Dallas paused mid-chew, eyes widening.
“She’s an author,” I explained, shooting my mom an exasperated smile. I never knew when she’d say weird writer stuff that shocked people. “A mystery writer. Killing imaginary people is her first love; the bookstore’s a close second.”
Mom smirked. “So many ways to die, so little time to write about them.”
Dallas laughed, choking on his cookie.
“When do you need to leave, Dallas?” Mom asked.
“Four thirty.”
I glanced at the cat clock on the wall. Three forty-five. Great. Forty-five minutes to spend with a stranger who already knew more about me than I wanted him to.
Mom nodded. “Well, you’ll be working mostly with Vivvy—oh, excuse my horrible manners! Dallas, this is my daughter Vivvy—”
“Vivian,” I corrected.
Mom ignored me because she was going to call me Vivvy forever. “And Vivvy, this is Dallas Lang. You two can work out a schedule together.” Mom beamed at us. “This is so exciting. I’ve wanted to computerize the inventory for years.”
Dallas and I avoided looking at each other while Mom gathered up a stack of papers and her Sherlock teacup, then left us, gauze skirt swishing in her wake, fuzzy slippers peeking out from under the hem. I bit back a smile, wondering how many customers had noticed.
I broke the avoidance awkwardness first, leaning over the counter to take a cookie from the package. Dallas thrust the box toward me.
“So you’re new in Shady Cove?” I asked casually.
He ran a hand through his hair, and I realized that must be why it stuck up in places. It didn’t look weird, though. On him it looked sort of sexy—wait, what the heck was I doing? I’d been dumped half an hour ago and I was already noticing some other guy? Is it really a dumping if you were never together? asked my traitorous brain.
“Not exactly,” he said, settling his gaze on mine. “My family moved here last April.”
I frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you at school.”
“Because I wasn’t. Since it was late in the year, I did online classes to finish my junior year.”
“So you’re a senior,” I said. Duh, Vivian.
“Yeah.”
“And, let me guess…you’re from Texas?”
Laughter sparked his eyes. “The name’s more of a red herring. We’re from Wisconsin.”
“Don’t try to suck up to me by throwing around mystery jargon.” I narrowed my eyes and tried to look unimpressed, even though I was.
His laughter reached his mouth this time. “I wouldn’t dare.”
I walked behind the counter to sit in the chair Mom had vacated. The close proximity to this mysterious, potentially nerd-hot boy was unsettling. I needed to focus on the job at hand.
“So you saw Mom’s desperate plea for help on Craigslist? Or was it the help wanted board in the coffee shop?”
Dallas pulled a notebook out of his backpack and glanced at me. “Coffee shop. This sounded a lot better than washing seashells.”
I was still too miserable to laugh at his dumb joke, but I tried to keep the conversation going. “It must be weird to go to a new school for your senior year.” I busied myself with a stack of Mom’s invoices and saw him shrug from the corner of my eye.
“Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but moving to the beach from the frozen tundra didn’t exactly su—stink.”
Was he worried about swearing in front of me? That was odd. And sort of cute. I turned slightly in my chair. “Still.” I shrugged, then forced a tiny smile. “Moving here gives you an opportunity to fulfill your mission.” I gestured vaguely to his shirt and stared at his neck rather than those hypnotic eyes. “Exploring strange new worlds and civilizations and all that jazz.”
He chuckled softly and goose bumps rose on my arms when he spoke. “Original, Next Generation or Voyager? Not Deep Sleep Nine, I hope.”
I faced him full on. This was tricky. He was clearly a Trekkie with strong opinions. I wasn’t Comic Con crazy, but I did like Star Trek, especially the movies with Chris Pine. And the Next Generation series with Patrick Stewart, who also graced a READ poster on our wall.
“I like TNG,” I said, “with the occasional original series sprinkled in for variety. I did a DS9 marathon last summer. Don’t need to repeat it.”
Dallas and I stared at each other in silence and I wondered what he was thinking. My Trekkie creds ran more shallow than deep. I suspected he was more interested in the science and space exploration aspects of the Final Frontier, unlike me, who was mostly drawn in by the relationship drama.
“Spock or Kirk?” he asked, a glint of humor in his steady green gaze.
My pulse rate sped up, even though his question wasn’t flirtatious. “I have to choose?”
He shrugged. “Most people lean one way or the other.”
His quiet intensity made me anxious. Was he staring at my smeared mascara? Did he really overhear the tongue chats?
“Isn’t that kind of like asking me to choose either peanut butter or jelly?”
He laughed, making me smile for the first time since Jake had ignored me this morning.
“So...” I cleared my throat, grabbed a random box of index cards, and popped it open. I could not let my hormones suck me into another vortex of cute boy craziness. “This is the official method of tracking sales and trade-ins at Murder by the Sea.” I glanced at him, surprised by the sudden worry that he might make fun of our ancient system.
He opened another index box and pulled out a card, frowning. “What do the columns mean?”
I scooted my chair closer to him, trying to ignore his distractingly sexy scent. Was that soap? Or just eau de nerd? I cleared my throat nervously. “Well, the date is obvious. Date of transaction. Number is how many books we bought from the customer. Cash is how much we paid for the books. Trade is how much we gave in store credit. And the letters are for genre. R for romance, M for mystery, etc.” I glanced at him and he nodded, scribbling in a notebook. “Customers can choose store credit or cash. We give a higher dollar amount in trade credits than cash.”
He stopped scribbling and turned to face me, making my breath catch. Who knew that Wisconsin grew such cute boys? I’d never thought about it; but if someone had asked me, I’d have guessed they were all beefy and red-faced, wearing foam cheesehead hats and screaming about the Packers. Somehow I couldn’t picture Dallas in a cheesehead hat.
“Why do you give more in credit than cash?”
I knew why but the words took a detour on the way from my brain to my mouth. I’d felt this way around Jake at first, but the truth was we hardly talked at all on the beach. Somehow Dallas already knew things about me that Jake didn’t, as in my secret Star Trek obsession. How had that happened?
“We, uh, want to encourage customers to shop in the store. Read more books.”
He ran a hand through his hair again, creating random hair spikes that looked cuter every time he did it. “So, you want to keep the money in the store? Increase your profits?”
I looked away from the spiky hair and the green eyes, focusing on my index card. “Honestly, my mom doesn’t care much about profit. She does okay as an author. The bookstore is more of a…personal mission.”
“Yeah? Maybe I should read her books.”
I glanced at him and smiled. “First you have to figure out her pen name.”
His eyebrows shot up. “She doesn’t publish as Rose Galdi?”
Feeling smug, I shook my head. “Nope.”
“As a consultant to Murder by the Sea, it’s important that I know,” he said in a serious, deep voice, a glint of laughter in his eyes.
“You’ll have to ask her,” I said airily, trying to hide the impact his voice and laughter had on me. “I’ve signed a secrecy oath.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the chest I’d somehow overlooked when he’d bumped into me in the hallway this morning. “I’m sure I can Google it in five seconds.”
“Go for it.” I bit my lips, repressing a smile.
He leaned back in the chair. “I will. But before I do, let’s make it interesting. If I figure it out by tomorrow, I get to borrow one of her books to read. No charge.” He glanced toward the rows of shelves. “I’m sure you stock them here.”
My lips twitched. He was about to embark on one of the favorite past times of Shady Cove residents: figuring out my mom’s authorial identity. Very few people had done it and those who had were sworn to secrecy. Mom ensured their secrecy by inviting them to private book talk nights with wine and cheese and free autographed copies of her latest releases.
“Mom’s books are always on the shelves. Some hardback, some paperback. Some new, some previously loved.”
He licked his lips in a way that made me wonder what it would be like to kiss them. I spun around in my chair and grabbed another index box. I was heading to the Herb Cottage as soon as I closed the store tonight. There had to be a cure for my condition.
Dallas resumed scribbling in his notebook. “Tell me more about your record-keeping.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and glanced at the clock behind us. “But you need to leave in ten minutes.”
He nodded, still scribbling. “I know.”
I glanced at his wrists; he wasn’t wearing a watch. “How do you know? Do you have a timer inside your brain or something?”
He shot me a sideways smirk. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Seriously?” I spun back and forth in my chair. In my experience, lots of boys were clueless about time. Paul and Toff were always late when they joined us for dinner. Then again, so was my Mom, so she couldn’t get mad.
“We should figure out a schedule for the rest of the week.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket, fingers flying over the screen. “Can’t do it tomorrow, but I could meet you here after school on Wednesday from three thirty until five thirty.”
I grabbed a Post-it and wrote down the day and time.
“Don’t you, um, need to check your calendar?” He sounded anxious.
I raised my eyes to his. “I’ll remember.” I gestured to his phone. “Mr. Organized.”
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I’m, uh…sort of…particular…about some things.”
“Like being on time.”
He shut his notebook and capped his pen. “Exactly. Which is why I need to go. I have a cello lesson at five thirty.”
I stared at him as he stood up and hoisted his backpack over his shoulders. His very broad shoulders that matched the broad chest.
“You play the cello.” I stated this fact with the awe it deserved. I was hooked on YouTube videos of the uber hot Croatian cello duo who performed their own versions of popular songs.
He grinned down at me. “Yeah.”
“And you’re a computer whiz.”
He tugged at his hair, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “I guess so.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to hide any sparks of interest that might betray me. “You sure you’re from Wisconsin?”
His eyebrows arched. “Stereotype much?”
It was my turn to blush. I lowered my eyes. “Sorry.” He was right; I sounded like a snob.
“It’s okay, Vivian. I expected all the girls here to be beachy airheads. I’m still adjusting to the reality of Shady Cove.”
My eyes narrowed as Dallas leaned down to retrieve a helmet from underneath the desk. Was that a compliment or a dig?
He stood up, and I glanced at the helmet dangling from his hand. It was white with a Union Jack flag painted on both sides, and it was definitely not a bicycle helmet.
“Do you ride a motorcycle?” My voice was a whisper. Did he leap tall buildings in a single bound, too? Maybe Jaz was right about the Superman thing.
He shook his head, one side of his mouth quirking up. “No, just a Vespa. Part of the parental bribery package to convince me to move in the middle of my junior year.” He adjusted his backpack over his shoulders. “Don’t forget our little wager about your mom’s pen name.”
I blinked, clearing my mind of the image of Dallas playing the cello, arm muscles rippling, droplets of sweat beading on his forehead.
“Wait. What if you don’t figure it out? Because you won’t. What do I win?”
“Hmm.” Dallas rubbed his jaw. His very strong jaw. God, I was as pathetic as some of the girls in the novels I read. “Well…wagers should be roughly equal. If I can’t figure it out, you can borrow my Star Trek bible. Original series episode guide, behind-the-scenes trivia, all that stuff.” He tugged his helmet onto his head, the Union Jack flag’s red and blue colors flashing in the sun beaming down from the skylight. “Unless you already have it.”
It took me a few seconds to recover my voice. “No. I mean, I don’t have it. Yeah, sure. Deal.”
“Cool. It’s a bet. See you back here on Wednesday.” He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, then turned to leave.
I would not let myself look at his butt as he left the store. Things were already out of control in the Vivian hormonal department. I heard the slight rumble of the Vespa and peered over the counter as he drove off.
Nerd-hot was most definitely a thing.
“Too much of anything, even love, isn’t necessarily a good thing.” —Captain Kirk
CHAPTER THREE
Murder by the Sea didn’t have many customers after Dallas left, so I finished my homework, focusing my energy there instead of reliving Jake dumping me, or imagining Dallas bent over a cello.
I called Mom as soon as I’d locked up the store. “I have to run a quick errand before dinner.”
She sighed into the phone. “But it’s first-day-of-school dinner. Beach fries and hot dogs.”
“We’ll go as soon as I get back. I have to run to the Herb Cottage. You need anything?”
“Are you all right, Vivvy? Does this have anything to do with what a wreck you were after school today?”
“We’ll talk when I get back, okay?” I locked the door behind me, walking quickly down Main Street.
Shady Cove had been a major hippie/surfer town in the sixties and seventies and was still populated by a lot of those same people and their offspring– including me. Nothing I could ask would shock or repel Natasha, proprietor of the Herb Cottage, but I still felt anxious.
Natasha was in the back of the store talking to a customer in the age 50+ area, full of menopausal remedies and herbal Viagra. I headed to the all-natural cosmetic section and checked out cruelty-free lip gloss, putting in my ear buds so I didn’t have to listen to the guy describe whatever embarrassing old person disorder he had.
My cell vibrated with a message from Jaz. “We must talk. Amy saw u & snake after school.”
“I’ll call after dinner. Busy right now.”
Natasha and a balding older guy emerged from the back of the shop and I removed my ear buds.
“Vivvy, I’ll be right with you.” While she rang up the guy’s purchase I wondered if there was a natural remedy for baldness. That made me think of Captain Jean Luc Picard from Star Trek, The Next Generation, which made me think of Dallas, the main reason I was here.
I tossed the lip gloss tube back into the fishbowl. Not like kissing was in my immediate future, anyway.
Natasha looked like every other middle-aged hippie chick in Shady Cove with long, straight hair and wearing an embroidered blouse, probably from Nepal or some other place she’d visited with her meditation posse, which sometimes included my mom.
“What do you need, Viv? Did your mom send you for black cohosh?”
What the heck was that? “No,” I said. “I’m here for me.”
Her smile faded, replaced by her “wise herbal mage” expression. “Ah. So what are your symptoms?”
“Well…it’s…I guess kind of related to, um, puberty. Hormones. That stuff.”
She nodded knowingly. “Cramps? I have just the thing.”
I shook my head. “Not cramps.”
She tilte
d her head. “Is it moodiness? That’s very common, even for girls who don’t get cramps. That time of the month can be such a chal—”
“It’s not just once a month,” I interrupted. Even though I was mortified, the sooner I spit it out, the sooner she could give me a cure. I took a deep breath. “It’s more of a…chronic condition.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh dear. Have you talked with your mom?”
“No.” I bit my lip. “I can’t.” I didn’t want the anti-boy-crazy lecture from Mom. “Isn’t this kind of like doctor/patient confidentiality when I talk to you?” Natasha was in my Lonely Hearts book club, and I trusted her even though we didn’t always agree on books.
She tugged at her beaded necklace. “That depends. What exactly do you mean by ‘chronic condition’?”
I stared at my flip-flops. “Okay. This is embarrassing, but it’s …lately I’ve been sort of obsessed, and I don’t want to be. I mean, I’m in advanced classes. Newspaper staff. I’m not an idiot.” I looked up.
Natasha tilted her head. “No one said you were.” Concern wrinkled her brow. “At least I hope no one did.”
“No, they didn’t,” I replied, reassuring her. “But I’m acting like an idiot lately. And I want it to stop.”
She leaned against one of the bottle-filled shelves. “Vivian, sweetie, you need to be specific if you want my help.” Her patient smile was strained, and I realized how vague and idiotic I sounded.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m psyching myself up.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, so the thing is…it’s a boy.” I paused, picturing Jake. Then I pictured Dallas grinning down at me in his helmet. “Not just one boy. I’m, um, turning into one of the lobotomized girls. The ones whose lives revolve around guys. And I hate it! So I figure it must be the hormones, right? And maybe you have something to fix it?”
Natasha’s frown deepened. She was probably grateful I hadn’t confessed any creepy homicidal inclinations, though considering my mom’s profession that wouldn’t be surprising.
The Replacement Crush Page 3
