by Tina Ferraro
I'll admit I liked being right, but it didn't serve me in this particular case. “I hope you straightened him out.”
“As well as I could.”
He pulled back. His nose wrinkled and his mouth tugged into this little smile. For an instant, he was five-year-old Jason again. But then he took a deep inhale and blew out the breath, which did amazing things to his so-not-little-kid chest.
I reeled in my thoughts. “Okay, time to play our next hand. Chelsea's pretty when she tries. We need to get her cleaned up and get them to meet outside of the rink. Where he can see her as someone other than a snack bar girl.”
His lips pursed, he nodded. “I'd suggest tonight, but rumor has it you've got plans.”
“Ha ha.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“My dad's birthday,” I said, shaking my head. Ever since our mother left, Suzannah and I had been making a bigger deal out of birthdays and holidays. We'd thrown an Extreme Christmas, with a prime rib, door-to-door caroling, popcorn garlands, and a mountain of gifts. A psychotherapist would probably say we were over-compensating. My goal was to stir up as much hype as possible and then throw it back in Mom's across-the-ocean face. Suzannah's was probably to make me feel better.
“But tomorrow's Saturday—I could do breakfast,” I added.
“Is Chelsea a morning person?”
“My guess is she'd stay up all night dancing to a snake charmer's flute if she thought it would get Mark's attention.”
“Oh, he'd pay attention, all right,” he said, and flashed a grin. “Just not in a good way . . .”
I opened the calendar accessory on my laptop. “Bev's Diner, tomorrow. Say nine? I'll get Chelsea there, you get Mark. We'll ‘run into each other.’ ”
“What? How . . . Why do I get the hard work?”
“Well, you're the guy,” I said, for lack of a better answer.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Next time, if our client is male, I'll have to do all the dirty work.”
He shot me a look. “Next time. Yeah, right!”
I quickly assessed my options, then gave him a playful smile. “How about I pick up your breakfast tab? Factor it into this project's budget.”
“Budget,” he repeated.
“Hey, we're talking fifty more bucks if we can close this deal.”
He frowned, then nodded. “Okay, but I swear, Kate, if Mark starts thinking I'm after him, I'm blowing the lid on this whole operation.”
“Fair enough. And in that case,” I said, and waggled my eyebrows, “I promise to do whatever's necessary to preserve your reputation.”
I laughed like a hyena—Dal and me pretending to be romantically involved was funny, right?—until I realized the only sound coming back to me was the rink roar. Dal just stood there staring blankly at me. I knew he was kidding about Mark thinking he was gay—but did he doubt that I'd rise to any occasion to help him?
No. . . . If Dal and I had anything, it was best-friendship trust.
So what, then? Did he think I was “man enough” to partner in business with, but not “woman enough” to be a flirt if the situation demanded it?
I tensed, that possibility hurting worse than the first; then I quickly pulled myself together and looked back at my computer screen. I was so superbusy I almost missed his mumbled “See ya.”
Yeah, fine, whatever.
•
On my way to snag Lexie later, Chelsea grabbed my arm.
“Mark doesn't wear a watch,” she whispered furiously.
“No? Okay, then, we move to the next course of action.” We ducked into an alcove near the snack bar, where I could tell her about our breakfast plans without being overheard.
She threw her arms around me—again—and I laughed and patted her back. Only to see Mark standing behind us.
“Looks like someone has good news,” he said.
Chelsea jumped away, startled, one hand flying to her gaping mouth. The way I saw it, we had what we wanted—his attention. And what was that line that celebrities used? Any publicity was good publicity?
“Oh, you know . . . ,” Chelsea said, and her voice trailed off to no-man's-land.
He nodded. “Don't tell me. This is about Kate's date with Brandon tonight.”
My jaw dropped.
“People were talking about it after school,” he explained.
“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “Pizza, right?”
All pretenses of covering for Chelsea or hooking the two of them up went out of my head. I just stood there, amazed at how people could be so in the know about the one aspect of my life I thought so little about.
“Yeah,” I said, reaching deep inside myself for enough enthusiasm to sound sincere. “That's it. I'm so excited about tonight.”
I should have won an Oscar for that one.
Five
Hours later, Brandon and I were working our way down my steep driveway. He moved with an athlete's grace, while my two-inch-spike-heeled boots proved a bit of a problem. Short black skirt plus high-heeled boots equaled Suzannah's idea of what to wear on a “date” with Brandon, not mine.
As soon as we settled into his car, he checked me out in the harsh dome light. “Two words: way, way hot.”
That was three. But who was counting?
Besides, while most Franklin Pierce girls would have traded a year's worth of lip gloss to hear Brandon Callister say that line, I was pretty positive it was just that—a line. “Thanks, but come on. I know we're only out tonight because your mother thought you should let me down easy.”
“That's not true.”
“She suggested tonight, didn't she?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but for a mom, sometimes she has good ideas.”
I also suspected the woman had dropped him on his head as a baby—how else could his behavior be explained?—but tonight was in my best interest, so I snapped shut my seat belt. And my mouth.
Rolling Hills didn't have a lot of restaurants, and if you wanted pizza, Mama's was the place to go. Hot, stretchy mozzarella, crispy crust—and on a Friday night, appearances by anyone who was anyone under twenty-one.
Mama herself showed us to a cozy circular booth in a dark corner of the restaurant. I had a strange feeling she'd been waiting.
Heads turned, people nodded and said our names. What was next? The flash of paparazzi's cameras?
The whole thing felt so public and awkward that for the first time since I could remember, I was speechless. Luckily, Brandon had never been short on words. So, breaking with our lab tradition, I sat back and let him talk. Anything to get through the date.
He talked about baseball, a cousin who was in physical therapy following a car accident, and his addiction to online role-playing games.
Somewhere between the arrivals of a pitcher of Coke and the dinner salads, I warmed to the idea that despite his idiot, slacker mentality, Brandon was actually a decent guy. Not someone I wanted to be attached to, but not exactly the dregs of society, either. And I had to admit it got pretty entertaining when he leaped to the subject of his ex.
“All Summer ever cared about was how people looked. Clothes and stuff. And I mean, how many colors can you paint your fingernails?” he asked, exasperated. “And you can only ignore a person's endless talking for so long, you know?”
Oh, I knew. That was how I'd ended up on this date.
He crammed some pizza into his mouth. I had to point to my nose and nod until he thought to use his napkin to wipe off the grease.
“That's what I like about you, babe,” he said, and smiled. He still had a streak of grease on his cheek, but I could live with it. “You're different from Summer and those girls.”
Yeah, the popular ones.
“You've got goals. You know what you want, and you won't let anyone stop you from getting it.”
“Even you,” I said, and then, realizing how rudely it came out, I laughed. “You know, in chem lab, when you won't stop talking to me.”
He s
tudied me for a long moment. Blood rushed to my face and I was suddenly so hot that if someone had sprayed me with water, I probably would have steamed.
“I guess I give you a hard time, huh? But you know I've only been playing with you, right? Having fun. And besides, I like to look at you.”
He smiled. And instead of looking just plain goofy, the smile deepened, putting a little zing in his eyes.
In that moment, my world shifted. I realized that maybe—just maybe—I'd been deluding myself about his feelings for me. Maybe we weren't on this date because he got backed into it or was being Mr. Nice Guy, but because he wanted to be.
And it hit me. It was now or never, and there was only one way to find out.
“Brandon,” I said, my throat dry despite all the soda I'd poured down it. “That's a great watch you're wearing. Is it new?”
“I got it for my birthday.”
“It—it's really cool.” I swallowed hard. “Can I take a look at it?”
He glanced down at his wrist, a frown crossing his brow. “You want to . . . see it?”
I managed a nod.
With my heart pounding all the way to my ears, I watched his arm stretch across the table toward me.
“Here,” he said, offering his wrist.
Omigod.
He was into me.
The undisputed Head Honcho of Franklin Pierce High School liked me liked me, and here we were, on a legitimate date. Which everyone else had understood all along. Everyone but me. Which made me the undisputed Airhead of Franklin Pierce High School.
Luckily, Brandon launched into a tedious story about what he'd really wanted for his birthday, giving me time to think things through.
I told myself he surely wasn't all that into me. We barely knew each other and had nothing in common. It had to be a thrill-of-the-hunt thing for him. So if I went with my instinct to go to the bathroom and run out the back door, it would only make him want me more, right?
I had to sit tight.
After what felt like an eternity of nodding and polite listening, I reminded him that we needed to get the bill if we were going to make the movie. And sure enough, when the bill came, he refused to let me put in a cent.
Then, as we started making our way around the tables to leave, the unthinkable happened. He moved in close and draped a loose—but possessive—arm around me. Declaring our couple status to the fifty or so pairs of eyes in a move even louder than buying those banquet tickets from Carlton “The Mouth” Camp.
Horror, panic, and something else I couldn't even identify zipped through my bloodstream. I wanted to lift his wrist, watch and all, and hurl it like a ticking time bomb. No way I was becoming the Girlfriend of Brandon Callister.
“I—I think I left my cell phone on the table,” I said, and ducked away from his hold. “I'll go check and meet you at the door.”
He looked confused, but after a few seconds he resumed walking.
I was safe and free. For the moment.
•
The real drama came after the movie, when we were alone, parked outside my house. One second we were sitting on our own sides of the car, and the next he was using his athletic talent to lunge at me across the gearshift.
“Brandon,” I said, shrinking away and grabbing the door handle. No more games, no more making nice. Time to get real. “You're a good guy. But I just don't feel for you what I think you want me to feel.”
He stopped, pulling back. “You don't?”
His voice rose an entire octave, like he'd dropped about ten years, making me feel almost sorry for him. I mean, ever since he and Summer had split, he'd had his pick of girls. He probably had no coping mechanisms for rejection.
“Is there someone else, Kate?”
I shook my head.
“Then why . . .” His voice trailed off, then returned with renewed strength. “So if I were to ask you to wait for me, would you do that?”
Wait for him? What? Was I suddenly in a freaking romance novel?
“Kate,” he went on, “there's no one like you in the whole school, who is so mature and smart and pretty. Being around you makes me feel so good. Give me one more date, one more try.”
I studied his face. I had no idea what he was talking about. As far as I was concerned, I didn't stand out at school at all—and besides, there wasn't enough chemistry between us to fill a test tube. “Even if I said yes, Brandon, nothing between us would change.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“Give me a chance. Wait for me. It's only for two weeks, and not like you've got anything else going on, right?”
“Well, no—”
“We'll be text and e-mail buddies.”
I stared into his eyes. “You really want that?”
“Sure do. I'll leave here feeling great about things. I'll totally hit more homers, catch more fly balls, impress the coaches. Think of it as a good deed you're doing my career.”
Oh, so that was it! It was one of those sports superstition things, like major leaguers who always ate the same meal before games. “So I'd be like your goodluck charm?”
“Sure. Okay?”
Hmmm . . . I didn't mind helping him get recruited—he deserved to play college baseball. And I had a suspicion that this little arrangement could be good for me, too. Keep my name on people's lips, maybe steer me toward some Ideal Opportunities?
“Oh, why not?” I said, and let out a laugh.
He grinned and lurched toward me—lips first.
“Brandon!” I ducked as fast as I could. I think he kissed my barrette.
“Just one?”
I cranked open the door and swung my legs out. “Don't push it.”
He sighed, and before I could jump out, he grabbed a flyer from the floor, ripped it in half, and scribbled his cell number and e-mail address on it. The only thing I could do to get out of there was to jot down my info on the other half. When I handed it to him, he took my hand.
“I'll see you in two weeks, Kate.”
But when I tried to take my hand back, he wouldn't let go. He just stared into my eyes like he'd been frozen.
“Yeah,” I said. “And thanks for tonight.” I yanked my hand free and scrambled out of the car, refusing to think about what I might have gotten myself into.
So what if I took myself off the market for two weeks? Who would even notice? I was just happy to get out of the car with all my limbs intact.
Six
I woke up the next day ready for business. The Brandon Thing was behind me—or at least out of my head for the time being—and I had a solid, income-generating venture to focus on.
Lexie's dad carted her to practices on weekends, thank God, so I had two whole days to myself. Though I'd never turn down extra billable hours, I'd had enough of the Rink Rat for the week.
I was looking forward to the breakfast meeting, to throwing my heart and soul into closing this deal.
Chelsea looked amazing when she slipped into my passenger seat. She'd blow-dried her hair straight and shiny, and wore a body-hugging shirt that stopped just above her low-riding jeans. She'd topped it with a brown corduroy jacket, and her eyes were positively glowing from excitement and what I believe was a bit of shimmery eye shadow.
I couldn't wait for Mark to check her out. I could practically hear the cha-ching of the cash register.
The guys came through the door a few minutes after we did. Dal led Mark up and down the aisles until he spotted us. He turned and said something to Mark, then they moved to our table.
I knew what I had to do, what I had to say. It was all about staying calm.
“Kate!” Dal said. Which might have come off well, if not for the catch in his voice that stretched my name into two or three syllables.
The phoniness of the situation hit me like a Spokane cloudburst. I knew if I so much as opened my mouth, I'd laugh. So I did the only thing I could do—I drew a deep breath and held in all air and sound. Even though it meant totally blowing m
y part.
Chelsea spoke up. “Hey, Dal. And Mark.”
The guys nodded hello to her.
Dal's gaze went bug-eyed as he glared at me. “So, Kate, it looks like you haven't ordered yet.”
I knew if I couldn't get through this charade, I'd never get through a corporate interview. So I grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, brought it to my mouth, and coughed a little. “Uh, hey,” I managed. “Why don't you guys join us?”
Dal wriggled in next to me before Mark had a chance to speak. Phase One, complete. Even if its key players had had a devil of a time delivering their lines.
But Dal was clearly in game mode, because as soon as Mark was in his seat, he turned and asked me if I was going to the football banquet. Though it was the perfect intro, I was kind of thrown by how quickly everything was happening.
Mark jumped in before I could answer. “I thought Brandon couldn't go, Kate. And that's why you two went out last night.”
I just stared, not sure how to respond, how to get back on track.
Mark continued. “But I heard you had a great time, and that you're officially a couple now.”
My hand went to my chest, fingers spread over my heart, just in case I had a coronary. “What? No! And where are you hearing all this?” Was someone blogging my life or something?
“From Vince Hammer,” he said, referring to another baseball player. “We were IMing last night.”
Holding Mark's gaze, I had this vision of myself innocently sleeping while IMs popped up all over Rolling Hills, broadcasting the millisecond when Brandon's arm had rested on my shoulder in Mama's.
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of that terrible thought. Then I felt Dal's eyes boring into the side of my head. I didn't owe him any more of an explanation than I did Mark or Chelsea—or anybody.
“We had an okay time. And we left it open-ended. We'll go out again when he gets back from his baseball thing, but we're definitely not ‘together.’ ” I stared at Mark. “Did he say that?”
“No, but he didn't have to. He's into you.”
“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “You two are such a cute couple.”
I rolled my eyes. Then I glanced at Dal, expecting radioactive waves of disapproval.
He just shrugged. Which, actually, bugged me. What, he no longer cared if I “threw my future away”? So I shifted until I was facing him. “What's your take?” I asked, point-blank.
