Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book) (9 page)

He shouldn’t even be on her mind in the first
place. Every time she tried to drag her thoughts away, though, they
boomeranged back.

The warmth of new embarrassment washed over
her. What had he thought when he saw her? She’d totally tripped
over her tongue. Completely lost her cool. But how could she not
when each time she saw him, he looked better? It wasn’t as though
there was a puzzle to figure out, though. He was at the mall. So
what? At the same time she was. No big deal. Moments after she’d
been transformed. And exactly when she ran into her ex.

“Coincidence. That’s all.” Nothing more.
Sure, he had mesmerizing eyes and a smile that sent her stomach in
somersaults. Yes, she wondered how delicious his full mouth might
taste. “I’m making too big a deal out of this.”

Sampson blinked, as though to say, “Why yes
m’dear, you are.”

All of it together was no more than simple
coincidence. Yet her mind kept trying to make it more. Over and
again. Like it had dropped some missing thread that would sew it
all up to make sense. She couldn’t name why. The drive home,
sitting around, in the bath. She turned the moments over, examining
the nuances. With every lift and look, each time, he became more.
More present. More there. In her life. As though he’d been there
the whole time and she only now noticed.

Destiny?

Brooke snorted, startling Sampson. He meowed
and readjusted.

When she stopped skipping and twirling down
fantasy lane, and blessed logic took her by the hand, none of it
fit. Correction. Didn’t
need
to make sense. How could he
possibly be there this whole time when he was at least ten years
younger than her anyhow. “Wait a minute. Only ten years?” she asked
Sampson. But her cat had closed his eyes.

No. Had to be more than ten because ten
didn’t sound all that bad.

Fantastical or not, the inexplicable feeling
of destiny, of a crossroads, clung to her, making her uneasy and
eager all at once. If they’d been alone, what would she have said
to him? Would she have lingered, flirted, waited for him to pursue
her again? Would she have given him a chance?

No. Impossible.

But he had looked so good. And those eyes.
She could die in those eyes. The way they looked at her,
into
her. They’d made her forget where she was. Who she
was.

Even now, her tummy trembled just thinking
about it. If she could explain it all, somehow, maybe then he
wouldn’t be so compelling. Maybe she could think straight. She
thought of those books. Of his hands proffering them to her. Of the
mischief in his grin. An imp’s grin. She envisioned him grading her
paper. Smiling. Shaking his head, no. Paper not good enough. She
wanted it to be good enough. Beyond a basic, competitive, teacher’s
pet drive to improve, to shine. This ran far worse. Brooke wanted
him to like her words. She wanted him to nod in agreement, to
highlight passages, to rub the cleft in his chin.

Cleft? When had she noticed that?

“Sheesh, Brooke,” she said aloud. “Get over
it! He’s too young. Much, much too young.” This was star student
syndrome on steroids. She had to get him off her mind. But how?
Brooke groaned. She wiped her face. All that make-up hadn’t been
easy to wash off, but now her skin could breathe. The water was
getting cold and her toes and fingers were wrinkled up. She
straightened her legs out. Had he noticed they weren’t shaved?
Well, they were now. They would be tomorrow. At the Book
Exchange.

Tomorrow! Of course. He would be there.
Wouldn’t he? Sloshing water, Brooke sat up. With an offended yowl,
Sampson left the bathroom.

Come to think of it, had he been there
before? Maybe. Either way, if he were smart, he’d show up, hoping
to catch her there. Another chance to chase her. He had to be
enjoying the pursuit.

It’s what she would do if she were trying to
gain a man’s attention—be present, around. It’s how she’d grabbed
Jason’s attention. Affection had soon followed.

Not that she wanted Elliott’s affections per
se.

The image of his lips joined the memory of
his breath, warming and tickling her skin. She rubbed her neck. She
couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed there, tickled
there. He would kiss her all over. Soft, wet kisses meant to
convince, meant to seduce.

But no.

Not alright. She wanted to see him. But she
had to have another reason to. Just in case this was all in her
head. “What’s a good excuse?” she asked her cat.

Sampson had no answer. But her brain was
working on one. If Elliott was the person who’d laid five not good
enough B minuses on her, then she could—should—find out why. And
why not? Why weren’t her papers good enough?

If he didn’t find her tomorrow, she’d go find
him and ask him. Simple. She’d look great doing it, too. Less
make-up, but new hair, styled to her taste. If it wasn’t too cold
out, her long skirt, slit in back for her calves to peek out.

Brooke clapped her hands together, sending
water droplets onto Sampson. He leapt up and ran out. She owed him
a treat for that one, if not for being the only breathing creature
she could bring herself to talk to about Elliott.

Once toweled off and snuggled into bed, she
reached for her last novel. Sampson circled her spare pillow then
lay down. “All men should give books instead of flowers,” she said,
stroking behind his ears. By the sound of his purr, he agreed and
forgave her previous insult. Of course, if a girl found the right
man, she might not need love stories. She might find them in a pair
of strong arms before drifting off to sleep. Pages unread.

~

Millie sharpened her gaze, making Brooke
fidget. “Are you alright today? You seem, what’s the word?
Agitated.”

“I’m fine. Perfect.” Brooke flung a hand
through the air and stilled her foot. “Just a lot on my mind. Work
stuff.”

She was so behind on orders, she’d be swamped
all weekend, but Millie didn’t need to know that. Might make her
ask why. And she was a terrible liar. Millie would know she was
lying. She glanced past her friend’s shoulder one more time.

Where was he?

“Brooke?”

“Uh-huh?” Her foot twittered back to
life.

“Brooke, did you hear a word I just
said?”

“Yes,” Brooke forced a smile and her
attention back to Millie. “I heard you. You are planning a dinner
party.”

“So, you’re in, then?” Millie’s eyes lit.

Brooke refused to frown, though. Or wonder
why. “Sure. I love dinner parties.” The entrance door moved in her
peripheral line of sight. Brooke counted to three, then looked.
“How formal are you going?”

“How formal?”

Any sign of Elliott? Nope. “Yeah, I mean,
will it be black tie? Or will there be dancing? A band?” Unless he
was hiding behind a stack watching her. Watching her watching for
him. The idea made her itch. She looked at Millie, who looked
perplexed.

“A dinner party has a band and black
tie?”

“Yes. If you want it to. Depends on the
occasion.” Brooke had a hard time believing Millie, for all her
airs on fashion and celebrity, had never been to a dinner party.
“You’ve never….” A navy coat caught her eye.

“I suppose I’ve been to one. They were
larger, and for charity, or art, or some other equally tiring need
for more donations, but I figured regular people—dinner parties,
went differently. More backyard barbeque style. No?”

Brooke shrugged. Simultaneously, she tracked
the navy jacket’s owner’s back, willing him to turn ever so
slightly to the right and kept her eyes forward, leveled on
Millie’s chin. “No. That’s not technically a dinner party. That’s
more for family, neighbors. Us regular people reserve dinner
parties for anniversaries, engagements, that kind of thing.” She
sent Millie a smile.

Millie’s cheeks tinged. She tapped her
forehead. “In a former life, Brooke, we would be getting massages
and pedicures over mojitos right now.”

Brooke chuckled. Her belly hummed and she
knew it before he turned full around, scanned the room and locked
onto her face. Elliott.

Millie recognized the instant Brooke switched
off. The moment was fleeting but the change was evident. Millie
almost turned around to see what caused Brooke’s freckled cheeks’
sudden flush. Deep down, she already knew. College boy. Mr. Elliott
screw her plans up. From the mall. Crap.

Brooke had that look all over again to her
from that day, too. Millie’s heart sank. Couldn’t Brooke see a guy
like him would only hurt her? Millie’d bet her fake Coach on it.
But she couldn’t see a way to stop it.

So she kept rambling. Not that Brooke
noticed.

The thing about making Brooke over last
night: Millie had felt like Kiki again. The rush of finding the
perfect dress. The simpatico between a hairdresser and a client.
Secrets and lies and gossip, miles from Rodeo Drive. She’d been
Kiki. Fabulous. Savvy. She’d accomplished something. Brooke had
looked breathtaking. If she didn’t get Brooke and Jason back in
love—no. She wouldn’t even acknowledge the possibility.

Millie adjusted in her seat, leaning in an
attempt to regain Brooke’s attention. Brooke should be sitting here
thanking her for an amazing makeover. Or asking where she’d managed
to find a black Prada dress in the middle of fashion forsaken Reno,
NV. This town’s mall was the seventh circle of designer hell.

Did Brooke thank her? Nope. Not once. She’d
hardly managed small talk. Her hair wasn’t even styled right.
Brooke should be ruffled from seeing Jason last night, old feelings
resurfacing, bringing the past back. Hoping for a future with
him.

Millie should have one bracelet on its way
out. With one more, finely executed run-in, this time including
sides of booze and romance, she’d clinch the deal. This time, with
AJ in tow to help her pheromone Jason up. AJ was a seasoned enough
cupid to master a good love potion. Millie’d only give him the
runs.

Millie looked over her shoulder. There
Elliott was. She groaned. Forget it. Brooke hadn’t a clue that she
sat gaping. The get-under-the-covers schmuck was spoiling her
mission. Yep.

Damn it.

In her former life, she’d have had
ammunition. Kiki would have had weapons ready. Anything from a
wicked glance beneath artful lashes to a commanding comment to
Brooke.

She missed being Kiki. She wanted her back.
She had to stop this. Now. Before some…some—whatever this was—got
out of hand and destroyed Brooke’s match. Brooke would be left
heartbroken. And Millie’d be stuck as a cupid for who knew how many
more years, with some other partner. No AJ.

Millie needed AJ. She couldn’t ever
technically have him but at least AJ would get her back to Kiki. At
least he made this sentence bearable. She needed to get back to
Kiki.

Searching her arsenal, only one idea stepped
up. Create a distraction. Millie drew her index finger to the edge
of her paper cup, cracked the lid open and winced. This actually
might feel good. Icy champagne down a billionaire’s trunks kind of
good. All she had to push was one little inch and--.

The paper cup toppled. The lid waffled like a
quarter. Warm, milky liquid pooled and sloshed onto starry-eyed
Brooke Munkle’s lap. Giving a small cry, Brooke stood.

“Oh crap! I’m such a klutz.” Millie joined
her. “I am so sorry. Here, let me get some napkins.”

She hurried to the counter for fistfuls of
brown paper and returned right in time to stop Elliott from donning
his cape and saving Brooke’s honor. Great. Maybe not such a
brilliant plan. She didn’t think the commotion would force him
over. But there he was.
Alert, alert. Damage control.
Fast.

“Hey there,” Elliott said to no one in
particular.

“Hi. Evan, was it?” Millie shoved past him.
“Excuse me, I just need to clean up my clumsy mess.”

He grinned but he didn’t move.

“That’s quite a mess,” Elliott said, his gaze
zeroed in on Brooke, who giggled, high pitched.

Brooke’s face was scarlet. “I’m all wet. I
mean…I…I…”

All wet? No, no, no, no. Millie stepped
between them and mopped, dabbing paper all up her friend and down
the table. “It’s my fault. I’m clumsy.”

Her mind clashed with implications. He was
looking at Brooke in one of those “only you” kind of ways and her
friend, sheltered and vulnerable as all get out, was slurping it
up.

How was she going to get rid of this guy and
steer Brooke’s mind back to what really mattered…Jason? Think,
Millie, think! What would Kiki do? Kiki would show some cleavage,
some leg, expose Elliott as an immature jerk. Unfortunately,
Millie’s B-cups didn’t drop jaws and these legs wouldn’t last three
strides on a New York runway.

She looked like the jerk. Not that anyone was
noticing.

“There,” Millie said. “All dried up. I
promise I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

Brooke stepped back and tucked her hair
behind one ear. “No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Nothing a little spot
treatment won’t fix.”

Elliott chuckled. What was funny? Millie’s
ears burned so bad, steam might start shooting out. A total loss.
Brooke stood there, grinning, toying with her sweater. Elliott
shifted his weight, glanced from Millie to Brooke, mostly to
Brooke. Was he waiting for some kind of invitation?

A small panic gripped Millie. Not this. If
she was wrong about Jason—no, she wouldn’t even consider it. She’d
seen the picture. Besides, guys like this weren’t the fall in love
type. She knew men, and Mr. Fling here was not true love
material.

“Do you need a refill, Brooke?” Millie asked,
grappling. “Looks like I do now.” Laugh. Neither cared if she was
in the room, let alone fighting to fill the silence, lest he say
the right thing and Brooke’s panties flew off right there in the
middle of the cafe.

“How are the books?” Elliott asked, moving a
file of papers on his hip.