How to Hook a Hottie (3 page)

“Don't hate me,” he said in a half whisper, confirming my suspicions.

I shook my head. I'd have to love him or at least like him before I could hate him, right?

“I told my mom about the banquet last night, and she reminded me that I won't even be here. I'm leaving on Sunday.”

Uh-huh. How convenient.

“I'm going to some baseball showcases. You know, where college coaches come to check out high school players.”

No, I didn't know. Nor did I necessarily believe him.

“How long will you be gone?” I asked, just because I wanted him to squirm.

“Two weeks. I have to bring homework and stuff.” He shrugged. “I mean, I knew I was going, but I forgot how soon. I'm sorry.”

I shrugged. “Turns out I had a conflict, too. So I wasn't going to be able to go.”

“Oh.” He glanced at a poster—as if he cared about electrons—then back at me. “I was going to give you the tickets so you could take a friend or something. But . . .”

His voice trailed off, which was fine with me. All I wanted was this conversation
over
.

That, and another lab partner.

And if the rumor mill transformed this breakup into some humiliating story, I'd probably want another life, too.

But logic told me he was probably telling the truth. I mean, the guy still practically used his fingers to count, so it stood to reason that calendars were over his head.

Then there was the fact that it was beyond stupid to make up a story like that. He'd either be at school these next couple of weeks or he wouldn't.

“Kate,” he said, interrupting the hurricane in my brain. “I know this is last minute, but if you're not busy, I thought we could go out tonight instead. Get a pizza. See a movie. Something.”

I was too dumbstruck to keep up pretenses. “What? You want to go out . . . for
real
?”

Brandon laughed, way too loud for class. Especially since nothing amusing was happening—or had ever happened—in that particular classroom.

“No, for fake.”

I studied his face, my thoughts drifting back. “Was this your mother's idea?”

He shrugged, telling me what I needed to know.

I sat back and bit my lip in consideration. Did I particularly want a date with him?

Uh—no.

But did I want to be the butt of jokes for the rest of my senior year? The geek girl Brandon Callister briefly toyed with before putting her back in her place?

Uh—not even a little bit.

He was probably harmless, anyway. And we were only talking pizza, maybe a movie. One date for the sake of my rep wouldn't kill me, right?

Four

D
al was sweeping the foyer when Lexie and I cruised into the rink later. He wore his navy blue polo shirt and a no-nonsense expression.

“So, Kate,” he said, again not bothering with preliminaries. “Did you get the job done?”

“Yes and no,” Lexie spoke up.

His gaze fled from mine to hers and back to mine again.

“The banquet date is off,” I said. “Brandon has to go to some college baseball tryouts.”

He nodded. “I heard about that. I just didn't know it was so soon.”

“Apparently, neither did he.” I tried to sound like I didn't care, although with all the random people who seemed to know about his road trip, I no longer suspected Brandon had tried to pull a fast one on me.

“Instead,” Lexie proudly continued, “she's going out with him
tonight
. They're—”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting her before Dal could jump to conclusions. “I figured pizza is the best way to fend off unflattering rumors.”

“Besides,” Lexie added, standing between us, hanging on my every word. “Brandon is
hot
.”

Dal frowned at her. “What do you know? You're like . . . ten.”

“I'm twelve,” she said, and gave her blond hair a proper toss. “And I
know
hot. Apolo Anton Ohno, Orlando Bloom.” She slanted a look at me. “Don't you think Brandon's hot, Kate?”

I shooed Lexie toward the locker room before she and Dal tangled it up good. “You'll be late,” I said, trying to ignore her.

“You just don't want to answer me,” she charged. “You want me out of here before the good stuff starts. Just like my parents.”

“What I want is for you not to have to do penalty laps for being late. Your mother would find out and dock my pay.”

She sniffed but headed toward the doorway. I watched until she cleared it, then I turned back to Dal, whose dark eyes were back to a more human shade of green.

“She asked a good question, Kate. Maybe you
do
think Brandon's hot.”

I'd had about enough of this! “Yeah, hot like the desert in the summer. Sweltering, bone-dry, just-get-me-out-of-here hot.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “The kind where you end up practically naked, rubbing lotion on your body?”

I groaned and gave him a bump to knock the smile from his face. “Look, the only thing I'm trying to do is prevent ‘Kate DelVecchio Got Dissed’ from being the header in hundreds of this weekend's e-mails, okay?”

Suddenly Mr. Serious, Dal narrowed his eyes. “What if you end up having a good time? You could lose sight of everything you've been working for.”

A parental tone was never a good one to take with me. “I don't know where this is even coming from, but you know how I feel about him.” I frowned. “Besides, I don't see
your
relationship holding you back.”

“Marissa and I are different.”

Not that I wanted to know anything private about her, but only a coward would back off. “Yeah? How's that?”

His jaw twitched, his expression sharpened, then he shook his head. “We just are.”

Oh,
that
helped.

I was tempted to ask if he thought she was hot, but he'd been going out with her for about a year and a half, so I figured that was a given.

“Look,” I said, and then
didn't
look at him. “Maybe it's best if we just drop this.” After an awkward beat, I pushed on and changed the subject. “I don't suppose you got the chance to talk to Mark?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

He leaned against his broom handle, making his biceps go all big. Dal had a great body, and I was sure he knew it. But it didn't feel right to check him out—ever. And especially not on top of the talk about Marissa. So I quickly averted my gaze back to his.

“He's going to the banquet,” he went on, “and doesn't have a date.”

“All right! Now,
that's
what I wanted to hear.” I put up my hand and he slapped it. “The big questions are, does he
want
a date, and what does he think of Chelsea?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we can't rush things. We want him to be
into
her, right? Not just looking for a one-nighter.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, although honestly, I hadn't thought past arranging the hookup and taking the payment. “Sure.”

“So we need to go slow.”

I had to give him credit. He'd always aced me out on tests, even back in elementary school. But lately I'd become impressed with his ability to read between the

lines, too.

“But not too slow, Dal.”

“Yeah, I'll try to work it in today. Maybe drop a few lines about how cute she is, and how she doesn't have a boyfriend.”

“He's going to think
you
like her.”

“No way. He knows about Marissa.”

Marissa again. That girl was like one-size-too-small panties. No matter how hard I tried to ignore her or pretend to be okay with her, she kept reappearing to bite me in the butt.

“Fine—do it your way,” I said, and reached into my pocket to dig up his share of the pay. “But ASAP, okay? Clock's ticking.” I slipped him his money and finally broke, giving him a little smile.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, palming the cash. “Boss.”

I opened my mouth to tell him not to call me that, but for some reason, whatever I was going to say just flew out of my head.

•

As I cruised back through the rink, disembodied voices bounced off the domed ceiling and the walls of Winter Wonderland, tangling with the sounds of scraping blades. Over the past months, I'd grown comfortable with these background noises, come to count on them much the way my dad counted on the lull of the TV.

But the voices were higher and sweeter than usual. I noticed that free skate was ending and little kids and their moms were whooshing and whirly-birding off the ice. Shaking off a memory of my mother and me in some preschool skating class—back when I was young and cute and worthy of her time—I climbed the bleachers.

I was going through my e-mails, deleting junk and a message from my mom, when Chelsea clomped up the staircase again. It was time to get down to business. Her cash was still warming my pocket, and I wanted more.

“Have a seat, Chelsea. I've got great news,” I said, knowing I needed to inspire her confidence. “It just so happens that Mark is dateless for the banquet.”

I watched her hopeful look turn into that huge smile. “Oh, good! How did you find out?”

I hesitated. Telling her Dal had simply asked seemed so . . . ordinary. Must have been all those
How to Succeed in Business
books I'd thumbed through, but I wanted her to think I was offering a service no one else could provide. “Let's not waste time with my methods now. Just know I'm getting the job done.”

She nodded. I guess she thought it sounded good. (I know I did.)

“So here's what's next, Chelsea. I want you to try the wristwatch test.”

“The . . . ?”

“Listen up. This is what you're paying me for.” I hoped. But according to the Web site where I'd found this test, it was almost always accurate. “You start by complimenting his watch,” I said, trying to sound all serious, like this had been created in a lab by some relationship scientist. “And ask to see it.”

She nodded, leaning in.

“If he unlatches the band and hands it to you—sorry, as they say, he's just not that into you. But if he offers up his watch, his wrist, his arm? It's simply a matter of how fast and how far you want to take it.”

Her hands fled to her mouth.

“So,” I said, pointing down at the snack bar. “Go back to work and run the test. And report back to me.”

“Totally!” she said. She gave me a quick—and not altogether warranted—hug and skipped down the stairs.

I just hoped I could help her
stay
that happy.

Sighing, I went back to the Internet for a look at how my favorite stocks had fared. I was still undecided as to whether I should invest my money in the market, in an existing company, or create something of my own.

I'd seen a CNN segment on a college student who'd started a multimillion dollar corporation by selling office chairs through the Internet, and I couldn't help admiring the simplicity of his plan. I knew zip about office chairs and had no idea how to design a Web site, but every time I thought about how quickly he'd soared to such heights, I felt this kind of bubbly excitement.

I could do it, too. With the right idea and enough capital, and by keeping my options open.

A heavier, less rhythmic set of footsteps pounded its ascent up the risers, and suddenly Dal was hovering over me. I was fairly certain his proximity to my face was simply meant to keep him from being overheard, but nonetheless I scooted down the bench a little to ensure enough personal space.

“I told Mark I thought Chelsea was hot,” he whispered. “And he was like, ‘Dude, you already got a girlfriend.’ ”

I'll admit I liked being right, but it didn't serve me in this particular case. “I hope you straightened him out.”

“As well as I could.”

He pulled back. His nose wrinkled and his mouth tugged into this little smile. For an instant, he was five-year-old Jason again. But then he took a deep inhale and blew out the breath, which did amazing things to his so-
not
-little-kid chest.

I reeled in my thoughts. “Okay, time to play our next hand. Chelsea's pretty when she tries. We need to get her cleaned up and get them to meet outside of the rink. Where he can see her as someone other than a snack bar girl.”

His lips pursed, he nodded. “I'd suggest tonight, but rumor has it you've got plans.”

“Ha ha.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“My dad's birthday,” I said, shaking my head. Ever since our mother left, Suzannah and I had been making a bigger deal out of birthdays and holidays. We'd thrown an Extreme Christmas, with a prime rib, door-to-door caroling, popcorn garlands, and a mountain of gifts. A psychotherapist would probably say we were over-compensating. My goal was to stir up as much hype as possible and then throw it back in Mom's across-the-ocean face. Suzannah's was probably to make
me
feel better.

“But tomorrow's Saturday—I could do breakfast,” I added.

“Is Chelsea a morning person?”

“My guess is she'd stay up all night dancing to a snake charmer's flute if she thought it would get Mark's attention.”

“Oh, he'd pay attention, all right,” he said, and flashed a grin. “Just not in a good way . . .”

I opened the calendar accessory on my laptop. “Bev's Diner, tomorrow. Say nine? I'll get Chelsea there, you get Mark. We'll ‘run into each other.’ ”

“What? How . . . Why do I get the hard work?”

“Well, you're the guy,” I said, for lack of a better answer.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Next time, if our client is male, I'll have to do all the dirty work.”

He shot me a look. “Next time. Yeah, right!”

I quickly assessed my options, then gave him a playful smile. “How about I pick up your breakfast tab? Factor it into this project's budget.”

“Budget,” he repeated.

“Hey, we're talking fifty more bucks if we can close this deal.”

He frowned, then nodded. “Okay, but I swear, Kate, if Mark starts thinking I'm after
him,
I'm blowing the lid on this whole operation.”

“Fair enough. And in that case,” I said, and waggled my eyebrows, “I promise to do
whatever's necessary
to preserve your reputation.”

I laughed like a hyena—Dal and me pretending to be romantically involved was funny, right?—until I realized the only sound coming back to me was the rink roar. Dal just stood there staring blankly at me. I knew he was kidding about Mark thinking he was gay—but did he doubt that I'd rise to any occasion to help him?

No. . . . If Dal and I had anything, it was best-friendship trust.

So what, then? Did he think I was “man enough” to partner in business with, but not “woman enough” to be a flirt if the situation demanded it?

I tensed, that possibility hurting worse than the first; then I quickly pulled myself together and looked back at my computer screen. I was so superbusy I almost missed his mumbled “See ya.”

Yeah, fine, whatever.

•

On my way to snag Lexie later, Chelsea grabbed my arm.

“Mark doesn't wear a watch,” she whispered furiously.

“No? Okay, then, we move to the next course of action.” We ducked into an alcove near the snack bar, where I could tell her about our breakfast plans without being overheard.

She threw her arms around me—again—and I laughed and patted her back. Only to see Mark standing behind us.

“Looks like someone has good news,” he said.

Chelsea jumped away, startled, one hand flying to her gaping mouth. The way I saw it, we had what we wanted—his attention. And what was that line that celebrities used? Any publicity was good publicity?

“Oh, you know . . . ,” Chelsea said, and her voice trailed off to no-man's-land.

He nodded. “Don't tell me. This is about Kate's date with Brandon tonight.”

My jaw dropped.

“People were talking about it after school,” he explained.

“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “Pizza, right?”

All pretenses of covering for Chelsea or hooking the two of them up went out of my head. I just stood there, amazed at how people could be so in the know about the one aspect of my life I thought so little about.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching deep inside myself for enough enthusiasm to sound sincere. “That's it. I'm so excited about tonight.”

I should have won an Oscar for that one.