Candy Gram ✓

chapter one

Even though he'd probably knock my lights out for saying it, David Marquez looks cute in a dress.

On second thought, "cute" is definitely an understatement.

It was already an effort each morning to ignore him at my locker; a short yet incredibly buff little guy with puppy eyes and a dopey smile who tries his darndest to talk to you whenever he sees you is one thing. The little guy totally being your type – your Gay Awakening, if I'm being blunt – is another matter entirely.

And I was doing so well. Oh, God, so, so well.

Every day from him, I'm always gifted some sentence that, with literally anyone else on this planet, would be a terrific conversation starter. "Hey, I saw you got the elad in the school musical." "Hey, is that a KeyForge deck? What houses do you have?" "Do you want to be my partner for the Shakespeare project in English?"

Over the past few months, I've become really good at giving one-word answers. "Yes. Um. No. Thanks." I can kill a conversation just about as easily as David can start one. Except for when he's in a lacy, too-short-to-fit-the-dress-code, crimson dress, apparently.

"Nick," he says – grinning, as always – as I approach my locker. I stop a few feet in front of him, as a sudden heat rising up my neck, and suddenly wish I could turn around. Or explode. As a few sophomore girls take in my flush, then David's attire, and launch into a burst of nasally laughter, I step so close to my locker that my nose is almost touching the smooth, tea metal. Exploding, I decide, would be way more satisfying.

"David," I manage, swinging the door open in a clever maneuver to block his face. And his collar bone, which is only partially covered by a thick, white feather boa. And his maybe too-hairy, but toned (so very toned) legs. And every single other part of him that pops into my head when I'm on my own and my guard comes down. "Nice dress."

Fingers wrap around my locker door, pulling it back, revealing various cast photos to the whole hallway. His grin is insatiable. "You think so?" He poses for me like some pinup girl – at least, I think it's a pose. I've known David forever, and I still can't tell when he's doing something as a joke, or is being serious. The dude is a showboater if there ever was one.

"It's my sister's," he continues. His voice is low and scratchy, a total contrast to my smooth tenor, and his hair smells like its usual chlorine. (Not that I smell his hair on a "usual" basis. I just . . . it's overpowering, okay?)

I glance over to take him in once more, giving him a quick once-over before meeting his warm gaze. Then, I look away, because he definitely doesn't need the added confidence stares bring. I'm trying to look as indifferent as I can, which is pretty hard when all the blood from their head is suddenly rushing to a place I could only describe as "down".

There's an obvious expectation of me to continue the conversation. This is the part of my morning where I'd usually just nod. But, I just can't seem to muster a single, effective word when his in that tiny, effective dress. "You look very. . . ." I hate hesitating. Especially when I shouldn't even be involved in the conversation. This – this – is why I don't talk to people; awkward pauses are never great, especially when they're your fault. ". . . . Cupid-y?"

He laughs. It's not an unattractive laugh, which only makes my heart tug more for this tiny, adorable swimmer. One of the thin straps of his dress slide down his shoulder. My fingers itch, and I hesitantly reach out to pull it back up. Brow raised, David looks down at my hand – which totally wants to linger, which totally cannot happen – and bites his lip. Receiving the message, I move my hand away and cast a quick, sneaky look down.