“Um, yeah.” He checks the watch on his wrist, an expensive diving one, then looks around me, probably searching for his harem. On his other wrist is a wide leather cuff with a glittering quartz stone in the center. It looks worn and doesn’t quite fit with my perception of him. Maybe a memento? Whatever.
“And the whole Double Stuf Oreo thing? Total lie,” I muse. “They’re only 1.86 times bigger than a regular one. Very annoying advertising gimmick. I mean, if it says double stuffed, it should be. Wonder if I should contact the Better Business Bureau? On the other hand, I doubt it would do any good. Enough Oreos have been sold to wrap around the world 481 times.”
He moves down the aisle to grab chocolate chip cookies. “I get it, you love Oreos. Sorry I took them all. They’re on sale, five dollars off if you buy ten. At that price, they’re practically free. Everybody loves free cookies, and we’re having a party. Leather and Cookies is the theme, and before you ask—yeah, it was my idea.”
“Creative.” I follow him, accidentally on purpose bumping his cart with mine.
His head comes up and he frowns at me as those emotional—yes, emotional—blue-green eyes flash over my face, lingering on my hat, bouncing off the hole in my shirt, taking in my black and green camo pants then landing on my shiny red Doc Martens, my only claim to fashion. Taking his time, he makes his way back up to my face, which I keep composed, but okay, it’s hard. Being the center of that attention for these few seconds is a little disconcerting, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m invincible to his hotness! I am woman!
“Each Oreo has 90 ridges around the perimeter—”
“Perimeter?” He shakes his head as if waking from a bad dream.
“—and National Oreo Day is March 6. Sadly, most people don’t know. I usually celebrate by deep frying them inside a crescent roll. Delicious.”
He blinks. “Look, fine, you want a package of my Oreos—I get it. Normally, I’d be sweet—I am sweet—but I promised my team I’d bring enough back for everyone. I’ve got forty people at my house. You understand, right?” There’s the barest hint of hesitation on his face, as if he’s close to just giving them to me. Maybe he feels sorry for the plain girl—but then his phone chimes and he forgets about me, his fingers flurrying with a text.
As he wanders down the aisle, I follow him, keeping our carts side by side. It’s hard because I have to dodge a display of bagged peanuts, but I manage. Also, my legs are shorter than his, and he walks fast.
“A study in 2013 said Oreos are as addictive as cocaine. If I had to pick something to be addicted to, a cookie isn’t bad. My little sister loves them so much. She’s so adorable.”
His phone forgotten, he swivels his head in my direction, squinting as they sweep over me again, lingering on my hat. A pained expression flashes on his face, as if it hurts to gaze at me. It’s the hat, I know. Horrid.
“Sister? How old?”
“Four. Just precious.” Seventeen, hellion—just like I was.
“Oreos were my brother’s favorite. He used to crumble them up in a glass of milk. Rather gross.” A faint smile flickers on his lips.
“Nice. Just give me a pack of cookies and I’ll be on my way.”
A wary silence settles between us, a crackling in the air. A strange expression spreads across his features, and he lowers his lashes, shielding his gaze. “Do I know you?”
“No.”
“You look familiar.”
“Do I?”
“You go to Waylon?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” No way he knows me. I don’t keep up with sports or attend undergrad classes. Since most of my friends have graduated and moved away, I tend to keep to myself. Maybe he’s seen me in the library, but somehow I have a hard time envisioning this man in the stacks. He’d just have one of his girls study for him.
“You always answer a question with a question?” he asks.
“Is this a trick?”
“Do you know who I am?”
My lips twitch. “Oh, yeah. Totally. David. You play lacrosse.”
He rocks on his heels. “Wrong. If you knew who I was… Well, I might have given you one of my packages of Oreos.”
I let my gaze drift over him lazily. “My bad. Daniel.”
“No.”
“Oops. Dexter, tell me, how does the new lacrosse season look? Think we’ll beat Leland University this year? Or Whitman? I heard Hawthorne really kicked your ass last year.”
A flush rises on his cheeks, and if I had to guess, I’d say annoyance is starting to build inside him. Is it weird that I like sparring with him? Yes. Definitely.
He moves down the aisle.
I follow, and his gaze sharpens as it darts over to me. “Are you stalking me?”
“Hello, there’s only one aisle. Do people actually stalk you? What on earth for?”
“Girls follow me everywhere. I’m used to it, but you’re kind of strange, and if I need to call security…” He shrugs broad shoulders.
Ugh! I sputter as indignation rises, mixing with my insane and, yes, irrational need to needle the jock. This was supposed to be about getting the video, but now I just want to push his buttons. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of my ex and his entourage.
“I just want the Oreos,” I snap.
He picks up a bag of M&M’s, throws them in his cart, and moves ahead of me. “Huh, I bet Walmart is still open.”
I resist the urge to stamp my foot. “That’s on the other side of town. I still need to finish my shopping then go visit my nana at the nursing home. You know what her favorite cookie is?”
“Oreos, I wager,” he drawls. “Poor Nana. If only you’d asked nicer, maybe batted those lashes at me, I might have been willing—”
“Dillon! Which beer did you want? There isn’t much to choose from,” calls Ashley from the other end of the aisle as she holds up a six-pack of Bud Light in one hand and Michelob in the other. She poses against the end cap, and I arch my brow. It really is a pretty cow dress. It’s super tight, but I’ve worn just as clingy, although I didn’t look as good as she does.
He smiles broadly at her, the effect lighting up his face, and it’s such a different expression than he was giving me that my ire rises higher. “Nah, sweetheart, none of that piss. Get the Fat Tire—it’s all I drink.”
“Flat Tire, right,” she says.
“No—Fat Tire,” he replies.
She huffs and glares at the other girls. “I told y’all this wasn’t right!” She smiles for Mr. Hot Pants. “Got it, Babycakes! I’ll get them all just for you!”
She blows him kisses, barely sparing me a glance, then disappears down another aisle, and when I pivot back around, he’s moved closer to me. The scent of him hits me, assailing my senses, the smell of leather (of course) mixed with earthy male spice, perhaps sandalwood and vanilla. It’s disgusting.
I crane my neck to look up at him. “Stealthy, aren’t you. That’s not a question, but a rhetorical statement. What are you doing?” The pitch of my voice escalates as he eases closer.
“I know you.” His voice has deepened, soft and silky.
“I have one of those faces. I’m a chameleon.”
“Hmm.” His eyes stare into mine, and this close, I see the ring of silver around his irises, like lightning. He drops his gaze to look at my unimpressive chest.
I resist the urge to straighten my shoulders.
“You follow the band?”
Oh. I glance down at the faded Four Dragons shirt, a Vane castoff, one I haven’t been able to let go of. In the early days, I slept in it, wishing away the heartache, but now I wear it because it’s roomy and clean and in my drawer. I can proudly say I put it on without even thinking of him.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Pretty sure I heard them a time or two.” What I don’t say is, Well, I was with the lead singer for years then the world caught fire. A tight feeling grows in my throat and I push those thoughts down, trap them in a box, wrap a thick chain around them, and toss them into a dark closet.
He takes his hat off, rakes a hand through his messy hair, and readjusts the cap so the bill is facing forward. “Crazy that those local guys now have songs on the Billboard charts. Makes me feel like I knew them. What was the lead singer’s name? Vince? No…”
“Vane,” I mutter. His band is alternative rock mixed with Delta blues, eccentric in sound and heavy on angsty lyrics. He even wrote a song about me after our breakup: “Sweet Serena”. I picture him now, his midnight hair, his tattooed body—probably curled up next to a groupie.
“Right.” He’s studying me. I’m not sure he’s stopped staring, as if I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “What’s your name?” He takes another step toward me, and I press back against the cookie shelf. He has no personal space bubble!
My heart skips and I get a strange prickle along my neck, an awareness of something rich and complicated threatening to suck me down. He’s managed to get under my skin, though I’m impervious.
I inhale sharply as our eyes cling. Something about him jogs my memory—
“Excuse me.” I maneuver my cart around his and disappear down the next aisle.
God. No video is worth putting up with some pigskin-toting Casanova.
A few minutes later, I head toward the checkout aisle and get in line. Mr. Hot Pants and his entourage come up behind me. Inside the narrow space, bracketed by candy on one side and magazines on the other, I inch forward, putting distance between us. I jerk up a copy of the World Enquirer and flip through it. UFOs spotted in Canada, a sea serpent spotted off the coast of Cornwall, Katy Perry pregnant with a bat baby… I huff. I can write better sensationalized fiction with my eyes closed.
He towers behind me, his body sending off enough heat to power an entire city. The woman ahead of me finishes with her purchase, and I move forward and set the four six-packs of Fat Tire on the belt.
Yeah. I grabbed them all.
The moment he sees what I have, the air charges with tension.
“Come on, now you’re just being spiteful. You took all the beer,” he says.
“What’s wrong?” says the blonde.
“Is someone asking for your autograph again?” asks Mila/Bambi.
“She took your beer? Who is she?” Ashley asks suspiciously, sharp green eyes raking me up and down.
I huff. “No one you know.”
He lowers his eyes to half-mast. “Fine. I’m open for a trade. A package of Oreos for a six-pack. What do you say, sweetheart?”
Feigning nonchalance, I shrug and repeat his words from earlier. “Fat Tire—so good, right? It’s my favorite. The first beer, I drink in a frosted mug. The second one, well, I take my time, sit back in a chair on the deck, and take small sips so I can lick every malty drop.” Okay, that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t I savor every malty drop? I mean, I wouldn’t actually lick the beer or the mug. Yeah. That’s a miss. But I had to get lick in there!
The cashier rings up the pricey beer and I blanch at the cost, my hands clenching. I may have to eat Ramen with my fruit and Nutter Butters this week.
“Random factoid: at any given time, 0.7% of the world is drunk. Fifty million people are trashed right now.” I pat the beer. “I can’t wait to suck one down.” I hold my finger up before he can interrupt me, because he definitely wants to. “Hmm, maybe this one’s more intriguing: beer and vaginas have almost the same acidity levels, with an average pH of 4.5. Makes you think, right? I wonder if it’s the same if a guy puts his penis in a mug of brew…no? I guess not judging by your expression.”
“Did she just say vagina?” the redhead yelps.
“She said penis—even better. Go, girl,” says the blonde, and I decide I adore her.
“Son of a nutcracker,” he murmurs as he shakes his head.
I swear under my breath. I missed it, having tucked my phone away to juggle the groceries and my debit card.
“Thanks for shopping at the Piggly Wiggly. Please take your receipt and come again,” the slightly dazed young cashier says as she looks past me to the leather-clad hottie hovering behind me. “Are you Dillon McQueen? You’re so amazing. And gorgeous. I don’t care what they say, you’re gonna be the starter this year, and if you aren’t, you can always try the movies,” she gushes, already digging around for a pen and paper.
He gives her that lazy smile. “Thanks.” Then he focuses on me, his expression hardening, but he tries… “Let me have the beer, baby.”
I’ve been upgraded to baby. How cute.
I put a little extra southern in my voice when I speak. “Bless your heart, if you’d only known who I was or batted your lashes at me. Check Walmart, sweetie…” I tip my hat at him and flip around, hips swaying as I leave the checkout area, smiling as I go out the door.
For the first time in eighteen months, I feel like myself again. Girl on fire indeed.
3
We leave the Pig and walk through the dark parking lot to my black Escalade. The girls are chattering about the party, and I tune them out as I carry the bags. Between these ball-squeezing pants, the guys texting me snack preferences, and my worry about the season, my head spins. I should be excited about a house party, but I’m not.
Women elbowing each other to hold my hand is pissing me off.
All for the sake of a tradition I managed to get entangled in.
Dillon’s never been to the Theta Fall Ball. He’s not dating anyone. We will offer him as tribute, Sawyer told the team this past May before school ended. He riled them up, got them excited, and convinced them to vote for me.
Normally, I’d be willing to go along with the contest, if just to keep things fun, but this year is my last chance for the NFL. On the other hand, every year that we’ve participated in the Theta tradition, we’ve had stellar seasons. We won a national championship last year when Zane was the prize player. Now it’s a superstition that we have to do it. I’m talking serious. We don’t want to screw up the upcoming year, and that means repeating the rituals we did last year. We touch the tiger mural when we enter the stadium, we chant the fight song before we leave the locker room, Sawyer eats the grass, I kiss my hands before I leave the tunnel—and we do the Theta thing.
That means I have to deal with the girls’ attention, trying to balance it with the inadequacy that keeps pricking at me. Even the cashier had to bring up my shortcomings.
I roll my neck.
For the past three years, I was Ryker’s backup, but now that he’s gone, I’m in charge. He was the number-one pick in the draft—how do I live up to that?
Does McQueen have what it takes to lead the Tigers? was this morning’s trending topic on Twitter.
The worst part is my new backup is in the wings, just waiting to take the ball out of my hands. This team has been my family for three years, and it stings that Coach is pitting me against some untried freshman.
Owen Sinclair took his school to state. Won MVP. Runs like a gazelle. Rated a 5 by ESPN, he told me in a one-on-one meeting this week.
A muscle pops in my jaw. My father replaced me with a new family, and now my team is close to doing the same thing.
My gut swirls.
This season is mine, I tell myself. This is my shot and I can’t blow—
What the hell?
I jerk to a halt at the girl I see. Her. Again? She’s like a curse!
Four Dragons has jumped out of her vehicle, slammed the door, and is currently glaring at the hood of her car as if she expects it to tell her what’s going on.
She kicks the tire with her boot then lets out a yelp of pain and hops around on one foot. “Just one more year. That’s all I’m asking!”
She doesn’t see me and I narrow my gaze, taking her in. She’s downright frumpy in those pants and old shirt. Honestly, she looks like she just rolled out of bed, threw on a hat, and came to the store. I recall her heart-shaped face under the fluorescent lights, the smarty-pants curl to her lips, the sly barbs she directed at me. I couldn’t even see the color of her eyes behind those nerdy glasses.<
br />
One of the girls asks me to unlock the car, and I click the fob.
I walk around to where the Four Dragons girl is. “Car trouble?” I ask, and she jumps and whips around, a slow flush rising on her cheeks.
She fidgets and stares at the ground. “I think it’s the alternator or the battery. Honestly, I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s expensive.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah.” She glances back at her car, a frown worrying her forehead.
I grew up in a world where if a vehicle didn’t work or was involved in a fender bender, another one took its place. When I was sixteen, my parents gave me a white tricked-out Hummer, and when I wrecked it six months later, they replaced it with a black one. A long sigh comes from me. I had material things, not denying that, but I would have traded it in for parents who cared about me.
She blows out a breath, full of defeat. “Son of a nutcracker.”
“Hey, that’s mine.”
“No, it’s Will Ferrell’s. It would have been nice if you’d said it when I needed it. You cost me.”
“Son of a nutcracker,” I snap. “That work?”
“I don’t have my phone handy, so no. It has to be spontaneous. I can’t cheat. It has to be fair and square.”
No clue what she’s jabbering about.
We stare at each other, and a prickling sensation flutters over my neck—just like it did in the store. The vulnerable arch of her nape, the curve of her face, those lips…
She reminds me of—
Behind me, the girls break my train of thought as they argue and hash out a quick game of rock paper scissors to see who gets to sit up front with me. Exasperated with their antics, I glance back at them and sigh, then turn to Four Dragons. Courtesy demands I offer help. It didn’t demand I give her a package of cookies, though. Maybe part of me wanted to annoy her. I saw her staring at us when we walked in, felt the way she dissected us. I know what she thinks—that I’m a guy with women all over me. This is true, but these girls are not by choice.
“You need a ride?” I ask gruffly.
“I’d call an Uber, but I don’t…” She stops and shadows flit over her face, worry tightening her eyes.
I Promise You Page 3