Free Proposal by Meg Cabot Page B

have been the position he played on the school team, though I hadn’t seen any trophies or sports paraphernalia in his room.
    Then he rammed me in the gut with his shoulder with so much force, the two of us went flying into his bookshelf.
    It wasn’t like I hadn’t been ready for something like this. In my line of work, I get hit a lot. Father Dominic despairs of what he calls my “punch first, ask questions later” technique of Non-­Compliant Deceased Person mediation.
    But generally the ­people with whom I engage in fisticuffs are, in fact, deceased. It was a bit unusual for me to be body slammed by a living, breathing boy who had just informed me (in his own way) that he was not a danger to others.
    â€œThis isn’t doing a whole lot to prove to me that you have non-­violent tendencies,” I said to Zack as he lay on top of me amid the rubble that had once been his bookshelf.
    Or I tried to say it. What came out wasn’t anything as coherent, since he’d knocked all the breath from me—­and probably some of the radishes I’d eaten earlier, as well. I was afraid to look.
    I became aware of a painful throbbing in my side that worsened every time I moved. Oh, great.
    Zack didn’t seem at all troubled by our hard landing. He rose up on one hand and lifted his other in a fist—­a fist I noticed was sizable enough to do a great deal of damage if it managed to connect with my delicate feminine features.
    â€œI’m going to kill you,” he casually informed me.
    Before I could duck, a strong brown hand closed around Zack’s wrist.
    â€œNot tonight,” a deep, masculine—­and warmly familiar—­voice said.

 
    Once
    â€œD IDN’T YOUR MOTHER ever warn you what can happen to young ladies who wander into young men’s private bedrooms during social gatherings?” Jesse asked, as he hauled Zack Farhat off me. “It can be bad for their health.”
    â€œOh, sure.” Now that I could breathe again, I sat up and took a careful assessment of my rib bone situation. None appeared to be broken, but there were going to be bruises for sure. I wouldn’t be swimming much for the next few weeks. “Blame the victim. That’s what everybody does.”
    â€œI didn’t mean you, querida ,” Jesse said. His dark-­eyed gaze, generally so full of warmth—­except, of course, when he was thinking about his time as a member of the undead—­was as cold with contempt as I could ever remember seeing it, and it was focused on Zack. “I meant it can be unhealthy for the young men.”
    He’d flipped on the overheard lights—­the electricity seemed to be working perfectly now that the storm had passed—­and I could see that he hadn’t loosened his grip on Zack’s wrist. In fact, now he gave it a twist, bending the boy’s arm behind his back in a painful submission hold that I knew my stepbrother Brad, who was still obsessed with wrestling, would probably admire.
    â€œLet go of me, asshole.” Zack struggled against his captor, but soon found that the more he fought, the more painful Jesse’s grip on him became. “Seriously, stop. That really hurts. Do you want me to call my dad? Because I will, motherfu—­”
    â€œI’m actually right here, Zakaria,” said a stern voice from the doorway.
    Though it was a little painful to turn my head, I glanced in that direction, and saw that a well-­dressed gentleman—­one I could only presume, from his horrified expression was Dr. Farhat—­had come up the stairs behind Jesse, along with Zack’s mother.
    So had the mayor. So had the chief prosecutor. So had the police chief.
    Wow. It was like the who’s who of Carmel-­by-­the-­Sea.
    â€œWe heard a terrible noise,” said Mrs. Farhat, looking pale beneath her elegant makeup. She kept glancing over at me, sitting in the