I leave the kitchen table, abandoning my half-drank coffee, needing to stretch my legs. “You’ve got it. In fact, I was just thinking how sad it is I can buy that pool table for the living room now that you’re not here to whine about it.”
She laughs. “What do you want?”
“What are you doing today?” I ask, playing it cool. I’ll chat for a bit and then subtly see when Addison’s supposed to work on the next item on the list. Just for curiosity’s sake.
“You mean what are you doing today?” she counters, sounding…weird. Sort of conniving. It worries me.
“What?”
“Addison told me you showed up at her cooking class last night.”
“Yeah, so? It sounded fun.” I cringe the moment the words leave my mouth. Jessa’s never going to buy it. I was hoping Addison would have waited just a bit longer to tell her.
“Mmmhmm,” she hums.
“Fine. Just tell me—is she working on the list today?”
“Yep.”
I throw my free hand up in the air when Jessa makes me wait and pace my living room. When she still doesn’t elaborate, I grit my teeth and look at the ceiling, asking for patience. “Is she going in order? It’s not Number Two, is it?”
“Yep and yep.”
“Stop saying that. What’s with you?”
“I have a theory.”
One I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear.
“You like her,” Jessa says without waiting for me to prompt her this time, sounding particularly triumphant.
“I’m concerned. It’s different.”
“Right. Is that why you kissed her? Because you were concerned?”
I love my little sister, but sometimes I hate her.
“Jessa,” I growl.
“Fine, don’t admit it. I’ll help you out anyway. Addison is parked outside Tanner’s Sporting Goods. If you hurry, you might make it in time to chase away potential suitors.”
I shake my head, surprised Addison agreed to this one.
“Go get her, cowboy,” Jessa says, enjoying herself entirely too much.
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
She laughs in a way that’s nothing short of wicked and ends the call before I get the satisfaction of doing it first.
6
Modern guys kind of suck. I’m just saying.
For nearly an hour, I’ve stood here in my heels, skirt, and sleeveless blouse (it’s too warm for a sweater), with my car hood open, pretending to stare at the engine like I’m a monkey looking at a math problem. Why? Because of Number Two: Feign car trouble and ask a cute guy to give you a jump.
Do you know who’s come to my aid, jumper cables in hand? Five men my dad’s age and one who was probably seventy.
The few twenty-somethings that bothered to amble up next to me asked if I needed them to call me an Uber. When I purred that I just needed a jump, they stared at the engine of my car…like monkeys looking at math problems.
My current winner has managed to figure out he’ll need jumper cables, and now he purses his lips, nodding as he contemplates the inner workings of my sedan.
The red cable goes to the positive; the black goes to the negative. It’s not rocket science, boys.
Losing my patience, I brush the side of my neck in a come-hither kind of way and sidle up to the car, motioning to the battery that’s right there. “I think that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Right.” He flashes me a winning smile and has the decency to look sheepish. “I got that part. I was trying to figure out where to hook it up. I mean…I figure it’s the nodule things, but I…”
He trails off, and I try not to bang my head on the car.
“This is embarrassing,” he finally says.
The guy’s cute, probably about my age. He has one of those trendy haircuts that’s long on top and short on the sides, and I’m pretty sure there’s some styling pomade involved.
“I’m going to tell you the truth.” He lets the cables drop and rubs the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. “I’ve never done this before, but I really wanted a chance to talk to you, and I thought I might be able to muddle my way through it.”
Well, that’s kind of sweet. Is it really this easy?
“My name’s Addison,” I say, offering him a smile.
“Grady.”
I motion to the sporting goods store. “Want to keep me company while I wait for someone to pick me up?”
His smile is swift. “I’d like that.”
But the second the words are out of Grady’s mouth, a familiar gun-smoke gray pickup turns into the lot. I stare at it, wondering how the heck Carter figured out I was here.
He pulls up next to us in the aisle, leaning out the window. “Car trouble, Addison?”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.
The irritating man jerks his chin at Grady in greeting—it’s the type of nod that’s friendly enough but reeks of superiority—before he looks back at me. “I’m just here for a pole. I’ve heard the fishing’s been good lately.”
I’m going to strangle him.
“Well…” Grady eyes Carter and slowly backs up. “Looks like you’re all set.”
I gape at him, disappointed he’s backing down that easily.
“Thanks anyway,” I mumble.
He nods and then hightails it into the store.
When he’s gone, I give Carter a pointed look. “The fishing was good. A big dumb bear just scared the fish away.”
“That boy is a minnow.” He pushes his sunglasses up on his head and meets my eyes. “You need a man.”
I teeter a bit, but that’s because of the heels. Obviously.
“Well then leave, so I can find one,” I say with a smirk.
“Funny.”
I nod, acknowledging that I certainly thought it was humorous. Then I slam the hood of my car and lean against it, crossing my arms.
“What are you doing here, Carter?” I ask, noticing a car slowly making its way down the aisle behind the truck.
“You’re not really serious about this list, are you?” He, too, glances at the car in his side mirror.
“You’re in the way,” I point out.
Carter gives the man behind him another frustrated glance before he turns his attention back to me. “Come on. At least admit this one isn’t going to work—who knows what kind of deranged weirdo you could meet out here.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. I’m tired of standing around in these heels anyway. Besides, if I want a guy who can work on cars, I know where to find a whole gaggle of them.
Carter slowly creeps forward, letting the car behind him know he’s getting ready to leave. “Hey, have you tried the new ice cream place on—”
My phone rings, and I stick up a finger, asking him to hold that thought.
“I’m going to park,” he tells me just before the old man behind him lays on the horn. (Someone is in a hurry to buy imitation salmon eggs and freeze dried ice cream bars.)
I don’t recognize the phone number, and figure it’s one of those fraudulent “pay us or we’ll throw you in jail” calls, but I answer anyway. “Hello?” I say as I watch Carter find a spot toward the back of the parking lot.
“Is this Addison?” a deep, sexy, mildly familiar voice asks.
“Uh, yeah?” I so eloquently respond.
“This is Gio. From last night’s class.”
A pleasant tingle runs down my spine—not an earth-shattering tingle. Just a nice little one. “Hi.”
“Listen, I know we just met, but do you think you’d like to go out? Maybe get some dinner?”
Number Twenty-six: Make him think you’re in high demand. Men like a challenge.
Carter walks over, making his way through the parked cars in his usual jeans and T-shirt. He has a faded red baseball cap on today, and he’s in his scuffed-up cowboy boots. He didn’t shave this morning, so there’s a light brown shadow along his jaw, making him look scruffy. Yummy scruffy.
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“Oh, goodness, I’d love to,” I say slowly. “But I’m going out tonight…”
Carter raises his brows, just catching that last part, and gives me a silent, “You are?” look.
“That’s all right,” Gio says, undeterred. “Are you free next Saturday?”
“Hmmm,” I answer, trying to ignore Carter. “I don’t think I have anything going on.”
“Great. How about we work out the details on Friday?”
“Sounds good. See you at class.” I hang up, probably looking like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
“Who was that?” Carter demands.
“Gio.” I can’t contain my smug look, and I don’t bother to try. “He asked me out.”
Carter grimaces like I just announced I made a date with a three-toed swamp creature. “Who are you going out with tonight?”
“No one. Number Twenty-six: Make him think you’re in high demand. Now, what were you saying about ice cream?”
He stares at me for so long, I start to fidget. Something about his expression sends a tingle down my spine.
“Well, do you want to get ice cream or not?” I ask. “You’re the one who brought it up.”
“I’ll pick you up at five. We’ll do dinner first.”
Those few words cause a whole swarm of butterflies to take flight in my belly. I thought he meant now—all impromptu-like.
“Isn’t five a little early for dinner?” I ask.
“We’ll eat early and then play some mini golf before we get ice cream.”
“So we can enjoy it,” I say reasonably, even though my brain is screaming that this is starting to sound an awful lot like a date.
“Yeah.”
“Casual, right?”
“Totally casual.” His eyes flick down to my high heels. “You don’t have to wear those for me.”
My mouth goes dry, and I don’t know how to answer.
Seeing my hesitation, Carter flashes me a come-hither grin—something normal and familiar. “I like you just how you are.”
Brazen flirting—that’s better. I can work with that.
I step forward, cocking my head to the side. “Maybe I want to wear them for you.”
He blinks, and something about his reaction makes this seem less like playing. Maybe that’s because deep down…deep, deep down, I’m not playing.
And just like that, panic sets in like a spring storm, fast and cold. Did I really hit on Jessa’s brother?
As I try to figure out how to backtrack, Carter ambles forward, trapping me in his gaze. My brain goes blank. Before I realize what he’s up to, his hand settles on the side of my waist, and he leans close, his scruffy-yummy cheek grazing mine, and whispers into my ear, “You can wear whatever you like for me, Addison.”
I don’t dare answer. A mumbled mew is all I could possibly manage, and I refuse to let him know how he’s affecting me. Besides, Carter’s just teasing; I can tell by his tone. But the way his warm breath brushes my skin is no joke.
My shocked silence seems to amuse him. He chuckles as he steps back, his eyes all warm and friendly. He looks downright oblivious to the Monarch migration in my stomach.
“See you tonight,” he calls, tossing his keys in the air as he casually turns for his truck.
I press my hand to my stomach as I stare after him.
* * *
Ten minutes before five, I run through my house like a crazy person, checking for overly feminine stuff, just as Number Twenty-four commands.
Fact: I’m not trying to impress Carter. I’m just practicing. He’s like a test subject.
A really hot test subject.
I throw the offensive items in my coat closet, slam it shut, and lean against it, wishing I’d thought to buy some of the soda Carter likes. (Number Twenty-six: Stock your fridge with his favorite drinks and snacks.)
If I were really on top of things, I could have implemented Number Seventeen: Bake him cookies—show off your kitchen skills! But I didn’t have time for that disaster—I had to shower, exfoliate, shave my legs, and change my clothes twenty times.
I almost wore heels, but that’s a little too bold considering this afternoon’s conversation. So I wore a pair of boots instead—they dance a fine line between sexy and casual, and I think they give off the right vibe. I’m also in jeans, and since it will be cooler when the sun sets, I wore a lightweight, three-quarter-sleeve fitted sweater. Even though I bought it specifically for our date—correction, outing—after I left the sporting goods store, I almost chickened out of wearing it.
But it’s not like Carter has seen the list—there’s no way for him to know I’m wearing it for him specifically.
Not that I am.
I mean…I am. For practice.
We’ve been over this already.
I glance in a mirror near the entry. The sweater does great things for my figure, but does it do too great of things? Is it scandalous?
Pressing a hand to my stomach, I stand to the side and stand up straight. Yep, everything looks awesome, just as Jessa promised.
Just as I’m high-tailing it into my bedroom to change again, the doorbell rings. I stop dead in my tracks. It’s too late now.
I walk to the door, commanding myself to act normal. It’s just Carter. Jessa’s annoying older brother. Man who randomly kissed me at Jessa’s wedding.
Why did he have to do it?
Why?
He messed everything up. Now that kiss is all I can think about, but my mind isn’t happy to just relive the moment, brief as it was. No. It wants to embellish. And change the location. And remove his shirt.
Yep.
Picture it: It’s a hot day, and Carter leans over the hood of a ‘69 Mustang in the sweltering Arizona sunshine. Sweat trickles down his face, and he wipes his brow with the back of his arm. He straightens and yanks his T-shirt over his head, revealing a torso that my eighteen-year-old self went to the community pool every Saturday in the heat of summer just to stare at.
And suddenly, there I am, icy bottled water in my hand. A slow, crooked smile builds on Carter’s face, and he takes the water without a word, downs the whole thing, tosses the bottle in a handy nearby recycling receptacle, and then yanks me into his arms and kisses me like the drink just couldn’t quite satiate his thirst.
Yeah, I know.
I throw the door open and give Carter a casual, “Hey,” while trying not to drool on the doorstep.
He’s wearing exactly the same thing as earlier…but earlier, he wasn’t outside my front door. (And I hadn’t recently relived what could be the world’s best-selling bottled water commercial in my head.)
For precisely three seconds, I ask myself what Carter would do if I kissed him. You know—no preamble or warning. If I closed those last few steps between us, looped my arms around his shoulders, and pressed my lips to his.
Would he smell like cinnamon gum like last time?
Would he kiss me back?
What would Carter Dalton do if I made the first move?
“Hey,” he says lightly, a wicked sparkle in his eyes.
His lips twitch with amusement, and I stare at them. Thinking.
“What exactly is going on in your head right now?” he asks.
I bristle, wondering what sort of look I have on my face to prompt that kind of response.
“You have a dark smudge,” I say as if that’s an explanation. I touch my jaw, pointing out the non-existent speck to him. “Right here.”
He smiles like he knows I’m lying through my teeth and angles his chin toward me, pretending to rub it away. “Right here?”
“Yep.” I turn into the house, waving him in as I silently reprimand myself.
Trying to act all nonchalant, I grab a light jacket from the hook by the door just in case it gets cold later tonight. When I look back, I find Carter frowning at the room. “What happened to that awful pillow?”
The throw pillow in question had a cat wearing glasses on the front. I got it in high school,
and it managed to migrate with me when I moved into my own place. It’s currently stuffed in the closet along with two other pillows—one neon pink and the other lime green. A unicorn figurine my aunt gave me when I was twelve, three beat-up vampire romance novels, and fifteen half-burned candles have also been evicted from the premises.
Funny he should notice.
“I straightened up this afternoon.” I follow the words with a shrug. “The place was feeling a little cluttered.”
Looking oddly thoughtful, Carter turns back to me, taking in my outfit, a secret smile hovering over his lips. “Nice sweater.”
I freeze. “What?”
His eyes drift down briefly. “Your sweater. It’s nice.”
“Oh…okay. Thanks.” I grab my purse and quickly shake off his observation. “You ready to go?”
7
Addison cleaned all the girl junk out of her living room, and she’s wearing a sweater—not one of those big, bulky things. It’s thin and skims over her curves in a way that her regular T-shirts don’t. It looks…
We’ll just say it looks good and leave it at that.
Both of those things are on the list. Coincidence? Maybe. For all I know, she cleaned this place up for some other guy.
That’s not an easy thought to swallow.
“I’m ready when you are,” I say, running my eyes over her when she turns. She looks pretty.
I mean, she’s always pretty. She’s Addison—she’s adorable. No, what I should say is she looks hot. I’m so used to seeing her in shorts and flip-flops, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. I almost don’t know what to do with this version of Addison. (Not true. I know exactly what I’d like to do.)
I open the front door for her, pretending I’m a gentleman thinking gentlemanly thoughts.
She gives me a smile as she brushes past. “Lock it for me, will you?”
Then we’re walking down the drive, past her empty flower beds.
“Are you going to plant those this year?” I ask.
She’s talked about it since she moved in, saying she wants some color in her xeriscaped yard, but she never gets around to it.
27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend Page 4