How to Hook a Hottie (8 page)

Thirteen

A
fter “signing” two of Aimee's ducklings and one of Yvette's friends to the Wait List as well, I had a wallet full of cash. And one cranky twelve-year-old at my side.

“You really need to talk to your mom,” I told Lexie, lugging her ice skates across the parking lot. Not only did she need a tote bag, but the $3,500 for the skating competition was now way overdue. Mrs. H. had to get her head out of her book. Or whatever dark place she had it stuck.

“I've tried,” Lexie whined. “You don't know what it's like. She's still totally on my case about my homework and where I go and what I eat. But it's like she doesn't care about my skating anymore.”

Lexie glanced up at me, her squinty blue eyes enlarging. For once she looked her age, and unless I was mistaken, vulnerable? I felt something inside me, something suspiciously like sympathy. I knew how tough it could be to deal with a difficult mother. Especially a mother who was changing her stripes.

“How about if I talk to your mom?” I suggested. “Maybe she'll let me pick up a tote bag for you like she did the laces. What's a good time to call, when she's not normally writing?”

“Writing?” Her face settled back into her natural what's-
your
-problem frown. “She hasn't written in, like, forever. All she ever does is cook, eat, and walk on the treadmill. Oh, and yell at my dad.
When
he's home.”

Why would Mrs. H. have hired me if she could have carted her kid around herself? “I'm sure she writes when you aren't around.”

Lexie shook her head like I was the child. “I know a little bit more about this than you do, Kate.”

I shook my head and opened the rink door, delighted to deposit her in the locker room so I could go get some
important
work done.

•

Mrs. Hoppenfeffer was on the treadmill when I dropped Lexie off, so I figured the big convo could wait another day.

Back home, I raced through the kitchen door, only to have the phone thrust at me. And since anyone who was anyone called on my cell, Dad didn't even have to tell me whose voice to expect on the line.

My stomach soured as he clomped away. I was never in the mood for my mother, but now was a particularly bad time.

“Hey,” I said into the receiver, keeping to my resolution not to call her Mom since she'd stopped being one.

“Hi, honey.” (Clearly she hadn't picked up on the no-endearments vibe.) “How's your week going?”

“Fine.” Dad and Suz weren't close, so short and sweet would do. I didn't feel the need to make nice for their sakes.

“And your little matchmaking business?”

“It's not match—” I said, then caught myself. Getting me to correct her was one of the tricks she used to engage me in discussion. I was on to her.

“Not matchmaking?” she said. “Well, what is it, then?”

I twisted the phone cord around my hand. Tight. Tighter. “A moneymaking opportunity. An Ideal Opportunity,” I said, wondering if she'd recognize and react to the buzz phrase.

“That's great, honey.”

I made some kind of
uh-huh
noise, which was all her vague response had earned.

“And how's it going with your bio partner?”

“Chem. Nothing to report.”

“Your classes?”

“Good.”

“Dal?”

“The usual.”

“Well, all right.” I could hear her sigh across the ocean and the continents. She was giving up. Score one for Daughter Dearest. “Just try not to work
too
hard, Kate. Enjoy your life. And remember, money's just one way of keeping score.”

My back teeth ground together.
One
way! One
way
! How
dare
she—of all people—throw ambition in
my
face.

“And are you enjoying your life?” I asked her sweetly. “Half a world away from your family?”

“Oh, Kate, you know perfectly well why I'm here, and how important it is to my career,” she said, sighing.

“I know you're feeding your need for more college degrees.”

“That's not fair. You make it sound like it's one big party over here. All I do is study and sleep.”

“But isn't that your dream life? Just you and your textbooks? No family, no responsibilities?”

“Kate,” she said, restraint edging her words. “I
get
that you're angry. But remember, after I've graduated, I'll be able to command a very respectable starting salary. In fact,” she said, and paused, “maybe we'll be able to upgrade your Honda to a Lexus or an Audi.”

No way was I letting her bribe me. Besides, it was on

the tip of my tongue to say,
We wouldn't have needed another car at all if you were here to do your job yourself.

With a sense of calm that surprised me, I realized we were at an impasse. Either one of us backed down now, or this would turn into a full-fledged pissing contest. I'd made my point: she was a hypocrite. And now I had other—better—things to do.

“Don't bother,” I said, and let out a long sigh. “I love my car—and the fact that it allows me to take on extra jobs and make more money. So I'll totally have the five thousand ready at my graduation, and be ready to go out on my own.”

Even with thousands of miles between us, I heard her groan.

“Now,” I added before she could say anything else, “nice talking to you, but I need to run.”

And run I did. Literally. After hanging up, I pounded up the steps, scurried down the hall, slammed my bedroom door shut, and did a face-plant on the bed. Wishing I could keep going, run until I was out of energy, anger, and memories of my mother.

Until I was the winner. No matter
how
the score was calculated.

When my cell phone rang, I suspected it was my mother, wanting to get in the last word. But the caller ID showed Chelsea. My blood pressure slowly returning to normal, Chelsea and I talked about possible outfits for her to wear at the banquet on Friday night.

After a while, Yvette beeped in to tell me that Lamont had simply stared at her when she'd given him the “I was going to call you last night” line after school. She wasn't sure how to take his reaction. (I wasn't, either.) Then Dakota called to say she hadn't been able to talk to Jon. Should she call him? Should we wait to meet on the quad in the morning?

Then I got a call from some guy who said he'd been referred by Dakota. I offered him my Wait List and explained the fees, and while he seemed interested, he wanted to know if he could pay in installments. That sounded like trouble—and the Wait List was supposed to simplify things—so I told him to try and see if he could raise all the cash first.

With the green stuff on my brain, I yanked my shoe box out from under the bed and emptied my wallet and pockets into it. I let myself get lost in the hundreds of bills and coins. I was mesmerized—and even a little bit in love—thinking of the endless possibilities the stash represented.

Of course, after it was deposited into interest-accruing accounts and business opportunities, I wouldn't be able to play and stare and adore it. But how cool that I'd be able to see my moolah grow to greater heights (even if it was only on paper).

I'd become my own boss, with no one else to answer to, no one to take care of. I'd be free. Self-sufficient. Directed.

In a world of my own, a little voice in the back of my head shouted. Like my mother.

No, I thought, irritated, and gave my shoe box a booted kick. Not like her.

The shoe box landed with a
whomp
against the far wall, its contents flying as high as a foot into the air. I watched the bills settle, the coins drop and roll, until it all grew quiet. Until I could breathe again.

Until it was just me, my money, and my dreams.

I had my mother's blood and her drive, but that did not mean I had to end up like her: putting myself and my ambition before anything and everything else.

I'd love the people in my life. I'd be there for them—always. And most importantly, I wouldn't start a family until I could spend time with them. This get-rich-now plan was to ward off my mother's brand of selfishness, to ensure that I'd never
have
to put work or need or anything before the ones I loved.

I'd
own
the money and my ambition instead of letting it own me.

Slowly, I crawled over to the box and started refilling it with my money, counting as I went. The simple act was soothing, the very reason I had yet to do the logical thing of depositing it in a bank.

A knock sounded at the door, and my dad cracked it open and peeked inside.

His wrinkled brow told me he
got
that this scene was somehow related to my mother's phone call, so I decided to do what I had basically just done with my life savings—throw caution to the wind. For once, I would tell him what I was thinking.

“Why don't you just divorce her, Dad? You know she's not coming back.”

His head didn't jerk up. He didn't go into denial or paternal mode. Instead, he bent down to help me, his hands working to form a perfectly neat stack of dollar bills.

“She
is
coming back. She went because it was the best way we knew to stay married.” He handed me the stack and settled onto the carpet, crossed-legged. “She needs to be alone now. As badly as I needed
not
to be alone when we were your age.”

He looked at me, the little lines shooting out around his eyes making him look so much older than thirty-six. And I decided that maybe
I
was old enough for some more unsaid truths.

“I thought—you know—you guys had one of those shotgun weddings. I mean, I've never exactly counted the months, but wasn't I born pretty soon after?”

Nodding, he ran a hand through his hair. “But Kate, no one
had
to get married back then. There were other options. Just none that I'd consider. Your mother listened, understood how strongly I felt, and married me.

“Months later, you came along, and then your sister. And Pam adored being a mother.” A smile crossed his face. “She was so good at it, too. But as time passed, you girls got older, and she started to realize—and regret—the things she gave up. So I told her to go for them. College, career, whatever she needed.”

“And going off to Germany?”

“I had to be supportive. If I wasn't, she might have gone anyway—resenting me—and not come back.”

Words tumbled out of me, pride be damned. “But why couldn't she be happy just with us? Why weren't we
enough
?”

He shook his head. “How can anyone understand what fulfills one person and not another? All I know is that she went away to save our marriage, not to end it. And I'll be here waiting for as long as it takes.”

Thoughts and feelings collected inside me. I felt sorry for Dad, and worried that he was being delusional—but I hoped for his sake he was right. For her, I wasn't sure what I felt. Besides anger, I was just plain sad for Suz and me. We'd lost our mother before we were ready, had been forced to assume her adult responsibilities. And yet, at the same time, we were just average teenagers with chores and curfews and a parent in the house. It was like we were being tugged in two directions at the same time. And as far as I could see, the only probable result of that would be a tear down the center.

I sat back on my butt, suddenly exhausted. “But what if we needed her—really needed her? I mean, had a crisis or something?”

Dad shrugged. “I'd like to think she'd come home.”

I would've liked to think that, too. But I suspected Dad had more faith in her than I did.

“Well, I'm glad we had this little talk,” Dad said, standing so that my eyes were level with the knees of his jeans. “Your sister's just about got dinner ready, so finish up here and meet us downstairs, okay?”

I nodded. Yep, life did go on. And sooner or later Mom would come back—or she wouldn't—and then we'd have
that
to deal with.

“Okay, Dad,” I answered. “I'll be right there.” And I resumed scooping money back into my box. This mess was something I could actually do something about.

Fourteen

D
akota and I met up on the quad before school the next day. The plan was for her to go with something I'd invented myself. She'd make casual mention of “your girlfriend” to Jon, and when he said he didn't have one, she'd act all yeah-right-a-hot-guy-like-you surprised.

If that didn't work, I'd “assign” them a Future Business Leaders project to do together.

As I stood with Dakota, I saw Brianne talking with a friend, animating some story with her hands. I was overdue on making progress for Carlton, so I told Dakota I'd catch up with her.

I marched up to Brianne and introduced myself. I told her someone had paid me to help him get her interest. Then I held my breath. Her eyes went all electric, and she and her friend giggled. When she asked who the admirer was, I told her it was a secret, but she'd be “hearing” from us.

It took me a good two minutes to get through the crowd and back to Dakota. Just as I walked up, she was turning away from Jon, her face glowing.

“Walk with me,” she said to me, with this really odd mix of clenched teeth and a bursting smile—sort of like when rain fell from sunny skies.

“Jon,” she continued, after taking a few steps, “told me that he doesn't have a girlfriend. And that in fact,” she added, and clamped her hand around my wrist, “it's a bit of a problem for him. He has a family wedding next weekend, and his ex-girlfriend, who won't leave him alone, is a guest, too. He needs a date to keep her away.”

It figured Jon would be arrogant enough to think the ex still wanted him. “So you said . . . ?”

“That I'd be happy to help him out and be his personal bodyguard. And he said, ‘Great.’ ” She laughed. “So it looks like we've got our first date, DelVecchio, whether it's official or not.”

I could see the dollar signs already.

“Cool,” I said with a smile. Could I actually be getting good at this?

I strolled away, the satisfaction of a job well done glowing inside me. I found Dal talking with a couple of guys, sidled in close, and gave him an elbow by way of

hello. The guys wandered off, and he turned to me.

“You're happy about
something
.”

“Jon's taking Dakota to a family wedding!” I nudged him again with my elbow, then told him what had happened. “Are we good, or what? First Chelsea, now Dakota.”

“Oh, we got lucky,” he said, tearing me away from my happy place. “Dakota was in his face when he needed her. The right place at the right time.”

I didn't like his attitude. “That's the point. Making sure our clients are first and foremost in their crushes' brains.”

“Oh,” he said, really flat. “There's a
point
to this business besides getting rich? Thanks for telling me.”

Ugh. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Dal was one of the most mature guys I knew. But every now and then he could give Brandon a run for his money.

“Look, I'm as happy as you are that she's going out with him. I'll totally take the money. But don't let this go to your head.”

I gazed up at his face—the face I usually wanted to see more than any other in the world. But right now? Not so much.

Still, my gaze zapped into his. And all at once, my annoyance started to melt away. Even though Dal had done a thorough job of acting smug and superior, his eyes were telling another story. They were a soft shade of hazel, bursting with green and brown specks.

For a crazy moment, I felt like I could stare at them forever.

I don't know if my expression was looking all intense or what, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “Besides, if we're making any progress at all, it's all because of me.”

“You?”

“Sure, my smarts, my intuition. My exceptional good looks.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh, talk about letting things go to your head!”

He laughed and took a step back, like he thought I might smack him. But this wasn't fourth grade and we weren't on the playground. Still, I wasn't going to let him beat me, so I advanced, pretending that the smack was on the way. He inched back some more, still smirking, so I kept going.

Until he backed into someone. Then I crashed into him, my face squashing into his neck. I adjusted my face to get a good breath, feeling the cold leather of his jacket against my cheek, and something like a low vibration emanating from his whole body.

I knew I should pull away. Should laugh off the whole thing. But I didn't want to. Here, up close and personal with Jason Dalrymple, was the most comfortable, most natural place I'd ever been.

I not only didn't want to pull away, I wanted to dig in deeper. Had I lost my mind?

“Okay.” His voice suddenly rumbled through me.

I knew that was my cue to back off. Playtime was over. But I didn't back off. And he didn't, either. We stood there, in the middle of hundreds of people. Some who knew us, many who didn't. And his arms came around my back, encircling me, pulling me closer.

Omigod.

This was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
And
the worst. I hugged back.

The first bell rang, and Dal and I dropped our arms, trying to regain some sense of normalcy.

I was on autopilot as I walked away, my thoughts reeling. How warm I'd felt inside the circle of his arms. How peaceful. How . . . well, complete.

And how wrong of me to like his touch so much, considering I was his best friend, and
not
his girlfriend. But what I would suddenly have given to have Marissa's role and mine reversed.

And the worst part? I'd been so blinded by my feelings that I hadn't looked to see whether Dal felt the same way.

•

Waiting for me at our locker was Yvette, near tears, her foot tapping.

“Okay,” she began. “So I called Lamont. We didn't have a lot to talk about, but I thought it went okay. But just now, in the hall? I gave him this big smile and he pretended he didn't see me!”

She did this deep sniff that seemed to start all the way down at her feet. “You had problems like this with Brandon at first, right? Until you figured out how to make him like you?”

That crack didn't exactly make me want to drop everything to help her. But . . . I
had
taken her money. And I so didn't want to think about Dal and that hug anymore.

Focus, Kate.

What little I knew about Lamont was that he was fairly laid-back—Yvette's polar opposite. “Could be you're moving a little fast for him.”

“But you told me to call him.”

I did? I thought I'd told her to say she'd
thought
about calling him. Crap. My clients' romantic endeavors were all starting to blend together. Maybe I needed to create a grid.

“Hmmm . . . in any case, I think we need a more subtle approach with Lamont.”

“I'm paying you
all this money,
” she said, her whine turning to a whinny. “And so far, all you've done is let me make a fool of myself!”

After a quick glance around—and people
were
starting to stare—I did a maternal “Shhh . . .” thing, even putting my arm around her shoulder for emphasis. “We'll make this work, one way or another.”

“
What
way?”

My mind scrambled. The Secret Admirer plan had gotten me somewhere with Brianne. Why not try it again? “I'll go talk to Lamont, tell him someone has come to me for help in getting fixed up with him.”

“And he'll say, ‘Tell Yvette to save her money.’ I don't
think
so!”

Heads were definitely turning. And not in an oh-look-there's-hot-Brandon's-hot-girlfriend way.

“Okay,” I said, putting on my damage-control hard hat. “Let me brief Dal and get the male perspective. Then find me on the quad during lunch and we'll fix this thing.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure,” I lied.

“Otherwise, I get my fifty back.”

My throat tightened, making it hard to respond. I nodded. Hadn't the agreement been the first fifty down, whether I pulled off the hookup or not?

I guess failing to pull it off wasn't the same thing as giving bad advice. But I told myself I wouldn't fail. I would fix this. Somehow.

She rushed off, nearly knocking down the rail-thin girl who'd once asked me about my fees. I felt a spark of hope that she had heard about my successes with Chelsea and Dakota and was going to cough up the retainer fee. But instead, she nodded hello at me and started to walk away.

Feeling generous or stupid or something, I grabbed her arm.

“Tell him,” I whispered when she turned to me, “that you almost called him last night. About homework or whatever. And then study his reaction, how he looks, what he says. That'll give you a good indication of where he stands with you.”

A smile exploded on her face. “Thanks.”

“Good luck,” I told her, half knowing that I'd need some luck with the uncertain things in my life, as well.

•

The morning whizzed by in a blur, with frequent work-work conversations tangling with necessary thoughts of schoolwork. I even found Brandon's ex, Summer Smith, waiting impatiently outside my English class. Her blond hair shining in the fluorescent light, she stopped sighing long enough to tell me she wanted to talk.

“You're going to be at Vince's party tonight, right, Kate?”

I shrugged and gave her my business card, hoping she'd join my Wait List. “Just in case it's too crowded tonight and I don't see you,” I said. “Call me.”

Later, I met up with Dal outside at lunch.

“Where've you been hiding?”

“Hiding?” I repeated, plopping down next to him and pulling a slightly squished tuna sandwich from its plastic bag.

His gaze bore down on me, forest green. Not his friendliest color, but not a serial-killer look, either. “You didn't come out for morning break.”

“I had some clients to attend to,” I said truthfully.

Under normal circumstances, I would have elaborated, but the air between us held a lot more than breath clouds and tuna stink, and I wanted to clear it. “I wasn't ignoring you, if that's what you think.”

“Why would I think that?” he asked, shivering inside his jacket.

“Well, you know.”

He shifted his weight and his voice dropped. “Yeah.” He was quiet for a little too long, looking straight over my head. “I should probably remind you I'll be gone this weekend. I'm driving out to the U later.”

A stranger would have thought his response was a non sequitur, but he knew that the “you know” was my name for our too-long, too-tight hug. I realized that he thought we'd crossed the line earlier, too, and that it hadn't felt exciting or heart-thrashing or tempting to him.

Being with me had just felt plain wrong to him. The way it
should
have felt to me.

“Yeah, have fun.” I took an oversized bite of my sandwich, just to make sure no more words or any miserable moans slipped out, even though I had totally lost my appetite. I was going to have to hold these new feelings for him as close to my chest as insider trading tips.

“So we're on target with all the clients, then?”

A change in the subject would have been greatly welcome at this point. I
wasn't
in complete control of our clients. Or my grades. Or my family. Or him. But it felt a lot safer to talk about Yvette and Lamont, so I

swallowed and explained what had happened.

“Sounds like she freaked him out.”

I cringed, unable to miss the obvious parallel. “I guess she did. So what do we do?”

He scrunched his face. “No more games or tests, that's for sure. Best thing now is brutal honesty. Have her tell him she paid you to help her hook up with him, and you gave her bad advice.”

“What?”

He held up a hand. “So she tells him she's sorry, and she really doesn't want to own him or be his girlfriend or anything, she just wants the chance to hang with him a little.”

“That's not the brutal truth.”

“You asked for something that might work.”

I studied his face. “And that would work on you?”

“If a girl I wasn't sure about was throwing herself at me?” he said, and shrugged. “And I got to choose between, say, going for coffee with her, hurting her feelings, or letting her put a collar around my neck? Coffee would be a no-brainer.”

I nodded, hearing him on numerous levels. Once again, he was coming through with good, sound advice. And in a similar situation, I'd have gone for the safest and kindest option, too—most people would. Plus, I supposed it was only fair for Yvette to make me out to be the bad guy.

Still, I couldn't help internalizing Dal's comments, wondering if he was sharper than I was giving him credit for, if he
was
tuning in to my new feelings for him.

Was he choosing the lesser evil with me, too? I mean, no way he was taking me over Marissa. Yet he didn't want to hurt me, either. So I remained forever . . . good pal Kate.

When I opened my mouth to respond, I knew full well the words were coming from my heart. “But would you ever—could you ever—start to like the girl?”

A group of people moved passed us, each of them saying some version of “Hi, Kate.” I tried to smile and nod, but it was really hard, considering I couldn't tear my eyes away from Dal's face.

“If coffee went well,” he answered, “if she wasn't too pushy. Yeah, it could happen.”

“Even if you were already going out with someone else?”

“What?” Dal's face tightened. “Lamont has a
girlfriend
?”

“No,” I said, and then laughed. Too hard. “I just meant hypothetically.”

“I don't know,” he said dismissively. “I can't even go there. I wouldn't encourage someone to pursue a crush on a person who was committed. That's just wrong.”

I tugged on my cap, sort of wishing it would cover my whole face and body. “Yeah, of course. I totally agree.”