How to Hook a Hottie

by Tina Ferraro

  “Not matchmaking?” she said. “Well, what is it, then?”

  I twisted the phone cord around my hand. Tight. Tighter. “A moneymaking opportunity. An Ideal Opportunity,” I said, wondering if she'd recognize and react to the buzz phrase.

  “That's great, honey.”

  I made some kind of uh-huh noise, which was all her vague response had earned.

  “And how's it going with your bio partner?”

  “Chem. Nothing to report.”

  “Your classes?”

  “Good.”

  “Dal?”

  “The usual.”

  “Well, all right.” I could hear her sigh across the ocean and the continents. She was giving up. Score one for Daughter Dearest. “Just try not to work too hard, Kate. Enjoy your life. And remember, money's just one way of keeping score.”

  My back teeth ground together. One way! One way! How dare she—of all people—throw ambition in my face.

  “And are you enjoying your life?” I asked her sweetly. “Half a world away from your family?”

  “Oh, Kate, you know perfectly well why I'm here, and how important it is to my career,” she said, sighing.

  “I know you're feeding your need for more college degrees.”

  “That's not fair. You make it sound like it's one big party over here. All I do is study and sleep.”

  “But isn't that your dream life? Just you and your textbooks? No family, no responsibilities?”

  “Kate,” she said, restraint edging her words. “I get that you're angry. But remember, after I've graduated, I'll be able to command a very respectable starting salary. In fact,” she said, and paused, “maybe we'll be able to upgrade your Honda to a Lexus or an Audi.”

  No way was I letting her bribe me. Besides, it was on

  the tip of my tongue to say, We wouldn't have needed another car at all if you were here to do your job yourself.

  With a sense of calm that surprised me, I realized we were at an impasse. Either one of us backed down now, or this would turn into a full-fledged pissing contest. I'd made my point: she was a hypocrite. And now I had other—better—things to do.

  “Don't bother,” I said, and let out a long sigh. “I love my car—and the fact that it allows me to take on extra jobs and make more money. So I'll totally have the five thousand ready at my graduation, and be ready to go out on my own.”

  Even with thousands of miles between us, I heard her groan.

  “Now,” I added before she could say anything else, “nice talking to you, but I need to run.”

  And run I did. Literally. After hanging up, I pounded up the steps, scurried down the hall, slammed my bedroom door shut, and did a face-plant on the bed. Wishing I could keep going, run until I was out of energy, anger, and memories of my mother.

  Until I was the winner. No matter how the score was calculated.

  When my cell phone rang, I suspected it was my mother, wanting to get in the last word. But the caller ID showed Chelsea. My blood pressure slowly returning to normal, Chelsea and I talked about possible outfits for her to wear at the banquet on Friday night.

  After a while, Yvette beeped in to tell me that Lamont had simply stared at her when she'd given him the “I was going to call you last night” line after school. She wasn't sure how to take his reaction. (I wasn't, either.) Then Dakota called to say she hadn't been able to talk to Jon. Should she call him? Should we wait to meet on the quad in the morning?

  Then I got a call from some guy who said he'd been referred by Dakota. I offered him my Wait List and explained the fees, and while he seemed interested, he wanted to know if he could pay in installments. That sounded like trouble—and the Wait List was supposed to simplify things—so I told him to try and see if he could raise all the cash first.

  With the green stuff on my brain, I yanked my shoe box out from under the bed and emptied my wallet and pockets into it. I let myself get lost in the hundreds of bills and coins. I was mesmerized—and even a little bit in love—thinking of the endless possibilities the stash represented.

  Of course, after it was deposited into interest-accruing accounts and business opportunities, I wouldn't be able to play and stare and adore it. But how cool that I'd be able to see my moolah grow to greater heights (even if it was only on paper).

  I'd become my own boss, with no one else to answer to, no one to take care of. I'd be free. Self-sufficient. Directed.

  In a world of my own, a little voice in the back of my head shouted. Like my mother.

  No, I thought, irritated, and gave my shoe box a booted kick. Not like her.

  The shoe box landed with a whomp against the far wall, its contents flying as high as a foot into the air. I watched the bills settle, the coins drop and roll, until it all grew quiet. Until I could breathe again.

  Until it was just me, my money, and my dreams.

  I had my mother's blood and her drive, but that did not mean I had to end up like her: putting myself and my ambition before anything and everything else.

  I'd love the people in my life. I'd be there for them—always. And most importantly, I wouldn't start a family until I could spend time with them. This get-rich-now plan was to ward off my mother's brand of selfishness, to ensure that I'd never have to put work or need or anything before the ones I loved.

  I'd own the money and my ambition instead of letting it own me.

  Slowly, I crawled over to the box and started refilling it with my money, counting as I went. The simple act was soothing, the very reason I had yet to do the logical thing of depositing it in a bank.

  A knock sounded at the door, and my dad cracked it open and peeked inside.

  His wrinkled brow told me he got that this scene was somehow related to my mother's phone call, so I decided to do what I had basically just done with my life savings—throw caution to the wind. For once, I would tell him what I was thinking.

  “Why don't you just divorce her, Dad? You know she's not coming back.”

  His head didn't jerk up. He didn't go into denial or paternal mode. Instead, he bent down to help me, his hands working to form a perfectly neat stack of dollar bills.

  “She is coming back. She went because it was the best way we knew to stay married.” He handed me the stack and settled onto the carpet, crossed-legged. “She needs to be alone now. As badly as I needed not to be alone when we were your age.”

  He looked at me, the little lines shooting out around his eyes making him look so much older than thirty-six. And I decided that maybe I was old enough for some more unsaid truths.

  “I thought—you know—you guys had one of those shotgun weddings. I mean, I've never exactly counted the months, but wasn't I born pretty soon after?”

  Nodding, he ran a hand through his hair. “But Kate, no one had to get married back then. There were other options. Just none that I'd consider. Your mother listened, understood how strongly I felt, and married me.

  “Months later, you came along, and then your sister. And Pam adored being a mother.” A smile crossed his face. “She was so good at it, too. But as time passed, you girls got older, and she started to realize—and regret—the things she gave up. So I told her to go for them. College, career, whatever she needed.”

  “And going off to Germany?”

  “I had to be supportive. If I wasn't, she might have gone anyway—resenting me—and not come back.”

  Words tumbled out of me, pride be damned. “But why couldn't she be happy just with us? Why weren't we enough?”

  He shook his head. “How can anyone understand what fulfills one person and not another? All I know is that she went away to save our marriage, not to end it. And I'll be here waiting for as long as it takes.”

  Thoughts and feelings collected inside me. I felt sorry for Dad, and worried that he was being delusional—but I hoped for his sake he was right. For her, I wasn't sure what I felt. Besides anger, I was just plain sad for Suz and me. We'd lost our mother before we were ready, had been forced to assu
me her adult responsibilities. And yet, at the same time, we were just average teenagers with chores and curfews and a parent in the house. It was like we were being tugged in two directions at the same time. And as far as I could see, the only probable result of that would be a tear down the center.

  I sat back on my butt, suddenly exhausted. “But what if we needed her—really needed her? I mean, had a crisis or something?”

  Dad shrugged. “I'd like to think she'd come home.”

  I would've liked to think that, too. But I suspected Dad had more faith in her than I did.

  “Well, I'm glad we had this little talk,” Dad said, standing so that my eyes were level with the knees of his jeans. “Your sister's just about got dinner ready, so finish up here and meet us downstairs, okay?”

  I nodded. Yep, life did go on. And sooner or later Mom would come back—or she wouldn't—and then we'd have that to deal with.

  “Okay, Dad,” I answered. “I'll be right there.” And I resumed scooping money back into my box. This mess was something I could actually do something about.

  Fourteen

  Dakota and I met up on the quad before school the next day. The plan was for her to go with something I'd invented myself. She'd make casual mention of “your girlfriend” to Jon, and when he said he didn't have one, she'd act all yeah-right-a-hot-guy-like-you surprised.

  If that didn't work, I'd “assign” them a Future Business Leaders project to do together.

  As I stood with Dakota, I saw Brianne talking with a friend, animating some story with her hands. I was overdue on making progress for Carlton, so I told Dakota I'd catch up with her.

  I marched up to Brianne and introduced myself. I told her someone had paid me to help him get her interest. Then I held my breath. Her eyes went all electric, and she and her friend giggled. When she asked who the admirer was, I told her it was a secret, but she'd be “hearing” from us.

  It took me a good two minutes to get through the crowd and back to Dakota. Just as I walked up, she was turning away from Jon, her face glowing.

  “Walk with me,” she said to me, with this really odd mix of clenched teeth and a bursting smile—sort of like when rain fell from sunny skies.

  “Jon,” she continued, after taking a few steps, “told me that he doesn't have a girlfriend. And that in fact,” she added, and clamped her hand around my wrist, “it's a bit of a problem for him. He has a family wedding next weekend, and his ex-girlfriend, who won't leave him alone, is a guest, too. He needs a date to keep her away.”

  It figured Jon would be arrogant enough to think the ex still wanted him. “So you said . . . ?”

  “That I'd be happy to help him out and be his personal bodyguard. And he said, ‘Great.’ ” She laughed. “So it looks like we've got our first date, DelVecchio, whether it's official or not.”

  I could see the dollar signs already.

  “Cool,” I said with a smile. Could I actually be getting good at this?

  I strolled away, the satisfaction of a job well done glowing inside me. I found Dal talking with a couple of guys, sidled in close, and gave him an elbow by way of

  hello. The guys wandered off, and he turned to me.

  “You're happy about something.”

  “Jon's taking Dakota to a family wedding!” I nudged him again with my elbow, then told him what had happened. “Are we good, or what? First Chelsea, now Dakota.”

  “Oh, we got lucky,” he said, tearing me away from my happy place. “Dakota was in his face when he needed her. The right place at the right time.”

  I didn't like his attitude. “That's the point. Making sure our clients are first and foremost in their crushes' brains.”

  “Oh,” he said, really flat. “There's a point to this business besides getting rich? Thanks for telling me.”

  Ugh. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Dal was one of the most mature guys I knew. But every now and then he could give Brandon a run for his money.

  “Look, I'm as happy as you are that she's going out with him. I'll totally take the money. But don't let this go to your head.”

  I gazed up at his face—the face I usually wanted to see more than any other in the world. But right now? Not so much.

  Still, my gaze zapped into his. And all at once, my annoyance started to melt away. Even though Dal had done a thorough job of acting smug and superior, his eyes were telling another story. They were a soft shade of hazel, bursting with green and brown specks.

  For a crazy moment, I felt like I could stare at them forever.

  I don't know if my expression was looking all intense or what, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “Besides, if we're making any progress at all, it's all because of me.”

  “You?”

  “Sure, my smarts, my intuition. My exceptional good looks.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Oh, talk about letting things go to your head!”

  He laughed and took a step back, like he thought I might smack him. But this wasn't fourth grade and we weren't on the playground. Still, I wasn't going to let him beat me, so I advanced, pretending that the smack was on the way. He inched back some more, still smirking, so I kept going.

  Until he backed into someone. Then I crashed into him, my face squashing into his neck. I adjusted my face to get a good breath, feeling the cold leather of his jacket against my cheek, and something like a low vibration emanating from his whole body.

  I knew I should pull away. Should laugh off the whole thing. But I didn't want to. Here, up close and personal with Jason Dalrymple, was the most comfortable, most natural place I'd ever been.

  I not only didn't want to pull away, I wanted to dig in deeper. Had I lost my mind?

  “Okay.” His voice suddenly rumbled through me.

  I knew that was my cue to back off. Playtime was over. But I didn't back off. And he didn't, either. We stood there, in the middle of hundreds of people. Some who knew us, many who didn't. And his arms came around my back, encircling me, pulling me closer.

  Omigod.

  This was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And the worst. I hugged back.

  The first bell rang, and Dal and I dropped our arms, trying to regain some sense of normalcy.

  I was on autopilot as I walked away, my thoughts reeling. How warm I'd felt inside the circle of his arms. How peaceful. How . . . well, complete.

  And how wrong of me to like his touch so much, considering I was his best friend, and not his girlfriend. But what I would suddenly have given to have Marissa's role and mine reversed.

  And the worst part? I'd been so blinded by my feelings that I hadn't looked to see whether Dal felt the same way.

  •

  Waiting for me at our locker was Yvette, near tears, her foot tapping.

  “Okay,” she began. “So I called Lamont. We didn't have a lot to talk about, but I thought it went okay. But just now, in the hall? I gave him this big smile and he pretended he didn't see me!”

  She did this deep sniff that seemed to start all the way down at her feet. “You had problems like this with Brandon at first, right? Until you figured out how to make him like you?”

  That crack didn't exactly make me want to drop everything to help her. But . . . I had taken her money. And I so didn't want to think about Dal and that hug anymore.

  Focus, Kate.

  What little I knew about Lamont was that he was fairly laid-back—Yvette's polar opposite. “Could be you're moving a little fast for him.”

  “But you told me to call him.”

  I did? I thought I'd told her to say she'd thought about calling him. Crap. My clients' romantic endeavors were all starting to blend together. Maybe I needed to create a grid.

  “Hmmm . . . in any case, I think we need a more subtle approach with Lamont.”

  “I'm paying you all this money,” she said, her whine turning to a whinny. “And so far, all you've done is let me make a fool of myself!”

  After a quick glance around—and people were starting to s
tare—I did a maternal “Shhh . . .” thing, even putting my arm around her shoulder for emphasis. “We'll make this work, one way or another.”

  “What way?”

  My mind scrambled. The Secret Admirer plan had gotten me somewhere with Brianne. Why not try it again? “I'll go talk to Lamont, tell him someone has come to me for help in getting fixed up with him.”

  “And he'll say, ‘Tell Yvette to save her money.’ I don't think so!”

  Heads were definitely turning. And not in an oh-look-there's-hot-Brandon's-hot-girlfriend way.

  “Okay,” I said, putting on my damage-control hard hat. “Let me brief Dal and get the male perspective. Then find me on the quad during lunch and we'll fix this thing.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “You're sure?”

  “I'm sure,” I lied.

  “Otherwise, I get my fifty back.”

  My throat tightened, making it hard to respond. I nodded. Hadn't the agreement been the first fifty down, whether I pulled off the hookup or not?

  I guess failing to pull it off wasn't the same thing as giving bad advice. But I told myself I wouldn't fail. I would fix this. Somehow.

  She rushed off, nearly knocking down the rail-thin girl who'd once asked me about my fees. I felt a spark of hope that she had heard about my successes with Chelsea and Dakota and was going to cough up the retainer fee. But instead, she nodded hello at me and started to walk away.

  Feeling generous or stupid or something, I grabbed her arm.

  “Tell him,” I whispered when she turned to me, “that you almost called him last night. About homework or whatever. And then study his reaction, how he looks, what he says. That'll give you a good indication of where he stands with you.”

  A smile exploded on her face. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” I told her, half knowing that I'd need some luck with the uncertain things in my life, as well.

  •

  The morning whizzed by in a blur, with frequent work-work conversations tangling with necessary thoughts of schoolwork. I even found Brandon's ex, Summer Smith, waiting impatiently outside my English class. Her blond hair shining in the fluorescent light, she stopped sighing long enough to tell me she wanted to talk.