by Kristie Cook
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I should have known he wouldn’t forget it. Why had I even said it? I quickly ordered a salad and used the time as he ordered his own food to come up with a non-answer.
“So . . . you’re not going to answer?” Tristan asked after we sat at a table by the window.
I shrugged. “I just meant most guys wouldn’t pass up a pool party with hot college girls to do homework.”
He leaned toward me, looking into my eyes. The gold sparkles in his were bright and enrapturing. My breath caught. “That’s not what you meant.”
I forced myself to breathe, my head swimming from the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s pretty close,” I finally said. He continued staring at me expectantly. I sighed. Then I tried to switch directions with my own question. “Do you know those girls well?”
He shook his head. “Only from class. Girls like that, though . . . they seem to think I want to know them.”
“And you don’t?” I scoffed.
“No.”
I didn’t understand him. “Is that why you passed it up?”
His eyes narrowed and the corners of his lips twitched as if fighting a smile. “I see what you’re doing. You answer mine first.”
I pursed my lips together as his eyes held mine, challenging me. I finally pulled my gaze from his and stared at my uninspiring salad. “Seriously . . . that pool party was an example. Most people wouldn’t hang out for hours just doing homework and discussing trivial things.”
I didn’t add “with me,” although that was the original meaning. It would point out something was wrong with me. I expected him to lose interest before he ever knew those things.
“I haven’t found any of our conversations trivial,” he replied. I looked back up at him and tilted my head, an eyebrow cocked. “You have?”
I snorted. “It’s not exactly exciting stuff.”
His eyes flickered. “So . . . you’re bored?”
“No!” I sighed again, getting frustrated. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you going to tell me what you mean, then? Or are we just going to continue in circles?” He sat back in his chair and took a bite of his apple. A drop of juice glistened on his bottom lip and the image of licking it clean for him flashed in my mind. I blinked it away. He still sat there, waiting for my answer.
I sighed yet again; it was nearly a groan. How could he do this to me? He was too irresistible for my own good.
“Fine.” I took a deep breath and spewed out the words. “I really don’t get why you choose to hang out with me, doing nothing special, when there are so many other things you could be doing with so many other people. Most people would be long gone by now.”
“I told you, I’m not like most people.” He leaned forward, over the table, his eyes intense again. My insides quivered and warmed under his relentless gaze. “I’d rather hang out, doing nothing special with you because you are . . . special.”
My eyes widened. He moved his hand toward mine, as if to take it. I had to will my own hand to remain still before it jumped out to his and beat him to the first move. My skin tingled and my heart beat erratically. Before he even touched me, though, a quiet groan rumbled in his throat and his hand was suddenly in his lap. His eyes broke from mine and he looked away for the first time since we sat down. I exhaled slowly and quietly, allowing a moment of silence to pass as I recovered.
“You obviously don’t know me very well,” I finally muttered.
He sat back again and his gaze came back to me, looking as calm as always, as if nothing had just happened. “Hmm . . . I know you and I are very much alike.”
“In what alternate reality? We seem to be complete opposites.”
He was perfect. I was ordinary . . . except for the weird things. He was a math whiz and I was an English major. He was athletic; I was far from it. He was beautiful. I was . . . me.
He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “Hmm . . . yes, in many ways we are opposites, you’re right. But, we’re much more alike than you realize. You’re not like most people either.”
So he did notice. Yet here he was.
“And that’s why I passed it up. College parties are no good for me. Trust me. You, on the other hand, are very good for me.” He lifted his eyebrows, as if asking if I understood. I just stared at him for a long moment.
“I don’t get it,” I finally whispered.
He shrugged. “You don’t have to. It’s just the way it is.”
That was about as deep as it ever went for the next few weeks. We never came back to that strange conversation, when I had let my guard down more than I ever had before. We both seemed to notice there was some kind of connection between us and neither of us could break it. Perhaps he was right. Maybe we were more alike than I realized. I felt another click in my heart as another piece settled into place.
***
October brought mid-terms and, of course, Halloween. Mom buzzed excitedly about her first real store event since the Grand Opening—a Halloween party for the kids. I had put off serious studying for exams because I was spending so much time writing. The first few chapters poured themselves out of my head and I was falling in love with my main characters. I preferred spending time with them than with the overzealous feminists or derivatives and functions. With mid-terms looming, I had to switch gears.
First, though, I promised to help Mom decorate the store for Halloween before it opened one morning. Mom had hired her first employee, Owen, even before the Grand Opening, insisting that I spend my time writing, not working. But I wanted to do something for her since she did so much for me. And, admittedly, it was also for selfish reasons. I hoped it would assuage my guilt for sneaking around so much, even if I hadn’t learned a thing about our background.
“Good morning, little dudette,” Owen greeted when I entered the bookstore bright and early that Thursday morning.
He looked like he should still be in college, but wasn’t. I didn’t ask, but I guessed he’d dropped out to enjoy the Florida lifestyle of sun and fun, although I thought he was on the wrong coast. He seemed to belong in California, hanging out with the surfers.
I grunted. I’d stayed up until one in the morning reading about women playwrights and their portrayal of female characters.
“Hmm . . . not a good morning?” Owen asked.
“It’s eight a.m., I don’t have classes and I’m not in bed. What could be good about it?” I muttered.
He nodded and laughed. “Yeah, know what ya mean.”
I watched as he enthusiastically cleaned the counter, contradicting his words.
“You look like a morning person to me.”
He threw me a disgusted look, though his sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with humor. “I take that as an insult.”
“So you’re not always like this?”
He scrubbed his hand through his blond hair as he seemed to think about it. “I have no idea. Don’t see this time of day whenever I can help it.”
He winked at me. It was cute, but it didn’t have that mind-fogging effect Tristan’s wink did. He wasn’t ugly or even unattractive, but . . . well, not Mr. Beautiful. In fact, in the looks department, Owen compared to Tristan like I compared to Mom—pleasant, but not striking. She thought Owen looked like a sweet James Dean, one of her favorite actors from the old movies she loved so much.
“Honey, you look exhausted,” Mom said as she stepped out from a row of bookcases. “Maybe you’re trying to do too much. Owen and I can take care of this.”
“I’m fine. I just need some caffeine. I think I’ll go get some coffee across the street before we do this.”
“Why don’t you two go get some for all of us?” she said. “Take a five out of the drawer.”
Mom didn’t excite easily, but the way she gushed about Owen—how great he was, such a good worker, funny, yada, yada—you’d think he’d stepped right out of the pages of a book about Mr. Right. When I asked her why she didn’t go out with him, she said she n
eeded a man-break. Besides, she’d said, he was closer to my age than hers. Yep, she was trying to set us up. Hence, sending us both to do a one-person job.
“That’s okay, Owen,” I said. “I think I can manage.”
I tried to hurry across Fifth, the main business street of Cape Heron, but my body just wouldn’t cooperate. It still longed for my warm, comfy bed. I’d been surprised to find the late October mornings so cool. There was a bigger difference in seasons down here than I expected, although they were subtle changes—the mornings were cooler, the highs hit the low eighties instead of the nineties and it didn’t rain every afternoon like it did throughout the summer. As I headed to the coffee shop, I enjoyed the salty breeze off the nearby Gulf of Mexico, letting it awaken my senses.
The Cape was a sleepy little resort town—at least it had been when we moved here in the middle of summer—among many dotting the Gulf Coast between Sarasota and Fort Myers. The region had been growing busier recently as the first snowbirds left their summer homes in the north and came south for the winter, so I wasn’t surprised to find the coffee shop busy.
It was actually an old-style diner with wood and vinyl booths and a row of peg-like stools pinned in front of the counter. The smells of smoky bacon, sweet pancakes and pungent coffee mixed in the air, reminiscent of the many diners we stopped at during our moves. I also smelled the residue of last night’s old-lady night cream and Ben-Gay on the elderly couple in front of me.
While I waited in line, I observed people, a habit I learned years ago when I started writing fiction. People-watching was fun, something I could do with all of my alone time, and I learned a lot to use in my characters. I was lost in thought while watching an older man with gray caterpillar eyebrows and a matching mustache sip his coffee and read a newspaper at the counter. His mustache crawled as he silently moved his lips while reading. He’d make a great werewolf, perhaps a pack leader.
“Hello, sexy Lexi,” a lovely voice murmured in my ear, raising the hair on the back of my neck.
I spun around to find Tristan just behind me, leaning over, very close. Mmm . . . he smells so good.
“Sorry, you don’t like Lexi, do you?”
Actually, I love the way it sounds from you. Did he really call me sexy?
“It wasn’t the Lexi part,” I said pointedly.
His eyes sparkled brighter. “So, I can call you Lexi?”
“Not in public.” I never went by Lexi specifically because of that nickname.
“But in private is okay,” he said. It wasn’t a question. And he followed it with his devastating smile, making certain parts of my body tighten. My turn was up and the cashier had to ask me three times for my order before I even realized she was talking to me.
“Make that four coffees,” Tristan said to the cashier as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “I got it.”
“Business expense,” I said, holding up Mom’s money folded between my index and middle finger.
“Save it. You can have the receipt and she still gets the expense.” He paid while saying this, so I reluctantly stuffed the bill and the receipt in my jeans pocket with a scowl. I didn’t like owing him.
I grabbed little cups of cream and packets of sweetener as I waited for the order. When the four cups were placed on the counter, I tried to figure out how I would carry three of them.
“Let me help,” Tristan said.
He grabbed one of the Styrofoam cups just as I did. An electric pulse flew through my hand and up my arm as our fingers touched. I flinched and looked up at him. He smiled and a gleam sparked in his eyes. He felt it, too, it seemed, but hadn’t pulled back. It was, admittedly, a pleasurable sensation. It was the first time we’d actually touched—except when I collided with him that first night. When there had also been a shock. Weird . . . I took the other two cups and walked out without a word.
My stomach tightened as we crossed the street—Mr. Beautiful and my goddess-like mother were about to meet. The cowbell on the front door jangled when we walked in and Mom came from the back room, her arms loaded with glossy hardcover books. She looked up at me, then behind me at Tristan. She stopped dead and the books crashed to the floor. Her mouth fell open, as did mine. Mom never dropped things—she had excellent reflexes. She just stood there stiffly, still staring at him. Please, please don’t let them . . .
“Um, Sophia?” I said, puzzled by her reaction. It wasn’t exactly what I expected.
She continued glaring at Tristan and I realized I should make introductions, but my voice trailed off in the middle of them. Mom paid absolutely no attention to me and I suddenly felt like the outsider. Her eyes narrowed tightly at Tristan as she lifted her chin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan just barely nod. Mom, almost imperceptibly, tilted her head in response. And then, to my complete embarrassment, she turned on her heel and marched to the back room. She barked something to Owen and he rushed out, stiffened when he saw Tristan, then nodded and hurriedly picked up the books.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Sure, no problem.” Tristan still watched the doorway to the backroom, as if expecting her to come back out . . . or wanting to follow her.
I moaned internally.
“Thanks for the coffee.” I made my voice light so it wouldn’t betray my feelings of defeat and disappointment.
He pulled his eyes away from the backroom and turned to me.
“My pleasure. I’ll see you later.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Bye, sexy Lexi.”
Stunned, I looked up at him. He flashed a smile, then strode out of the store, leaving me in a daze. Could he possibly . . . ? Not him and Mom? Maybe . . . just maybe? My heart sped with hope.
But then I remembered Mom.
Chapter 4
I trudged to the back room where she paced around a stack of boxes.
“What was that all about?” I demanded.
“What?” She stopped pacing and widened her eyes with false innocence.
“Um, your warm welcome to Tristan?”
“Oh, that. Sorry. I just thought . . . oh, never mind. It’s not important.” She smiled weakly. I didn’t buy it.
“Mom,” I whispered through clenched teeth, hoping Owen didn’t overhear us. “You were really kind of rude. That was so embarrassing. I think I really like this guy.”
Mom’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “You really like him?”
I nodded and a sheepish smile played at my mouth. It was the first time I’d admitted it aloud. I was still trying to be annoyed, though, so I fought the smile.
“How do you even know him?” She sounded angry, startling me into forgetting I was upset with her.
“He’s in a couple of my classes and on my communications team.”
Mom’s face looked furious as she glared at me. “I can’t believe you haven’t told me about him!”
I moaned with guilt, avoiding her glare by looking at the floor as I pulled at my hair. I tried to avoid the full truth. “Well, it’s not like there’s anything to it.”
“That could change. So what’s the rest?” She knew me too well.
I continued to stare at the floor, yanking and twisting my hair. “Well, I was afraid that . . . you and Tristan . . . well, you know how you are . . . .”
My insides squirmed uncomfortably. Mom surprised me with a loud, “Ha!” My head snapped up to see her smug expression.
“That, my dear, is one thing you don’t need to worry about,” she said harshly. “I have absolutely no interest in him and I strongly wish you wouldn’t, either.”
“What?”
“He’s trouble, Alexis. Trust me.”
“Mom!” I nearly shouted, forgetting about Owen. I quickly lowered my voice. “That’s not fair! You don’t even know him.”
She was silent for a moment. She had to know I had a good point. Then she said through clenched teeth, “I don’t need to. I can tell he’s not good for you.”
“Well, I think he is and I’m an adult. I’ll
make my own decisions.”
Her eyes widened with shock. Her mouth pressed into an angry line. Then she stormed away, back to the front of the store.
I stood there, livid, trying to figure out what she wouldn’t like about Tristan. He hadn’t been here ten seconds or even said a word. How could she be so judgmental? That wasn’t like her at all.
I eventually dragged myself out to the front of the store and drank my coffee in silence. The heavy tension nearly suffocated me as we hung orange and black streamers, cut-outs of bats and black cats and fake spider webs around the store with as little conversation as necessary. I bailed out as soon as I possibly could and went home to study. But I couldn’t concentrate so I escaped to my writing.
***
“So, you really like him?” Mom had suddenly appeared in my doorway, startling me back to the real world. Wondering why she was home so soon, I glanced at the clock by my bed. It was already eight o’clock. Ugh. I had lost another day of studying. I got up from my desk, stretched, and then plopped down on my bed.
“Yeah, I do. Who wouldn’t? He’s absolutely gorgeous!”
“Yes, well, looks aren’t everything.” Her tone was curt, almost cold.
“Of course, they aren’t! You know me better than that.”
She sighed. “You’re right. So, what else?”
“He’s kind, he makes me laugh and he’s a real gentleman. And I think he likes me.”
“You don’t need to like someone just because they like you, Alexis. What about Owen? He’s funny and kind.”
“Mother, will you stop it? You’re being condescending.” I glared at her.
She crossed her arms. Her voice hardened. “I’m just looking out for your best interests, Alexis.”
“And you think Owen is in my best interest?” It came out as almost a sneer.
“Owen or just about anyone other than this Tristan!”
I sprang to my feet. “So, you want me to date, but I can only like the guy as long as it’s someone you pick.”