When We Met

by A. L. Jackson

  My biceps was right below her ample chest and I let go of her like she’d been on fire. “Maybe you should wear more practical shoes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You wouldn’t know fashion if it smacked you over the head.”

  I shrugged. “At least I can keep myself upright.”

  She kept going as her cheeks tinged pink. I’d shut her up. Good.

  She turned suddenly and headed back toward the door. Over her shoulder she said, “Wait, Jaclyn, I forgot my notepad.”

  My aunt stopped one storefront down to wait for us and I smirked as I held the door open for Chloe again. Her and those ridiculous sticky pads. You’d have to be blind to miss the lists she always left everywhere around the store.

  She glared at me. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Her cheeks darkened further and I had to admit that I liked pushing her buttons.

  “You making fun of me?” Her eyes narrowed. “At least I know how to take notes.”

  Ouch, what a bitch.

  “I don’t need notes,” I spat out. “I can remember everything in my head.”

  She strode over the threshold into the store. “That explains a lot.”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence. Aunt Jaclyn opened the new space and we stepped inside. It was a bit of a mess with boxes, old fixtures, and paint swatches strewn about. We’d need to clear it out before we could build or decorate much of anything.

  “All yours.” Aunt Jaclyn dangled the keys in front of Chloe. “I’m heading out. You’re welcome to any props I have in the back room of either shop.”

  After she left, the room grew so quiet you could hear the voices coming from the deli next door. We stood speechless side by side, staring at the clutter in front of us.

  “So, what are your ideas?” I said, trying to move us along so I didn’t have to spend one more minute with a person I didn’t care for.

  “Considering I just got the info five minutes before you walked back through the door,” she said, opening her notes to a fresh page, “I’m still formulating it in my head.”

  “You want my two cents?” I asked, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.

  “No,” she said too quickly. And then she turned to me, grinding her teeth. “I mean, sure.”

  “Obviously we need to clear this mess first. I can bring a workhorse, tools, a circular saw, and the lumber,” I said, moving through the space around a couple of boxes. “You just need to tell me what your vision is so I can get to work.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” she said, clutching that pad of paper like it was her lifeline. Probably was, seeing how uptight she was.

  “So, what does your schedule look like the next few days?” I asked.

  “Classes,” she said, her fingers already sketching something on the page. “And homework. Obviously.”

  Another dig. I’d choose the higher road and ignore that little comment. “So, when’s the next time you can meet?”

  “Tomorrow night, same time?” she asked as she shifted her eyes grudgingly toward mine. And then bit down on that damned lip.

  “I can’t tomorrow. I have . . . a thing.” No fucking way was I going to share that I had a family session with my mom. “The night after next works for me.”

  She gave a swift nod and said, “See you then.”

  I turned on my heel and strode out the door.

  chapter three

  Chloe

  My six-inch Manolos clacked all the way down the cobblestone street to the new space. For a couple of hours last night, I had sketched and planned the shop in my notebook. I was tense about showing Blake my idea because even though he frustrated the hell out of me, he also made my stomach do this weird flippy nervous thing. He was easy to dislike from a distance, but up close I felt vulnerable and probably acted like a silly little girl.

  And I was so not going for it. He had the potential to ruin my grade on this assignment and I didn’t know who the hell he thought he was.

  I brought the pink Chuck Taylors in my bag and planned to put them on as soon as I stepped inside. They clashed horribly with my outfit today. I supposed I could have worn something else, but I looked darn good in this Prada skirt and blouse that I had gotten on sale at Nordi’s. Maybe there’d been some small part of me that wanted to look my best for Blake as well. Maybe I wanted him to see me as a capable and confident woman.

  When I rounded the corner, I saw Blake leaning against his truck. He must have gone home to change after work, because tonight he wore dark-wash jeans and a light blue T-shirt. His hair looked slightly damp, like maybe he’d just showered, and his fingers gripped two cups of iced coffees from Common Grounds.

  As I approached, his eyes skimmed down my body and landed on my heels. His jaw ticked in irritation, but I didn’t plan on allowing him to intimidate me.

  When I reached him he met my gaze, straightened himself from the car bumper and thrust a container at me. “I got you a hazelnut coffee.”

  I looked down at my cup and saw he had added cream and maybe some sugar. He’d remembered how I took it. “Cool,” I said, trying to shake away the effect the sentiment had on me.

  He stared hard at me, as if willing me to say something else, before finally nodding and heading toward the door. What the hell had that been about? I dug out the key to let us inside.

  Silently I opened my sack, slipped off my heels, and then laced up the sneakers. When I looked up, he was watching me with a damned twitch at the corner of his lip.

  “Shut it,” I said, and then yanked my notepad out of my bag.

  “At least you decided to be sensible,” he said as I got to my feet. Sensible. There was no use for that word in the world of fashion.

  My eyebrow shot up. “I’ve never heard a guy complain about a woman wearing heels.”

  His gaze slowly slid up my legs. Great, I’d just given him a reason to check me out.

  My heart beat erratically upon his inspection.

  “True,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “They do make women’s legs look amazing. But they also look like they might hurt.”

  “The things you do for fashion,” I mumbled, and then jerked open my notebook, hoping to change the topic.

  “I’ve been working on my idea the last couple of nights.”

  I turned to the page where I’d made all of my notes. I scanned down the list to remind myself what I’d written because suddenly my throat had gone dry. “I was thinking of an Old Hollywood theme.”

  He nodded and looked around the space as if picturing it. “Okay.”

  “I want to use old film reels and hang them in a few different spots. I figured I could pull out the yards of tape from each spool and string them all around the space. From those pipes, for instance,” I said, motioning to the exposed brick wall and the industrial ducts hanging low. “Then I’ll pin some things for sale on the strands, like our vintage jewelry.”

  His fingers rubbed along his jaw and I found myself holding my breath waiting for a response. Any response. He’d been a theater major after all, so he knew about staging. Or maybe he sucked at it or hated it. Maybe that’d been the reason why he dropped out.

  “Are you a fan of old movies?” he asked.

  “Well, duh,” I said, trying to level my voice so I didn’t sound like an excited child. “Casablanca, Sabrina, Roman Holiday. I want the effect to be like an old black-and-white film and the props will reflect that.”

  “Sounds all right, I guess . . . pretty cool idea, not that I’ve ever seen those classic movies,” he said, and I pumped out a breath. Well, that wasn’t a breaking news story. “But I’ve definitely been a part of stage productions that had sets from different eras.”

  I turned the notebook sideways to my sketch of the space. “This is what I was thinking as far as shelving goes.”

  He moved behind me to glance over my shoulder and I could smell his clean soap scent and a hint of cologne or aftershave. He leaned forward and I felt his breath on my
neck. It’d been some time since I’d even allowed a guy to get this close. Especially a completely frustrating, albeit good-looking one. “That’s a pretty good sketch.”

  “I am in the School of Design.”

  “Believe me, I didn’t forget,” he huffed. “You seem to remind me every chance you get.”

  I gasped and looked up at him, only to see annoyance reflected in his eyes. “I do not.”

  “Okay, you don’t.” He tugged the notebook from my fingers and I wanted to grab it back and tell him to go screw himself, but I kept myself in check.

  What in the hell had he meant by that comment anyway?

  He motioned with his hand. “So you’re thinking an A-frame shelving unit against this wall here and then a circular display in the center?”

  I nodded and twisted a lock of hair in my fingers.

  “Sounds fine,” he said. “There’s only one thing wrong with your logistics.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It would be impossible for the kind of unit you designed to hold any kind of weight.” He pointed to my drawing. “It would implode once you placed anything heavier on it—even a stack of clothes.”

  “I guess that’s where you come in,” I said, throwing up my hands. “You’re supposed to help steer me in the right direction.”

  “You mean you trust my judgment?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m not just some deadbeat that pounds nails into wood?”

  My pulse picked up. “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” he scoffed. “I can see it in your expression.”

  I clenched my fists. “No, you can’t!”

  “Just drop it,” he said, handing back my notes.

  “No, I don’t want to drop it. Tell me what in the hell you mean.”

  He glared at me for a long, painstaking moment before finally speaking again. “Do you remember that day a couple months ago when you walked by the construction site where I was working?” I nodded. “The guys were getting rowdy. That’s what they do—they work hard all day and blow off steam by acting stupid.”

  I folded my arms, unsure of where he was going with this. “Nice way to make excuses for them.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do. Just telling it like it is,” he said, gritting his teeth. Obviously I frustrated him the same way he frustrated me.

  “I could tell what you were thinking by the damned look on your face,” he said, pacing around the space.

  “They were being pigs,” I said, trying to defend myself. No way was I in the wrong. “When guys act like that, they don’t deserve my respect.”

  “Point taken,” he said. It looked like he was going to say something else, but then he restrained himself.

  “Whatever. Let’s just get moving and clean this space up,” he said in a clipped voice.

  It sounded like he wanted to get a million miles away from me, and I still didn’t understand what I’d done wrong.

  I remembered that day he’d just brought up vividly. I’d been walking home from Happy Hour at Gruby’s, where my roommate Courtney worked. I hadn’t been out in a long time. Fact is, I rarely went out. But my other roommates, Indy and Misha, convinced me to meet them there and I had a really good time. When their boyfriends showed up, I took off to walk home, feeling pretty lighthearted.

  When I turned the corner and passed this construction site, I began hearing catcalls. I scowled and ignored those hard-hatted idiots until they began shouting stuff that really struck home. Things that reminded me of rumors my only boyfriend in high school spread about me—after he took my virginity and dumped me.

  “She’s got a stick up that fine ass.”

  “Bet she’s never been laid properly.”

  “I could show her a thing or two.”

  And then a voice rang out. “Guys, knock it off.”

  I turned toward the sound. It was Blake Davis and I was stunned into silence. He was sporting stubble, dirty fingernails, and clunky work boots. He looked so different from his casual clean T-shirt and jeans attire from his days at the university.

  “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do that girl in five seconds flat,” the guy sitting next to him had blurted out.

  Blake’s gaze met mine, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Never in a million years. Not my type.”

  My breath had caught. His words made me feel lower than the mud on his shoe. I forced my chin up high and continued walking home. My hands shook the entire way.

  Since then, I’d always wondered why his words had affected me so much.

  Add that to his confrontation tonight, and I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to come to enough of a mutual understanding to work together on this project.

  • • •

  We spent the next hour in silence as we moved boxes to the back room. Well, technically, I slid them toward the back and he lifted and carried them. He was surprisingly strong, and as he raised each box, I couldn’t help appreciating his taut and muscular forearms. Working construction obviously had its benefits.

  I decided we needed a bucket and supplies to give the place a thorough scrub-down. I wrote down a list of items and headed out the door to the small market down the street that stayed open past nine. Blake followed, mumbling about getting some bottles of water.

  As Blake and I moved through the aisle that displayed detergents, he pointed to the floor cleaner in my hand that had a bright pink label and said, “Did you plan to match your cleaner to your outfit?”

  I gaped at the pink Converse sneakers I’d completely forgotten I was wearing. With a skirt. Like some used-up fashionista on someone’s worst-dressed list.

  “Stop thinking so hard,” he mumbled close to my ear. “I was only joking. Lighten up.”

  I spun on him. “Pretty sure you could use some lightening up of your own.”

  Just then I heard someone call my name. I looked up and saw my mother’s committee friend heading down the aisle toward me. Her heels were high, her lips bright red, and her outfit immaculately put together. I glanced at Blake as my skin broke out in a panicked sweat. Sure enough, she’d tell my mother she’d seen me out late with some guy, looking disheveled, and then I’d be subjected to the Spanish Inquisition.

  Blake seemed to pick up on my rising alarm and in a huff he said, “Don’t worry, princess, you can pretend not to know me and I’ll do the same. Meet you at the cash register.”

  Before I could even react, he was gone, and my mother’s friend was in my face asking me questions. I could barely concentrate because I’d been too busy thinking about Blake’s words. Was I really that uptight? Why did I care so much about how I looked or what people thought about me? At what point had my life become so orchestrated?

  As soon as my mother’s friend was gone, I snatched a different floor cleaner from the shelf and met Blake at the front of the store, where he stood with a bucket and mop. I placed the sponges and soap on the counter and turned to look at him.

  He stepped in front of me, before I could say anything else. “I’ve got it. You can hand my receipt in to Jaclyn so I can expense it.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but his eyes tore into mine and I clamped my lips shut. “Don’t even say it, princess. I make way more money than you do. Unless you’re living off your daddy’s trust fund or something.”

  I drew my hands into fists as he greeted the cashier. I stood behind him, breathing heavily and staring at the back of his head. His hair was perfectly wavy and for the first time I noticed a piercing on the top of his ear. It was a silver hoop and I had the urge to yank on it and tell him he was wrong. So very wrong about me.

  We walked back in silence, me fuming beside him and refusing eye contact. As soon as I stepped back into the shop, I got busy cleaning the floors. An hour later we were both on our hands and knees scrubbing the baseboards and I was silently cursing the fact that I was getting my Prada outfit dirty. I probably did look like a princess, constantly rolling up and adjusting my skirt. It was my own dang fault fo
r refusing to change into different clothes.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Blake scowling. All at once his arms shot to the back of his neck, and he began tugging his shirt over his head. His flat and tight stomach was on full display before the second shirt that was hidden beneath fell back over his abs.

  I pretended not to look too long and instead took a deep breath, focusing on my task. Suddenly that same shirt was in front of my face. “Here, put it under your knees.”

  “What? No, I don’t need—”

  “Yeah, you do,” he said. “I can tell you really care about your clothes. They probably cost a lot more than my damned T-shirt.”

  Was this his way of apologizing or making fun of me?

  “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

  He thrust it closer to me. “Please, take it.”

  I stared at his shirt a few moments more before grasping it, smoothing it out on the floor, and then placing my knees on top of it.

  “It’s my mistake for not bringing a change of clothes,” I mumbled.

  He turned away and continued working on the far wall in silence.

  I wanted to redeem myself, or at least say something to break the ice. I looked back at him. “I noticed your piercing . . . um, earlier. I like it.”

  I held back a cringe. I was usually more of a fan of clean-cut guys.

  He barked out a bitter laugh. “Really?”

  “Where, um . . .” I struggled to come up with a question to keep the conversation going. “When did you have it done?”

  He heaved a deep sigh. “A couple years ago . . . on a dare.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “A dare?”

  “Yes, a dare. Bet you’ve never even done anything on a dare, princess,” he muttered. “Bet it’s too spontaneous for you.”

  “What the hell, Blake? Of course I have,” I spat out. Now I was seething.

  He squinted at me. “Yeah?”

  I shrugged and met his eyes in a challenge. “And stop calling me princess.”

  “Fair enough.” Then a devious glint registered in his eyes. “So . . . truth or dare?”