Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  And he always had some completely out-there excuse for why he hadn’t returned the dictionary he’d checked out four months ago.

  Yes.

  A dictionary.

  I was pretty sure he was the only person to check out a dictionary since the Internet was invented.

  Pulling out his card, I tapped it off the counter as I picked up the phone and wedged it between my cheek and shoulder.

  The phone rang once.

  Then twice.

  “Hello,” the familiar male voice answered.

  For some dumb reason, my heart belly-flopped in my chest, which was weird, because this was just about getting a book back, but . . . “Hi. This is—”

  “Moss,” he answered. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  I grew up hating my name and the fact that my parents had been hippies who had to have smoked a ton of pot before they came up with it. I mean, my name was Moss. Moss? Like, come on. Moss wasn’t a name. It was a plant that grew in dank, dark areas. But the way H. Smith said it? I felt my cheeks warm. He said my name like he was whispering some kind of prized secret.

  He sounded close to my age. Of course, I knew that didn’t really mean anything. I had no idea if this guy was some kind of perv living in his mother’s basement, harassing women online while eating Double Stuf Oreos and getting crumbs all over his keyboard. But somehow I knew he wasn’t.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, surprising me. Even without a mirror, I knew my pink skin was getting even pinker.

  Clearing my throat, I focused on the task at hand. “There is no way you could’ve missed me.”

  “And why not?” he replied, sounding amused.

  “We don’t even know each other.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I mean, at least I feel like I know you.” There was a pause. “Just the other day, you told me you hated turkey.”

  I had told him that, though I couldn’t remember how that topic of convo had come up. “Yeah, and just the other day you told me the reason you’d been unable to return the dictionary was because you were touring the back roads of France.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not a lie.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’ve been checking them out on Google Maps.”

  My lips twitched. “And what about the time you told me you haven’t been able to make it to the library because you’re preparing for an alien invasion?”

  “Well, I have been playing Halo in my spare time, so it’s not like that’s a lie,” he answered smoothly. “And you know me. You know my deepest, darkest secret.”

  “I really don’t think I know that.”

  “Yes, you do.” His tone was light, playful even. “You know that I like to write. I know that you like that I write.”

  He caught me so off guard that I heard myself stutter out, “O-of course I like that. I do work at a library.”

  “Mmhmm,” he murmured. “And you also know that I just started marathoning Game of Thrones.”

  I glanced up from the phone. The few people in the library were still busy doing their thing. “That’s only because you used that as an excuse for not returning the book. You said you were too emotionally wrecked after the Red Wedding scene.”

  “I was,” he exclaimed. “That was a traumatic episode. I mean, I blinked and half the cast was gone. Just gone.”

  I was grinning so hard I was sure there was a good chance he could see it through the phone.

  “And I know you cry when those ASPCA commercials come on,” he continued.

  “Everyone cries when those commercials come on!” I defended myself. “And the only reason you know that about me is because the last time I called, I could hear that song playing in the background. And I didn’t start crying. I just said they made me cry.”

  Truth was, H. Smith was a stranger, but not. From the weekly calls over the last several months, little bits of information about both of us had surfaced. Nothing too deep. He knew I didn’t like soda and preferred hot tea. He claimed to drink almost nothing but water and orange juice. We both were animal people. I heard him talk to a dog once, Daisy. Those were the kind of things we knew about each other, and we’d never met.

  “Annnnnnyway,” he drew the word out. “Have you heard of zelophobia?”

  Fighting a grin, I dropped onto the worn stool behind the front desk. He did this every time. Found random words in the dictionary and told me about them. The guy was—I don’t know. He was just . . . interesting. “No. I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s the irrational fear of jealousy.” He paused. “I’m not sure what makes the fear irrational, but a zelophobe seems like my kind of person.”

  “Agreed,” I murmured, glancing around the library.

  “Did you know zazzy was a real word?”

  “It is?”

  “According to the dictionary I plan on returning, it means flashy and stylish. Can you use zazzy in a sentence?”

  I laughed under my breath. “My winter jacket is zazzy.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said, and it sounded like a door shut somewhere on his side of the phone. “Do you know what a zokor is?”

  “No, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.”

  “That I am,” he returned. “It’s a molelike rodent that actually looks really fluffy and friendly.”

  I wrinkled my nose, creasing the skin around my eyes. “I don’t know if there are any rodents that are friendly looking.”

  “Uh, what about Mickey Mouse?”

  “Mickey Mouse is a cartoon.”

  “No shit?”

  Another laugh escaped me. “Shocker, I know.”

  “Well, this conversation is full of zanyism.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, shaking my head. “Does anyone even use the word zanyism in everyday language?”

  He laughed, and it was a nice laugh. Deep. Infectious. He sounded like someone who laughed a lot, and I didn’t picture trolls in their mothers’ basements as people who laughed a lot. “They should. They’d sound smarter.”

  “Maybe . . . ?”

  “You know what the most interesting word I’ve found is? I know you’re dying to know, so I won’t draw it out for you,” he said, and I bit down on my lip. “It’s zapata. It means drooping, flowing mustache.”

  “What?” I laughed.

  “Yep. So, I got curious, because who wouldn’t be?”

  “Yeah? Who wouldn’t be,” I said, switching the phone to my other shoulder.

  “It’s actually named after the leader of the Mexican revolution—Emiliano Zapata,” he explained. “See. You learn something new every day.”

  “Or at least whenever I talk to you.”

  “You probably don’t want me to tell you what zatch stands for.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Just think about how less . . . wordy you’d be if I returned this dictionary on time,” he said, this time with an amused chuckle.

  “I’m a better person now,” I said dryly.

  There was another pause. “So, Moss, I was thinking . . .”

  After a few seconds, I gave up on waiting. “Thinking what? You’re going to finally return the dictionary?”

  There was another rumble of laughter. “Maybe. Just maybe.”

  I felt that swelling in my chest again.

  Footsteps drew my attention, and I peered up. Someone was shuffling to the desk with an armful of books to check out. I straightened. “It’s been nice chatting with you, Mr. Smith, but it’s time to return the dictionary. Our set looks pretty sad without it. Have a good night!” I added, hanging up quickly.

  Standing, I pushed the call out of my head and took care of the guy checking out five books on herbology and hydroponics.

  Really wasn’t going to question that too closely.

  Then I tackled the books that had been returned, the mind-numbing task keeping me busy most of the evening. Later, before I closed up the library, I Googled zokor, and I had to admit that the brown molelike
rodents did look fluffy . . . and friendly.

  — — — —

  “I don’t know why they made us come to school today.” Libby sighed as she leaned against the locker beside mine. Her curly black hair was pulled into a tight pouf at the top of her head. “It’s a half day and not even the teachers want to be here.”

  Smothering a yawn, I stared bleakly at the books in my locker. “I wonder if they’ll care if I nap through first period.”

  “Did you stay up watching Untold Stories of the ER again?” she asked.

  I shot her a grin. “I can’t help it. The show is fascinating.”

  Libby shook her head. “You’re so weird.”

  “You love me,” I told her as I grabbed my English book. Libby and I had been best friends since grade school. “When are you leaving for your grandparents’?”

  “Christmas Eve eve,” she answered with a roll of her light green eyes. “Sigh. No Internet. No cable. The townsfolk are the kind that look at my mom and dad strangely. You know, in that way,” she said. Libby was biracial, her mother black and her father white. “God be with me.”

  I cringed in sympathy. “How long will you be there?”

  “Until New Year’s Eve.” She moaned, running her hand along the strap of her bag. “You’re going to be home, right?”

  Nodding, I pulled out a thin, couple-inch-wide notebook I used for doodling. I wasn’t very talented outside of drawing flowers. And I could totally draw a blobfish. Real talent right there. There was just something relaxing about sketching, though. “My grandparents are coming to our house.”

  “Lucky you. Oh—did you manage to get that book returned?” she asked as I closed the locker door.

  I laughed and swung my backpack around, shoving the notebook into it. Libby was well aware of my ongoing mission at the library. “No such luck.”

  “I think you may as well just give up . . . God, he is so pretty.”

  Frowning, I followed her gaze and saw her grinning as she stared in the opposite direction. I shifted and immediately knew whom she was talking about.

  Quiet Hot Guy.

  That was the official name Libby had given him when he showed up at the start of the school year. He was new, and that alone had been breaking news, but add in the fact that he was seriously cute and also seriously quiet? Everyone had paid attention.

  Tyler Cox.

  I never exchanged a single word with him. He was in my history class, but he sat in the front while I sort of hid out in the back. I didn’t see him at lunch, and since we didn’t have that large of a cafeteria, I figured he must hang out in the library like some did.

  He was a bit of a mystery.

  A very cute mystery.

  “Why does he have to have better lashes than us?” Libby whispered. “It’s not fair.”

  My lips curved up as I swallowed a giggle. He really did have amazing lashes.

  He stopped at his locker. I tried to pretend like I wasn’t gawking, but he was really, really nice to look at. So, like the creepers we were, Libby and I watched him swirl the lock on the metal door.

  Tyler had a messy shock of hair that was a wild array of auburn and deep brown. It fell forward, brushing his eyebrows. With pale skin that looked like he’d be prone to blushing, those high cheekbones and the cut jaw, he really was more than just cute.

  The guy was a hottie.

  And he was tall, with the kind of shoulders my gramma would call door-busters. Gramma was also kind of weird.

  He started to turn toward us, so I pivoted around, widening my eyes at Libby as my bag thumped off my side. “I really need to stop staring at people.”

  She laughed. “There are a lot of things you need to stop.”

  “Like what?” I demanded.

  “As if I need to tell you.” Eyes glimmering, she grinned as she stepped back. “See you in English.”

  Wiggling my fingers at her, I lifted my bag up and headed in the opposite direction. I fell into the pack of shuffling bodies, folding my arms across my chest. I dreaded the climb to the second floor. It was too early and I was entirely too lazy—

  “Excuse me,” a voice called out from behind me.

  Wheeling around, I came to a complete stop. Tyler stood a few feet from me, seemingly unaware of everyone passing around and between us.

  “Hi,” I squeaked like a chew toy. Why was he talking to me? We’d never talked before. Probably saw me staring at him like some—

  “You dropped this.”

  My brows rose as I stared. Goodness. Up close, those lashes were truly amazing. They lowered now, shielding eyes—I wasn’t sure of the color. One side of his lips quirked up.

  “You dropped this,” he repeated, and then lifted his hand, holding the small notebook that now struck me as impossibly uncool. “Thought you might want it back. It’s pretty zaz—uh, jazzy looking.”

  “Did you just say ‘zazzy’?” I asked, every part of me stilling. Who would use a world like zazzy except . . .

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Umm, I said ‘jazzy.’ Stupid joke. Anyway, here’s your notebook.” He handed it to me and walked away.

  I was still staring.

  The warning bell rang, tossing me out of my stupor. “Thank you,” I called after him.

  I stood there for a few seconds, sort of wanting to punch myself. I could talk to some strange, and I mean strange, dude on a phone for four months, but I couldn’t say a complete sentence to the one standing in front of me?

  Ugh.

  I was a mess—a typical walking cliché mess.

  — — — —

  “Jingle Bells” played softly from the computer behind the front counter, breaking the cardinal library rule, but it was the eve of Christmas Eve, and I didn’t think the few people in the library would mind.

  One guy was softly snoring by the window, so he didn’t get a choice.

  Perched on the edge of my seat, I was shading in a giant poinsettia with a red coloring pencil I’d stolen from my younger brother. I glanced at the front doors to see if it had started snowing again, like the forecast had called for. The sun was just setting, casting what I could see of the parking lot into long, cloudy shadows.

  Hoping it didn’t snow buckets, I went back to the poinsettia. “Silent Night” replaced “Jingle Bells” replaced “Blue Christmas.” I had no idea how much time had passed until I heard footsteps approaching me. My gaze flicked up.

  And I almost fell out of my seat.

  It was him.

  Quiet Hot Guy. Tyler. I’d never, ever seen him in here before. Granted, I didn’t work here every day, but still . . .

  “Hey,” I said, surprise causing my tone to pitch high. “Tyler.”

  A lopsided grin formed as thick lashes lowered. “You know my name?”

  Heat blasted my cheeks. Was I not supposed to know his name? Did knowing his name make me seem creepy? I kind of felt creepy now. “Well, yes. I mean, it’s kind of hard not to—not that I mean anything by that. I mean, this is a small town and you’re new—well, newish—and in small towns like this, everyone knows everyone even if they don’t know that people know them.”

  One brow lifted as Tyler studied me.

  Oh God, I needed to shut up, but I couldn’t seem to stop my mouth. “Everyone knows your name.”

  Okay. Now I did sound creepy.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the centers of my cheeks warm. “I’m just . . . really random today.”

  “It’s okay.” One hand curled around the strap of his bag.

  I leaned forward. There was something familiar about his voice. I wasn’t sure I could chalk it up to hearing him speak in class or the hallways. There was something else, like it was on the tip of my tongue or a thought existing on the fringe.

  The grin grew on those well-formed lips, warming brown eyes—dark brown eyes.

  And I was totally just sitting there, staring at him like a dork.

  I cleared my throat. “So, what can I help you
with, Tyler?”

  “Actually, I think I can help you.” He slid off his backpack and knelt down to unzip his bag. “It’s something I think you’ve been waiting for.”

  Curious, I watched him reach into his bag and pull something thick out of it. He laid it down on the lip of the counter, and my mouth dropped so far open I was sure I’d catch flies, just like my gramma would say.

  A burgundy-and-gold dictionary rested in front of me.

  Not just any old dictionary. It was the missing one—the one checked out by H. Smith!

  I dropped the red pencil. It clattered off the desk and dropped to the floor. Slowly, I lifted my gaze from the heavy tome to Tyler’s chocolate-colored eyes. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  Tyler was still grinning as he folded his arms on the counter. “I used to live in North Carolina, but my mom met someone at this conference for work. Anyway, after about a year of dating and doing the long-distance thing, they married.”

  “Okay,” I murmured.

  He tilted his head to the side. “So I ended up moving here over the summer. My stepfather’s name is Harvey Smith.”

  Harvey Smith.

  H. Smith.

  My lips parted on a soft inhale.

  Oh my God.

  “I haven’t gotten my own library card,” he continued as he glanced down at the dictionary. “So I’ve been using his, which is linked to his home phone.”

  “Home phone,” I repeated dumbly.

  “I know, right? Can you believe he still has a house phone?” He chuckled, and I knew that chuckle. I’d heard it over the phone more than a dozen times. “Scared the crap out of me the first time it rang. Couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  His gaze lowered once more and he ran his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I was bored one day and found that he’d checked this dictionary out. No idea why. But I started reading it.” He lifted one shoulder as he dropped his hand to the counter. “Because why not?”

  I blinked slowly.

  “Then one day at the end of August, the house phone rang and I decided to answer it,” he continued. “It was this person from the public library and . . . I think you know the rest.”