She points to the chalkboard menu. “As a matter of fact, they do.”
Emma
Watching Tristan eat could bring a lesser girl to her knees. Ridiculous, right? I mean, it’s eating. It’s not like he’s playing an instrument, gliding his fingers across strings, or dancing, moving his hips from side to side. He’s eating fries that came with his chicken bacon burger and it’s quite literally one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.
It’s his mouth. No doubt about it. His lips remind me of Elvis’s, curving upward almost imperceptibly, pulling the left side of his upper lip skyward like it hides a mysterious smile visible to only those who really look. Not to mention the way his tongue darts out every so often to lick salt from them.
I’d finished my bacon salad a while ago and am sipping on water while I try not to stare at his mouth. And failing miserably.
“Mmmmm,” he murmurs between bites, “so good.” He brings up a napkin to swipe his mouth and takes a huge swig of his drink. “So, Emma Fletcher, how’s Stonefall been treating you so far?”
“It’s been decent so far, thanks.” Stonefall has been fine, despite my car breaking down. My mother seems fine—at least for now. I got a job and I’m hidden from him. He doesn’t know how to find me. All in all, so far, so good.
“Yeah?” He says it like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yep.”
“Good. So listen, I’ll level with you. Mat wants to hang out with Marley, and Marley doesn’t know he exists.”
“That’s not true—she totally knows.”
“She does, does she?”
“Yes. She does. She just needs a little push in the right direction.”
The lips I’ve been dutifully avoiding looking at for the past minute spread into a full-on smile. “That brings me to my next point. Are you busy the weekend after next?”
“No. Why?”
“Mateo wants to go to the fair. All of us.”
“Like a date?”
“Friends,” he says cautiously. “Just a group of friends. Think you can convince Marley?”
I think the last time Marley and I were at a fair, we were about thirteen. I bet it won’t take much convincing.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I can do that.”
My first week at the shop passes quickly, and much to my surprise, I seem to settle into a very comfortable routine at Banks Auto. The accounting is pretty basic and I’ve been able to organize some neglected files, stock the shop with supplies, and learn about some of our major suppliers.
I’ve watched Tristan working side by side with his dad, and seen how they’re often joking and laughing with each other. I pretend not to watch Tristan as he tosses the hand-towels he uses into the laundry hamper like he’s playing for the NBA. I ignore the way his muscles shift when he’s working on a car, and I pay no attention to that infectious smile he wears or the fact that sharing the same space with him calms me.
The following Thursday night after work, I head home and have a quick shower. I emerge into my bedroom wrapped in a towel to find Marley sitting on my bed with a newspaper.
“Do you ever go home?”
She rolls her eyes. “Bitch, please, you missed me.”
I head to my closet, sure to face away from Marley and select a simple white sundress that I slide onto my body. At the same time, I drop the towel and bend to pick it up off the floor.
“You’re such a skank,” Marley says. “Bra?”
“You’re just a jealous wench. Yours are too big to be this perky.” I grin. “Besides, my plan for the evening consists of sweet tea and a good book. No bras required.”
“Better get doing nothing out of your system now,” Marley says. “We’ve got plans tomorrow.”
“What plans?”
“This.” She flips over the newspaper so I can see what she’s reading. It’s the sports section, and Mateo’s face takes up half of the page. My eyes scan the headline, which talks about some kind of qualifying match for a championship. “I want to see him fight.”
The next morning, I pull my car up to Banks Auto and before I have a chance to get out, Tristan hops in the passenger seat and waves a bill in the air. “Coffee run. Today is actually Mateo’s day but he’s got stuff going on, so I’m buying and you’re driving.”
I put the car in reverse and start driving to Perkfection. “Have you ever considered a coffee machine?”
“We have one.” Tristan slouches in his seat a little and turns his head to face me. “Somewhere. Can’t really remember the last time I’ve seen it.”
“It would probably save you a lot of money.”
“I’m still young enough to be reckless and irresponsible with my money, and buy things like coffee and lunches. I’m such a rebel.”
“Okay, admittedly there are far worse things you could be spending your money on, but still, twenty-five dollars a week on coffees adds up.”
“Can I ask you something, Emma Fletcher?”
I crank the wheel left and grin. I love the way my name sounds coming from Tristan’s lips.
“Those hot little shoes you had on when you tried to give my jacket back, how much were they?”
I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “What shoes?”
“You know exactly which ones. You wore them when you were job hunting. Christian Louboutin.”
I feel my eyes widen and chew my lower lip. My reaction clearly entertains Tristan.
“Shocked that a wrench-wielding mechanic knows of such things, huh?”
Hell yes. I nod.
“My mother has expensive taste. I’d recognize the red soles anywhere.”
“They are secondhand,” I say. “My father bought them for me like two years ago.”
“Even secondhand, I bet they cost more than my car payment.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Not the same? It’s a pair of shoes,” he says. “Granted, they make your legs look wicked hot, but honestly, chastising me about my little coffee habit when you’re sporting a thousand-dollar pair of stilettos seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
I park the car. “I’ve underestimated you, Tristan Banks.” I throw the way he says my name back at him.
He gets out of the passenger side. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all time.”
NINE
Tristan
She is cute as hell when she’s blushing. In fact, I make a mental note to make her blush as often as I can from this point forward.
I don’t recognize the woman behind the counter at Perkfection, but she’d almost put Marley’s ample curves to shame. Her hair is a mass of wicked curls and she’s got dimples when she smiles.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say to her in greeting.
The barista looks cautiously at Emma, who is focused on the blackboard menu and unfortunately not me, before she shifts her gaze back and laughs a little. She begins to mentally undress me with her eyes—checking out the goods, no doubt. Call it conceited, obnoxious, call it what you will, but it happens to me often enough that I know it’s the truth.
“What can I get for you this morning?”
“A Vanilla Thriller, triple-shot espresso, and a Caramel Cap.” I turn to Emma. “What’ll it be?”
“Just a black coffee, please.”
“And two black coffees, please.” I add a half dozen doughnuts to my order too, because talking about the maple bacon kind yesterday planted a seed in my brain that I need to nourish.
She rings up the order and smiles. “Will that be all?”
“That’s it, thanks.”
Five minutes later, we have the coffees in hand and Emma is silent as we walk out the door. When we are out of earshot, she spins on her heels to face me. “Do you flirt with everyone?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. �
�What?”
Her voice drops a couple of octaves as she sticks out her chest—which, trust me, I don’t mind at all—and says, “ ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ ” and then winks at me.
I shrug. “So what? I called her ‘gorgeous.’ You jealous, Peaches?”
“I am not wearing anything peach today,” she says pointedly.
“Not unless you count the color of your cheeks.” As I speak, she raises the cuff of her shirt to swipe at her face like she can erase the color that blooms behind her skin.
“You digress,” she says. “Tricky as it may be, you’re avoiding my question.”
“What question? There was no question that I can recall.”
“About flirting with the barista.”
Oh. That. “That,” I begin, “is a statement. An observation, if you will; it is most definitely not a question.”
“Why did you flirt with the barista, Tristan? You are out of her league.”
She is jealous. Perfect. There is a small but tenacious nagging in the back of my head that reminds me another girl is the last thing I need, but I can’t help it. The fact that Emma basically just told me I’m hot is like adding lighter fluid to an open flame.
“Why do girls have to be that way?” I ask.
“What way?”
“Well,” I say, “I think a little teeny-tiny part of you, like maybe your pinky toe, is jealous that another girl had my attention, so you had to give her a little dig by saying I’m out of her league, which by the way is totally false.”
Emma straightens her pointer finger like it’s a soldier. “One,” she says. “Don’t flatter yourself. Ever. Not even the toenail on my pinky toe is jealous that someone else was getting your attention.” Her middle finger joins the pointer in a salute directed toward me. “Two, it wasn’t a dig. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, but do you really have to lead them on?”
I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling. “So you automatically think I wouldn’t be interested. I didn’t peg you as shallow, Emma Fletcher.”
Her mouth drops in absolute and undeniable horror. “I am not shallow.”
I shrug. “Okay. But you’re a sheep that goes along with the herd.”
“Wow! First you tell me I’m shallow and then you call me a sheep. You’re a real smooth talker.”
This earns her a chuckle from me. “You are both. A sheep that sticks with the herd, a person who is so hell-bent on the standards put out by society about what beauty is that you spend all the time in the world picking apart the flaws of a person, or probably even yourself, rather than taking the time to appreciate all the things a halfway decent man would appreciate about you or them, as the case may be.”
“Like what? What did you appreciate about the two underwhelming baristas of our last two trips to Perkfection?”
I shake my head. She doesn’t get it. “Neither one of them was underwhelming, Emma. That girl back there had curves. Lots of ’em. News flash: curves are insanely hot. And Rose, well, if you stopped for a second to notice her smile, you’d notice that girl has a great smile. A beautiful grin—that shouldn’t go unnoticed.”
“Curves, huh?”
“Yeah, curves. This girl I know, Caroline, she’s always doing this crazy shit, like drinking only water with lemon juice and cayenne pepper for days on end or eating only grapefruit for a week straight, all in an effort to slim down.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be healthy,” Emma says.
“That’s the thing. If you wanna be healthy, then lose the doughnuts,” I hold my bag of doughnuts up to prove my point, “and add the fruit salad, you know, but Christ, eat something. Healthy is a lifestyle, not a fad diet so you fit in size double-zero jeans. Double-zero,” I say. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. What is that even? Zero is nothing. So you’re nothing times two?”
“It’s a size.”
“Zero is not a size. Just like it’s not a time. You can’t say it’s zero o’clock or I’ll be there in zero minutes. That doesn’t make sense.” I know I’m getting worked up, but this shit drives me mental.
Emma laughs, so I continue.
“Curvy chicks are just as hot as skinny ones. Same way brunettes are as hot as blondes or redheads. Girls with glasses, girls without, doesn’t matter. A confident girl is ten times sexier than one who doesn’t know her own worth.”
She gives me a contemplative look before asking, “You’ve thought a lot about this, yes?”
“Yes.”
“What about girls who are naturally tiny? Like minuscule. I used to know this one girl who was four foot eleven at best and I’m pretty sure I weighed as much as she did when I was six. Here’s the crazy part: I saw her get kicked out of Pizza Palace on the all-you-can-eat night for eating too much. No matter what she did, she couldn’t gain weight. So according to your theory she would be . . .”
“The same as the curvy barista girl. What the hell does being skinny have to do with being unattractive? That’s not my theory at all.”
“You just went on and on about zero and double-zero not being a size.”
“It’s not. Small is a size—one that’s just as nice as large. Zero is nothing. The numerical representation of nothing. No woman is nothing. I need a blackboard or some shit to spell this out for you. Tell you what—at the end of every week, I’m going to tell you something that’s attractive about you, something that you probably haven’t even thought of that any guy in your league or not would notice and appreciate.”
She looks both flattered and amused, and offers me a shy smile. Her cheeks are flaring with color, one of the things about her that’s out-of-this-world hot. I make a mental note to add it to my Friday Flirt Days.
I’m about to tease Emma more when a voice cuts in. I see who it is and for a fraction of a second, I try to mentally calculate an escape route, but it’s too late. “Tristan?” she says again. She’s standing on the far end of the parking lot with the trunk to her car open.
Fuck.
I plaster a smile to my face and trudge forward to where she’s standing. Katie’s mom. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her into an uncomfortable hug. It goes from bad to worse when I pull away and she grabs my face in her hands, leaving me standing, holding my drink, forced to look in her eyes, Emma getting a front-row view of the awkwardness.
“Hey, Mrs. Sutherland.”
“How are you, darling?”
Okay, until ten seconds ago. In fact, ten seconds ago I was enjoying my conversation with Emma a little too much. Now I’m wishing the apocalypse upon us, cracking the pavement, exposing the earth below so it could implode. “Fine,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “How are you?”
I don’t mean it. I don’t want to hear the answer that I already know. She’s not okay. She will never be okay again and it is partly my fault. I couldn’t save Katie.
Her eyes swim with sadness—they drown in it. I look at my shoes.
“I take each day as it comes,” she says. “Some days are better than others.”
“For me too,” I say.
“Katie’s birthday would have been next month.”
I know. I nod.
“I miss her too.” The truth. That’s the best I’ve got. I can’t bring myself to tell her how sorry I am. I can’t bring myself to tell her how much I wish I could go back and fix Katie. Save her from herself. A lump lodges itself in my throat, so I hold up the tray with the coffees. “I have to go. Mateo is waiting for me—big fight tonight,” I tell her.
She runs a finger along the jagged edge of the car key that is in her hands. “Of course,” she says. “It was good to see you, Tristan.”
“You too,” I lie. I feel raw and exposed to all kinds of things I’ve tried to hide from. “Maybe I can come by sometime.”
“I’d like that,” she says. “I really would.”
We walk away and even though the universe didn’t implode, that little exchange did cost me a small piece of my soul.
Emma
I have no idea who that woman was. Tristan seemed like his blood was replaced with ice. His posture was stiff and forced, and he spoke in a very curt manner. I didn’t gather much from the conversation, but it’s my understanding that whoever Katie is, she is no longer a part of our world. Maybe a friend? A girlfriend? It’s none of my business, but as we climb into the car, playful Tristan is gone and a darker, sadder version has replaced him.
I want playful Tristan back.
He doesn’t say a word on the way to Mateo’s gym, so I watch as worry lines seem to creep into his face. I drink my coffee that is so hot, it’s burning away my taste buds, but still, it’s a better alternative than actually speaking at this point.
When we arrive at Mateo’s gym, K.O., the morning sun throws golden hues into the cloudless sky. Tristan slips out of the car and even in his somber state, manages to open my car door for me.
“Thanks,” I say, but he just nods in return.
Loud, angry music pumps from the speakers in the gym directly into the parking lot. As we get closer, I see Mateo has the side door ajar, unaware that it’s nine in the morning. We make our way through the door and I have to stop for a moment to catch my breath. I’ve seen Mateo without his shirt on at the pier party but this . . . this . . . Marley. Would. Die.
He’s a walking, talking sensory overload. Every single thing about a male that is clichéd enough to bring a girl to her knees is defined in this single picture. The muscles in his abdomen are taut and a scripted tattoo across his belly reads Fight or Die. Sweat creates the perfect sheen to his olive skin as he delivers blow after blow after blow to a punching bag. Even his breath is purposeful; each time he connects, he exhales in a perfectly measured pant. His features are drawn in an unbreakable focus. I almost want to dig my phone out of my purse and take a picture to text it to Marley.
He stops whaling on the thing as soon as he sees us. Turning, he removes his gloves to reveal taped-up hands, pulls a mouth guard from his mouth, and gives us a wide grin.
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 8
