The Replacement Crush

by Lisa Brown Roberts

  “I remember,” I snapped to his retreating back. We’d had to postpone inventory because his parents needed him to babysit tonight. “It’s just as well because my other target, Henry, is coming by to help me with homework after closing.”

  He turned around. “You call that a date?”

  “I told you, I’m just hanging out with these guys first. No dates yet.” I took a breath, then rushed on. “It’s…it’s because of the Surfer Ball.” Why was I telling him this? Why did I feel I had to justify my mission to him? “It’s the tradition for girls to ask guys to the dance. Or other girls, if that’s their thing.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed. “So this…mission…it’s just for a stupid dance?”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. No way would I tell him I’d never been invited to a school dance or worked up the nerve to invite someone else. Or that I felt like I needed to do this to get over Jake.

  I turned away to refocus on shelving books, feeling his heated gaze on me. It felt as if he was sending me an intense psychic message, but I was too rattled to consider what it might be.

  ...

  After finishing my re-shelving, I resumed sitting next to Dallas, but we were back to the silent treatment. Suddenly the door burst open, and I glanced up to see Iggy making a beeline for me. Great. My ideal GBF who, according to Dallas and everyone else, couldn’t deliver in the HFN or HEA department. Ig’s lopsided grin encompassed Dallas and me as he approached the counter.

  “Hi, Ig,” I said, defeat slumping my shoulders. Once again, Dallas was privy to way more of my private life than he should be.

  Next to me, Dallas shifted in his chair. I glanced at him, not at all surprised to see his grin barely suppressing smug speculation.

  “I’m Iggy,” Ig said, reaching over the counter to shake Dallas’s hand.

  Dallas stood up and returned the handshake. “I’m Dallas. Viv has told me all about you.”

  Since I couldn’t kick Dallas under the desk, I shot him a sugary smile. “I sure have.” I gave Ig a real smile. “I told him what good friends we are.” I narrowed my eyes at Dallas. “Ig’s a great writer. And a great friend. Loyal. Funny. Smart.”

  “Two out of two criteria. Plus a loyalty bonus.” Dallas smirked. “Not bad.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Ig asked, confusion creasing his forehead. He fiddled with his eyebrow ring.

  “Never mind,” I muttered, side-eyeing Dallas who remained standing, arms folded over his chest, still sporting a smug grin.

  Ig shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Anyway, Viv, I wanted to talk to you about an idea for the Clarion. Yang asked if you might be interested in doing a few human interest stories, interviewing some of the local homeless guys.”

  Dallas’s grin faded. “That sounds dangerous.”

  Annoyed, I shot him a glare. “Stereotype much? The guys are harmless.”

  “Whoa,” Ig said, observing Dallas’s startled reaction. “Simmer down, Viv. Dallas is new. He doesn’t know those guys like you do.”

  A needle of guilt poked at my stomach; Ig was right. I shouldn’t have snapped at Dallas.

  “Sorry,” I said, swallowing nervously. “It’s just…sometimes people make unfair assumptions about the homeless people.”

  Ig nodded vigorously. “Which is why you’re the perfect person to write the articles.”

  I rubbed my forehead, wishing he had texted me instead of putting me on the spot in front of Dallas. “Why did Mr. Yang suggest me?”

  “He saw you hanging out on the beach one day, having donuts with a couple of the guys.”

  Dallas met my gaze, a question in his eyes. “I like to bring them a snack once in awhile. Something besides what they get at the shelter.”

  Dallas rubbed a hand over his chin and the emotion in his eyes shifted, but to what I couldn’t tell.

  “Anyway,” Ig said. “I told Yang you’d be perfect. Plus the talent show this year is a fundraiser for the shelter, so it’s perfect. Yang said he might even be able to get the local paper to reprint some of your interviews.”

  “Really?” My enthusiasm ratcheted up considerably. I’d love to see my byline in a real newspaper.

  Ig bounced on his toes enthusiastically. “So will you do it?”

  I felt Dallas’s gaze on me and wondered why I felt so awkward having this convo in front of him. I took a breath and stood up so I was at least sort of even with the guys.

  “Absolutely,” I said. I’d start with Reg, my favorite.

  “Awesome!” Ig and I high-fived each other over the counter while Dallas frowned.

  “You sure it’s safe?” Dallas asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course it is.” It was sort of sweet that he was concerned, but also frustrating.

  “I’d offer to go with you, but Yang piled more stuff on my plate, too,” Ig said.

  Dallas rubbed the back of his neck. “I could go with you.”

  We both stared at him, then Ig shot me a speculative smirk.

  “That’s not neces—” I began.

  “Great idea!” Ig interrupted.

  Too bad Iggy was gay; he and Jaz would be perfect together.

  ...

  As dinner time rolled around, the grungy artists who’d been arguing in the corner got up to leave. Picasso nodded at me as he pushed through the door. “Later, Viv.”

  Dallas glanced up curiously as he reached for his backpack. “Is he on your list?”

  Startled, I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “Not my type.”

  Dallas rolled his eyes. “But I thought you weren’t interested in guys who are your type. In which case, maybe he’s perfect.”

  Flustered, I grabbed a stack of papers, pretending to look for something. “You were supposed to remind me to interview you. I need to turn in the article on Monday.”

  Dallas was quiet for a minute, then he pulled his phone from his pocket. “I didn’t want to do the interview while I was working since I was on the clock. But I can meet you early tomorrow.”

  On the clock? How dorky. And cute. “How early?”

  He shot me an amused look. “Need some extra beauty sleep?”

  “No, I just um…” I took a breath. Why couldn’t I form a coherent sentence when he teased me? And what did that beauty sleep crack mean, anyway? “What time can you meet?”

  “Eight o’clock? I need to be somewhere by nine thirty.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.” After I interviewed him, I could head to the surf comp.

  “Sure.” His fingers flew across his phone, then he resumed packing up his stuff.

  The door swung open and Henry walked in, all gangly and gawky, looking like Robin to Dallas’s Batman. Henry looked surprised to see Dallas. “Um, hi. Am I too early?”

  Before I could reply, Dallas said, “Nope. But you might want to find out what number you are. I hear there’s quite a list.”

  Henry looked confused. “What?” He shoved at his glasses, which somehow wasn’t cute on him the way it was on Dallas.

  I glared at Dallas, who shook his head, grinning. “I gotta go.” He shouldered his backpack and headed for the door, pausing to shake Henry’s hand. “I’m Dallas by the way. Otherwise known as Vespa Guy.”

  Henry’s face lit up. “Oh yeah! Cool. What kind of mileage does that thing get? I’m doing a cost/benefit analysis of different vehicles, to convince my parents I need some type of motorized transportation. We’ll be discussing it at our family meeting. I’ve designed a flowchart explaining the familial benefits of an additional vehicle.”

  Dallas glanced over his shoulder at me, raising his eyebrows. “Was there any sort of recon done for this mission? Or are the targets totally random?”

  I pointed at the door. “Aren’t you going to be late for babysitting? Or maybe hacking into NASA?”

  He grinned at me, then gave Henry a salute. “Your country and your classmates thank you for your service to this mission. Soldier on.�
��

  “Huh?” Henry glanced between us, completely baffled.

  I wanted to scream, but instead I just stabbed my finger toward the door again. “Bye, Dallas.”

  “See you in the morning, Spock.” He saluted as he pushed through the door, chuckling to himself. My hormones left with him, leaving no zing at all as I turned my attention to Henry.

  “So.” Henry dumped his backpack on the nearest table. “I was surprised you asked for my assistance, Vivian. You seem to do well in pre-calc.”

  Still rattled by Dallas, it took me a few seconds to absorb Henry’s words. “Oh…yeah. Right. I just wanted some clarification. For the test.”

  Henry lined up his books and pencils in neat rows. Dallas did that, too. “I only have about thirty minutes to work with you.”

  “You do?” I was surprised. Maybe Henry wasn’t feeling any zing, either.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. “On Fridays, we have pizza at seven thirty on the dot at my house. I’ve arranged for an eight o’clock mealtime tonight, allowing for travel time. Bicycle time, not Vespa time.” He glanced at me, frowning. “And since my entire family is impacted by this, I’d appreciate it if we could get started.”

  Instead of Spock’s face looming in my mind, I saw Dallas’s laughing eyes and heard his sexy voice asking if my list was totally random. Sighing heavily, I walked toward Henry as if I was walking to the gallows.

  At least my hormones would be able to get some sleep.

  ...

  It was almost 10:00 p.m. when my phone pinged with a text. I lay stretched out in my bed, reading Dallas’s Star Trek episode guide. I reached for the phone without looking, expecting Jaz.

  “I’m guessing failed mission. Unless I totally misread things.”

  Dallas. My butterflies roared to life, fully rested from their time with Henry.

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” I flopped back against my pillows, trying to focus on my book, but that was a joke since it was Dallas’s book. It was like having a part of him right here in bed with me. I flung off my blankets, suddenly feeling way too hot.

  “Deflection. Good strategy but ineffective with me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to bed now. Ciao.”

  There was a delay while he typed his response.

  “What r u wearing?”

  I gasped, flustered. I started typing an indignant reply, then his next text filled my screen.

  “Kevlar? Fatigues?”

  Curse him for taking something flirty and twisting it to make me laugh. I was tempted to type a very inappropriate reply, something I knew would make him blush.

  But then I saw Spock’s frowning face on my phone screen and heard his voice telling me to sign off.

  “But I don’t want to sign off,” I whispered.

  Spock’s glare deepened. “You must. You’re losing control of your mission.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking of the disastrous half hour I’d spent with Henry, faking confusion about pre-calc so he wouldn’t be upset about delaying his family’s pizza night. At least he left thinking he’d been useful. I thought about my plans to meet Drama Drew for coffee tomorrow. Maybe Amy was right and I should go crush-free for awhile.

  But I was committed to my mission, and committed to not falling down the rabbit hole of uncontrollable emotions again. Not even with a guy who brought me smoothies and made me laugh and drove me crazy.

  “Goodnight, Dallas,” I whispered to my phone, but I set it aside without typing the words.

  “Are you suggesting we fight to prevent a fight?”

  —Captain Kirk

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday, September 6

  I arrived at The Jumping Bean at 8:00 a.m. on the dot. Of course Dallas was already there, sitting at a corner table drinking a chai latte. I ordered chamomile tea, hoping to calm my nerves while I interviewed him.

  I had a hard time getting my brain to focus on anything other than The Dallas Show. He wasn’t showing off, being stupid, or acting goofy like Toff. He simply sat there in his jeans and tight, long-sleeved thermal shirt typing on his cell, pausing occasionally to give me a questioning smile, while I frantically flipped through the pages of my journalism notebook.

  Where the heck were the interview questions? I’d written them out in advance to avoid exactly this situation.

  Dallas cleared his throat. I glanced at him, unnerved by how calm he seemed while I was a bundle of jangled nerves.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  I bit my lip and shook my head, flipping through my notebook so fast I tore a page. “I can’t find the questions I was going to ask you.”

  Dallas shifted in his chair, watching me as my panic increased. He extended his arm, then rested his hand on top of mine, stilling my frantic page-flipping. Currents of electricity shot up my arm and down my spine while I stared at his hand, at the long fingers that were made for the cello, and probably other amaz—

  “How about we just have a conversation?”

  I raised my eyes from his hand to his face. He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for my answer, but all I could think of was how warm his hand felt on mine. My gaze darted to his hand, and he quickly removed it, cupping his chai instead.

  “A conversation,” I parroted like an idiot bird.

  “Yeah.” I heard the smile in his voice even though I stared at the table instead of him.

  I willed myself to talk to him just like I would any of my friends. “Okay. First impressions,” I sputtered, vaguely recalling one of the questions I’d written. “Of California. Shady Cove.” I waved my hand nervously. “All of it.”

  He kept his eyes on me and ran a hand over his chin. I hated when he did that because of how it drew attention to his extremely kissable lips. He shifted in his chair, stretching his legs out to the side. “So, first impressions.” He paused. “Overall, I’d say things here are…different than I expected.”

  I clutched my pen. “Different how?”

  He glanced at his phone, which had just pinged with a text. He frowned slightly, then refocused on me. “Well, it looks exactly like I expected, since I Googled the heck out of Shady Cove before we moved here.”

  I waited, doodling circles on my paper.

  “But not everything is matching up to appearances. Or my expectations.”

  My hand stilled. “How so?”

  He laughed softly. “It’s colder than I thought it would be. That fog su-stinks.”

  “You can say suck, Dallas. I won’t be offended.”

  His neck reddened and he shrugged. “Bad habit I’m trying to break.”

  That was weird. I wanted to probe but decided to give him a break. “So yeah, the fog. It’s not always like the sunny beaches you see in the movies.”

  “The weather’s definitely better than Wisconsin, though.”

  I nodded and wrote, “Likes the weather.”

  He leaned over to see what I’d written and laughed. “This is going to be the most boring interview ever.”

  “So give me a good quote. Tell me something no one knows about you, Vespa Guy. Tell me a secret.”

  His eyes darkened behind his glasses. “Maybe later, Spock.”

  I swallowed, reaching for my tea. What was I doing, flirting with the one person I shouldn’t be?

  “Okay…then tell me about, um…” My voice faltered as his gaze stayed on mine, not blinking. “Tell me…about the cello thing.” I made a lame attempt at pantomiming running a bow across strings.

  “The cello thing?” He smirked, mimicking my cello pantomime.

  I rolled my eyes. “How long have you played? Are you in the school band? Are you going on tour like those guys from Croatia?”

  “Ah.” A knowing smile played at his lips. “You’re one of those girls.”

  Warmth coursed through me, and I knew I was blushing. “What girls?” I asked.

  “Cello-guy groupies.” He chuckled. “Those Croatians are like catnip to girls like you.”
r />   I squirmed. “I’m hardly a groupie. But I like watching those guys.”

  “Obviously.” Laughter danced in his eyes.

  “They’re very talented!” I knew my protest sounded ridiculous.

  He reached for a sugar packet, then twirled it on the table. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure you’d be just as appreciative of their talent if those guys were less, ah, photogenic.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Photogenic? Is that McNerd code for hot?”

  He spun the sugar packet. “You tell me.”

  Still blushing, I reached for my pen. “I think we’ve gone off topic. You didn’t answer my question. How long have you been playing?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Wow. You must be good.”

  He shrugged. “I’m all right.”

  Which meant he was more than all right. I ignored his false modesty and scribbled cello expert in my notebook. I thought of the hot Croatian cellists bent over their cellos, smoking hot in their leather jackets, their bodies extensions of their instruments, their—

  “…and I’m not playing in the band.”

  Blinking to clear away my fantasy images, I raised my eyes. “Um, what?”

  “No orchestra at the school.” Dallas shrugged again. “Not enough interest, I guess, for a small school. And there’s not really a permanent spot for me in the jazz band. They said once in a while I can play with them, but…” His voice trailed away.

  “Huh.” I doodled in my notebook. “That’s weird.”

  “It’s not a Glee episode, Vivian. It’s not like I show up and everyone creates an entire performance based around me.”

  Whoa. “You don’t have to be so condescending, Dallas.”

  For once, he looked flustered instead of me. “That’s not what I—”

  “Whatever.” I put up a hand to silence him. I needed to get this interview over with. Fast. “Next question. What about sports? You trying out for any teams?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not surfing.”

  “You mean it’s not like a TV show, where the new guy shows up and becomes a master surfer in a few weeks and wins all the trophies?”