
    “It’s not about your limp either.”
    I almost choke on a fry. I can’t believe she’s said it. I glance around to see if anybody’s heard her, but nobody’s paying attention. “I never said it was,” I finally manage.
    She levels me with a look. “No, but you’ve thought it.”
    Carly knows me almost as well as Hunter does. We’ve been friends since elementary school too. “Don’t look for a job working the psychic hotline,” I tell her. “Your mind-reading skills suck.” We both know I am lying.
    When we were younger, I had a name for my gimpy leg. I called it Fred (as long as Brooke wasn’t around to make fun). We talked about Fred sometimes like he was a poor, needy relative that I had to endure. I can’t remember when that whole thing stopped, but it petered out—or maybe I should say it Fredded out—somewhere in middle school, when the whole pairing-off thing started up. I became painfully aware that guys didn’t date girls like me. They hung out with them, they accepted homework answers from them, and on good days they laughed with them. That was enough.
    I catch sight of a familiar face. Hunter. My heart squidges in triple time. At least, it used to be enough. But now, as I watch him walk toward us, I’m not so sure. “Don’t you dare say anything,” I hiss to Carly.
    She picks up her juice box. “You know I won’t.”
    And I do know, because Carly has never betrayed me. I can trust her.
    “Hey!” he says when he reaches us.
    “Hey,” I say back. Hunter’s face is a little on the longish side, and his brows could use some manscaping, but he has the best voice in the world. Smooth and deep and hot, like espresso loaded with sugar. I swear he could make a ton of money with that voice. His jeans brush against my leg as he slides into the seat beside me. Heat races into my cheeks. Plus, he has an amazing body. And perfectly straight, überwhite teeth (this counts—yes, I am my mother’s daughter).
    “I saw your latest video.” He helps himself to a fry. “Great job!”
    Hunter has been my biggest fan since grade two. That, at least, hasn’t changed. “Thanks.” I push the other half of my burger toward him. He picks it up. Three bites later, it’s gone. He wipes his fingers and pulls a piece of paper from his jeans.
    “Look.” He lays it on the table and smooths it with the palm of his hand.
    I glimpse a picture of some teens and bright-blue lettering above them. The International Te—
    Carly snatches the paper up before I can finish reading. “Are these the details?” she asks him.
    “Yeah.”
    “Cool.” She starts to read.
    “What details?” I ask.
    Carly looks at Hunter. Hunter looks at me, though not exactly at me—more at my nose. And then he clears his throat.
    My spine tingles. Hunter only clears his throat when he’s nervous. Or mad.
    “What?” I ask a second time.
    “It’s the International Teens in Comedy Festival,” he says. “It’s happening in Portland a few weeks from now.”
    Everybody