I step back and answer, keeping my voice light, “Vic, what’s up?”
“Jewel, where are you?”
“Work.”
“At the mall?”
Duh, where else? “Uh-huh,” I say instead. “Everything okay?”
“Uh . . . I . . . yeah,” Vic says, like he’s out of breath, agitated. “Everything’s cool.”
Please tell me he’s not on crack. “Is Mom okay?”
“What—yeah,” Vic says.
“Look, Vic, I gotta go.”
“I’ll come pick you up.”
“What? Why? I’m fine taking the bus,” I say, confused at the undercurrent of concern in his voice. So not like Vic. Maybe he’s worried about the whole dust storm warning that came out. “I’ll see you at home.”
“Be carefu—”
I hang up and turn my phone off, embarrassed. “Sorry, that was my brother.”
“Vic?” he asks.
Good ears. I laugh it off. “Um, yeah. You know, the whole rough day thing? That would be Vic.”
“You guys don’t get along?”
I scramble for a light way to sum it up, a bit surprised at how attentive—how bold—this guy is. “Vic’s just . . . trouble. And his friends?”—I let out a little laugh and roll my eyes—“Don’t get me started. Total losers.”
His Adam’s apple slides up and down. Usually I’m the one who lets the customers do the talking and vent their frustrations, not the other way around.
“So what do you want?” I ask him. “Are you buying for yourself or someone else?”
“Someone else.”
“Someone special?”
“Mm-hm.”
I pull on a new pair of plastic gloves and ask, “Girlfriend?”
Suddenly I know he has one. He’s gorgeous in a preppy yet rugged sort of way, if that’s possible, and holy Jamaica, he’s ripped. I tear my eyes away from the swell of muscles beneath the tight fit of his shirt.
He hesitates, darting a quick look behind his shoulder. “Ah, this is for a girl, yes.”
I can’t help but note his evasiveness. “Not your girlfriend.”
His lips twist up into a cute expression of thought. Man, his eyes are beautiful. “Mm, that’s to be determined.”
“Ah,” I say and throw him a wink for good measure. “Well, chocolates will sway her verdict in your favor.”
“Yeah?” he asks and smiles like I just delivered a hard fact. Man, I’m good at selling chocolate. I sure hope I’m not giving him false hope. But come on, this guy is gorgeous, in a suffocatingly neat-and-put-together sort of way. I picture his girlfriend-to-be, some J. Crew model with perfect hair, coordinated accessories, and a pricey bag dangling from her arm. Yep, she’ll fall. Hard.
“Well, chocolates would certainly sway me.”
“Sweet,” he says and resituates something under his arm. A stuffed animal?
“So what’s her dessert of choice?”
His eyes scan the array of chocolates behind the glass. “Ah . . . shoot, I wish I knew.”
Guys these days. “She likes chocolate, though, right?”
“I sure hope so,” he says, his expressive eyes flashing an incredulous look. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t?”
I like this guy already.
“I sort of just met her,” he offers, all dimples.
“Okay, well, tell me a bit about her. What you know, at least. Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”
He exhales, an almost dreamy look flickering over his face. He’s toast. This chick has him wrapped around her finger.
“Well,” he says, “she’s beautiful for starters. Full of life.”
“All right,” I say.
He gets this faraway look, like a kid staring up at a cookie jar he’s nowhere close to reaching. “She’s got these big blue eyes that are, well, incredible. She’s assertive. Tons of spunk.” His gaze meets mine now, the intensity in his eyes reaching right through me. “Yet she’s vulnerable and doesn’t know it, and I think she needs someone to look after her.”
My insides turn to the consistency of melted butter and I realize my mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut. “You should tell her that sometime.”
A dimple accents his cheek before he even smiles. “Maybe I will.”
I clear my throat, channeling my inner creative flair. “Well, you said she’s spunky, so I can almost picture her with a butterscotch lollipop or maybe a mocha truffle. Some maple cashew brittle could be nice, too, something with a little snap. Assertive makes me think she’s used to getting her way and is maybe even borderline bossy, in which case I’d suggest anything Rocky Road.” I pause, hoping that wasn’t offensive, relieved when he starts to chuckle. I start laughing, too. “But if you ask me, what any girl needs every once in a while is some good old-fashioned milk buttercream.”
“Perfect,” he says. “I’ll get some of those.”
He checks over his shoulder again, like this girl is going to show up any moment. Is that sweat on his brow?
I bag three of our milk buttercream chocolates. “Does she work here?”
Again he laughs. “Yeah, she does.”
I think through the other girls I’ve seen working down the hall, wondering if I know her. Not that I care. “Anything else?” I ask. “Cupcakes? Truffles? Ice Cream? We do sell our ice cream in tubs.”
He takes off his hat and scratches the back of his head like it will help him think, his biceps bulging in the process. I focus on his face instead, his even five o’clock shadow, thick eyelashes, and the manly jawline that saves him from looking too pretty.
“I don’t know,” he says with a cute twitch of his lips, “I thought I was good at reading people, but you’re giving me a run for my money. I never knew there was so much behind chocolate.”
I smile, a little laugh escaping my lips, aware of the effect that he’s having on me. “I’ve got a suggestion.”
His eyes slide back up to meet mine.
“Ask her what she likes next time you see her. She’ll appreciate it.”
His crooked smile returns, a trace of humor twinkling in his eyes again. “All right, I will,” he says. “What do you like best?”
I get this a lot, and I tell every customer the same thing. “Our white chocolate Bordeaux can’t be beat. I also love our milk chocolate chew and, above all—I should be ashamed to admit this—the Rocky Road truffle.”
This receives a weakly restrained burst of laughter from him.
I laugh, too, humbly aware of my rocky road, feisty personality. “Oh, and if that’s not enough, I must say that I do appreciate these German chocolate cupcakes because I spent a good hour frosting them.”
“You made those?” he asks, visibly impressed.
I nod. I can’t lie; his reaction means a lot. Baking is an art, one that is consumed all too quickly.
“Well then, I’ll take it all.”
“Come again?”
“Everything you listed,” he says. “I’ll buy it all.”
I get to work boxing up all of my favorites, eyeing the clock. Five past nine. I steal glances at him every now and again, absentmindedly noting little details and making inferences. Brand-name shirt. He’s rich. The dignified set of his jaw and his sturdy bearing. He’s confident. The stuffed dog under his arm. He’s sentimental, or maybe plain weird. The subtle shine of perspiration on his forehead. He’s worried.
About what?
That’s when I notice a tag still hanging from the back of his hat. Did he steal it?
I ring his purchases up at the register, keeping one protective hand on the over-thirty-dollars of chocolate until he whips out the correct dollar amount in cash and pays. I relax, telling myself off for being so guarded.
I hand him his bag and smile. “Have a good night.”
I force myself not to watch him leave. We girls fall hard, and I hate it. Cute, charming guy comes along, makes us laugh, and we’re still thinking about it hours later. I grab my rag and start
cleaning, completing five circular motions before noticing he hasn’t budged. I look up.
“Ah,” he stammers, looking around the store before throwing his killer smile back on full display. “Do you want some help?”
“Huh?”
He laughs, his timid chuckle petering out as he gestures to the store in general. “I was just wondering if you could, you know, use some help cleaning.”
I stare at this guy, at his bag of chocolates and stuffed dog, trying to figure out if he’s for real. And why he’s still here. Whatever his reason, I have less than twenty-five minutes to finish up and catch my bus.
“Sure,” I say, highly amused as I retrieve the broom.
He gets to work. Suz walks up, her eyebrows pulling together as she spots the random hot guy sweeping our floors. She throws me a curious look. I shrug and so does she. Everything is tidied up a few minutes later. I bid Suz good-bye and walk out behind the guy.
“Thanks for the help.”
“No, thank you,” he says, earning a curious glance from me in return. He holds up the bag of chocolates. “For your help, I mean. This will be perfect.”
I pull my purse strap on my shoulder and smile. “I’m sure she’ll love them.”
Suddenly it’s that awkward moment when you both realize you’re heading in the same direction. I give a courtesy laugh and he echoes my sentiment. We make it a few steps before his feet come to an abrupt stop. I glimpse a flash of apprehension on his face before he grabs my arm and pulls me into a photo booth.
“What the—”
“Shh,” he says, dead serious, his arm taking a protective grip around my shoulders. Panic bubbles up. He smells like manly aftershave and expensive laundry detergent, like cologne mixed with sweat. He smells like danger.
He peeks out the opposite curtain before spinning back toward me. We’re face-to-face on this booth bench—totally enclosed—side by side. Inhaling the same air. His lips a breath away from mine. A host of emotions spiral through me. I’m not sure whether to be creeped out or seduced. As it stands, I think I’m a little of both.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his arm away in a gesture of innocence. Somehow I’m holding his stuffed dog now. “I’ve always wanted to try one of these, you know?” he says with a nervous laugh and pulls out his wallet. “Have you ever taken pictures in a booth?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, wondering just how nutso he is and deciding to tread carefully. You never know these days. I peel back the curtain on my side. “I really need to go, though.”
“No!” he says, and I jump. Then it all clicks into place.
“Is this about your girlfriend? Your to-be-determined special someone?”
He hangs his head and shakes it, his shoulders deflating. “No, I promise, it’s not.”
For some reason I find myself believing him.
His green eyes plead with mine, one brow arching up as his dimples sneak out to convince me. I repeat: Dimples are dangerous.
“All right,” I concede. “One quick round of pictures.” He did, after all, sweep my floors.
“Sweet,” he says and inserts his card.
We listen to the monotone voice reel off instructions. Four pictures. A light will flash before each picture is taken. Etcetera. How I ended up in this position I’m not sure. We both sit, staring at our reflections on the dark plastic and, no doubt, both stuck on the same thought that crosses everyone’s mind when they’re on this seat.
“Quick,” I say, “what should we do?”
A flash of light. Picture one down. Both of our mouths were hanging open, blank stares straight ahead.
We burst into laughter and can’t stop. A second flash. Picture number two: both of us laughing.
Our gazes meet and we pull ourselves together, his eyes never veering from mine. He leans toward me, coming halfway before pausing, his eyes seeking permission. I regard him with equal parts terror and anticipation, the intimacy of the situation whispering a thrill. He closes the distance between us and glides his nose through my hair. My heart rattles around as though this is the first boy I’ve ever been close to.
“Now smile,” he whispers into my ear. Even if I should be creeped out, forget it. My cheeks burn despite myself and I feel the corners of my lips tugging upward.
A flash of light signals the third picture and I am totally seduced.
He turns to the screen and puts on that smile of his, patiently waiting for the next picture as if whatever just happened between us didn’t happen at all. Or at least didn’t faze him.
The fourth flash snaps me out of it and I return to reality. I think of his J. Crew model and how she would feel about this.
He peers outside the curtain again, inching out before pulling it open for me to exit. I’m anxious to scram, but he stays by my side, giving me the extra copy of all four pictures as we walk out. I hold his chocolates and stuffed dog as he opens the mall door and we step out into the hot night.
I spot the bus, still shaken up from that third picture.
“Is that your bus?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. A prideful instinct nudges in, making me want to spout off something snippy to assert the fact that this night meant nothing to me. My life, my happiness, don’t depend on guys. This was my mom’s fatal mistake, one I won’t repeat.
He starts to back away; toward his car, I guess. He pinches the brim of his hat and tugs it down old-fashioned style. “It was a pleasure.”
Who says that? It’s rare, I guess. Classy, even. One wink from him as he backs away convinces me I loved it all: his engaging smiles, our playful banter, the photo booth. Even if it didn’t mean a thing to him. They come through all the time, cute guys stopping in for something at the mall, never to return. Somehow this one felt different, and despite myself, I’m sad to see him go.
What’s his name? Did I even ask?
“Hey,” I call after him, surprised at how far away he is now. He turns, still walking away as I hold up his chocolates and stuffed dog. “You almost forgot.”
He shakes his head, walking backward with a wide smile. “They’re for you,” he calls out, as though I should have known this.
I look at the bag of chocolates in my hand—all of my favorite chocolates—and the dog, stunned. Confused. Still processing the fact that he gave them to me instead of the girl he likes. What on earth? I wonder why he changed his mind, and when. And then I realize. Rocky Road, spunky, full of life, a girl he just met . . .
I open my mouth to call out to him, to say something—anything. Get his name perhaps. But his figure disappears around the corner. Gone.
After a prick of disappointment, something warm stirs inside, sending little sparks up and down my skin. I steal a glance at my bus, which is about to leave, and then back to the corner he disappeared around, my gaze toggling back and forth. Reluctantly, I turn, staring down at the gifts in my hands as I make my way to the bus. I smile, still shocked, wishing I knew his name, his number, something. These chocolates, this dog . . .
They were for me all along.
CHAPTER 5
Cody
Vic has everything: a magic touch with the ball, scholarships to boot, and a mom who loves him so much she went to prison trying to get him off drugs. And then he put Julianna in danger.
I should have turned him in.
I second-guess my last-minute decision to give Julianna the dog. Vic’s got to be pissed, too, after getting beaten up by that dealer, ready to turn them in. He’d better be. Maybe I’ll tell him where to find the video so he can come clean and put this all behind him.
I look over my shoulder to see Julianna’s bus lurching to a start. Safely on its way.
I was almost sure I’d lost that drug dealer. Then I caught a glimpse of someone down the hallway, all in black. I pulled Julianna into that photo booth before whoever it was could spot us. Who knows if it was even him? I was probably just jumpy. Still am. I haven’t seen the dude since, but I needed to get Julianna out. I went in
there to make sure she got to her car—bus—safely, and she did. Still, what if I was drawing added danger her way?
That whole thing with Julianna was too perfect to resist, though. And she fell for it, thought I was talking about some other girl the whole time. I smile, remembering the way her full lips pulled to one side as she tried to figure out the best chocolates for my special someone.
But she has the dog.
This might not be good. I’ll have to call Vic and tell him where the recording is. Let him fix this whole mess he dragged me into. And then I’ll keep my distance. For real this time. The Reebok Classic Breakout camp in July will be a good excuse. I can feel that scholarship on the horizon. I put my all into the Classic Open Run last month and got a coveted invitation to the breakout camp in Philadelphia, one of the best places for upcoming seniors to score a scholarship.
Walking is about the last thing I feel like doing after the sprint of my life, but what was I going to do? Take Julianna’s bus? Whoa now. That has stalker written all over it. She’ll flip enough when she finds out I’m one of Vic’s “loser friends.”
I cross Power Road, eyeing the fast-food restaurants where I could use a phone. Call my parents. But what am I going to say? I recorded a drug deal, ran away from some guy with a gun, hid the evidence in a stuffed dog I don’t have anymore, and now I need a lift. That would be rich.
My stomach growls, making a convincing case for stopping anyway. I hesitate before turning and heading south, deciding to stop at a restaurant on the other side of the freeway. I could use the extra minute to think, to make sense of everything that happened tonight and figure out what I’m going to tell my parents.
A block or two into my walk, I notice it. Again. An image my subconscious picked up moments ago in the parking lot. Not just any car. Dad’s Vette is nice, but this is something else. The car purrs a rich hum as it glides slowly across the road in my peripheral vision. Under speed. I keep my eyes on the ground, stealing a glance or two.
First look: black, Jaguar. My mind picks up the details. Logs them away.
Second: tinted windows, shiny hubs, six spokes. Supernice. This ride could go from zero to sixty in six seconds. Maybe five.
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