Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book) (2 page)

“No, thank you. I think you dropped this back
there. It fell out of your pocket.”

Jenny’s eyes widened and she shook her head,
but before she could refuse the money, Brooke hurried away. She
pushed through the bookstore’s front doors, sighing at the cool air
on her hot cheeks. By the look of things, Jenny could use twenty
dollars more than Brooke right now. The girl’s pregnant belly was
getting bigger every week and if she had someone to look after her,
she’d be wearing better shoes. She’d be in school, rather than
working next door to one.

Peacoat buttoned, Brooke dug for her cell
phone. She dialed Millie, inhaling the crisp air deep into her
lungs.

Voicemail. Of course. “Millie, it’s Brooke.
I’m going to class now, but please call me when you get this and
leave me a message so I know you’re alright. Don’t worry about my
paper. I’ll have someone else read it before Shope arrives or…
something. I suppose we can meet up on a day that’s better for
you.”

Brooke snapped the phone shut, satisfied with
her speech and tone. If Millie didn’t get the real message from
that, she wasn’t as smart as Brooke thought. This time, Brooke
couldn’t ignore it. Late for dinner or a movie, forgivable. On its
own, today’s no show amounted to little. Things happen. But the sum
total of Millie’s habit went beyond rude. Millie needed to know. If
talking to her didn’t stop it, not making plans with her anymore
might.

She’d be risking a fight with her only friend
since the divorce but, hey, she had Sampson and he was the better
listener of the two anyhow, furballs or not. It was settled then.
Brooke took another deep breath.

The snow piled lawns gleamed white in the
afternoon sun. Sidewalk salt crunched under her boots, joining her
stride’s rhythm. She matched her breathing to it and her mind
unwound. She walked and she fantasized. Which of the five novels
could she go back for next week, a few more weekend eBay store
sales in her business bank account? The highland Scottish romance
tugged her heart first. The cover had hooked her. Clinch hold,
golden abs. Surreal and delicious. Hmmm. Maybe. The suspense by an
author she trusted tempted her too, though, while she really should
select the women in business self help book.

“Excuse me, miss?” a voice called in the rear
distance. “Miss?” Brooke glanced past her shoulder. “Wait up a
moment?”

Blue Eyes loped her way, hand waving,
eagerness bounding on each step. Brooke half tripped, then stopped.
Her breath jammed in her throat. He was carrying all five books
she’d left behind. Oh no! Had he assumed…?

He came to a halt before her, breathing fast
puffs of steam. “You left these.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Brooke said and smacked
her forehead. “I—I was only looking at them. I hadn’t bought those
yet. You see, I didn’t have time and I hadn’t gotten through them
all to decide which one I could—I mean wanted, and….” She breathed
in. “I think you might have just stolen those.”

“Stolen?” He pushed his glasses up. His smile
widened.

This amused him? “Yes, stolen. As in robbed?
Shoplifted? I always leave the books I don’t want. Jenny insisted
it’s alright to—.”

“Jenny?”

“Jenny, yes, the barista? She says she likes
to look at what peop—.”

“Barista?”

Her hands flapped. “Yes. The waitress. Jenny.
She likes to put them back, to see what people look at and
imagine—but none of that matters. You have to take them back.” And
remove himself before she fell face first over her runaway tongue.
Of all the times. She did not need this right now. “I would do it
myself, but I’m late.”

Cheeks on fire, she turned on her heel. She
didn’t need to look to know Blue Eyes had not run straight back to
the bookstore. He followed her. Of all things. Well, not so much
following as catching up and joining her. Joining her? Oh dear.
When security tackled him to the ground, knocking the thieved
novels from his grip, she would be assumed his accomplice. What
should she do? Run?

Her cell phone rang to the rescue.

“Hello,” she answered, too grateful to check
the caller ID. She didn’t care. She’d answer even if it was her
dad. Guilt ready, neglectful daughter complaints handy, he’d be
saving her from three scoops of embarrassed with a
very
on
top.

“Hey, Brooke. You busy?” Oh, thank God.
Jason, her ex-husband.

“No. I’m not busy.” She glanced meaningfully
at her sudden companion.
Bad boy. Go home.
“Not busy at
all.”

Blue Eyes chuckled, eyes twinkling.

If not for it being bright daylight and a
busy sidewalk, she’d consider screaming rape at the top of her
fluttering lungs. “What’s up?” she asked Jason instead and sent
Blue Eyes a flat-out glare.

Blue Eyes shook his amused head.

“You sure?” Jason asked. “You sound funny.
Out of breath. I didn’t interrupt anything interesting, did I?”

Interesting? Not in the way he was
innuendo-ing.

“No!” She cringed. Too loud. “No. I’m fine.
Just, just walking fast is all.”

“Oh, you’re at the gym. Sorry. I’ll keep this
short.”

No! Keep it long.
She needed at least
five more minutes to avoid one cheeky grin and five hot books.
Either the cold air or the fast pace was making her feel a little
drunk. “What’s up?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, of course, Jason,” she said, another
meaningful glance attached. “What do you need, Babe?”

“Did you just call me ‘Babe’? Okay, you know
what? I don’t want to know. It’s no longer any of my business. I
just called to get your friend Millie’s number.”

“What?” Brooke halted, Blue Eyes forgotten.
“Why do you need Millie’s number?”

“Because she called me ten minutes ago and
didn’t leave her number on her voicemail. And her number showed up
blocked.” Keys jingled in the call’s background. “You didn’t have
her call me?”

“No.” Why on earth would she ever have Millie
call her ex-husband?

“No? Hmm. I thought it might be something for
you. A favor you need. Or a business referral, maybe. I don’t know.
Either way. I don’t have her number. So?”

She resumed walking, picking up her pace.
“So, what?”

“So, what is it?” he said on an empty
laugh.

Jason probably enjoyed this. She could just
imagine him, standing outside a meeting, tossing his keys and
catching them. Smirking. Not only might her friend need him,
possibly for business, but Brooke didn’t know about it? She could
almost hear him lick his damned chops.

“I don’t know it off the top of my head. And
I’m running late.” Like she’d actually give him Millie’s number,
like she’d actually called. “She probably just needed me, my home
number or something.” Yeah right. But better than any other
explanation. “If not, I’m sure she’ll call back.” Not unless Brooke
found out why she’d called him in the first place.

“If you say so. I’ll let you get back to your
workout.” He hung up.

Brooke wanted to kick something. Damn him.
She wasn’t sure what she had to be kicking about. Technically,
Millie calling Jason violated nothing. They’d been amicably
divorced for over a year now, and she’d filed in the first place,
not him. Her shoulders sagged.

He’d won all her other friends in the
settlement with his poor me tactics. He couldn’t have Millie,
too.

“Maybe these will cheer you up?” His voice
softly teased too close to her ear. She jumped.

She’d forgotten he was there. Wait a minute,
why was he still there? Before she could demand exactly that, he
hopped into her path and presented her with the stack of stolen
novels. If shoving them at her and forcing her hands to hold them
counted as presentable, that is.

“They aren’t stolen,” he said and grandly
bowed. Laughter danced in his expression.

“I—I can’t take these—what?” Brooke didn’t
know what to do.

The afternoon sun lit his chiseled features.
“They aren’t stolen. They’re a gift.”

He ended his bow with a flourish, then strode
away, leaving Brooke speechless for no less than the fourth time in
her entire thirty
-
she-wouldn’t-admit-something life. Worse,
she couldn’t possibly remember when the other three had been.

Chapter Two

Even if Michelle hadn’t taken up lounging in
Shope’s office’s narrow couch like she owned the thing, Elliott
Jovovich would be distracted. For a moment, he gave up on the stack
of papers in front of him. He couldn’t read the words because his
mind kept replaying the scene in the quad from two hours ago.
Her
. He wished he knew her name. Every cent he’d spent on
those books had been worth the look on her face.

Michelle loudly adjusted her long limbs on
the vinyl.

The sound grated his nerves. “Shouldn’t you
be in class, Michelle?”

“I won’t be missed,” Michelle said and
examined her nails. “I just couldn’t handle it tonight. Why do they
even bother scheduling Friday classes anyways?”

“Professor Shope says it weeds out the less
serious students,” Elliott replied absently. Honestly, he couldn’t
think of a time he’d bought a woman flowers, let alone did
something so gutsy as buy a stranger--one clearly uninterested--a
pile of books that practically screamed “single”.

Michelle scoffed. “Uncle Bernie has no
idea.”

“No idea?” It was romantic, wasn’t it? His
gift? Yet she’d dismissed him so readily. At least she had looked
stunned. Served her right.

“My friend Beth is in his Friday class and
she does absolutely nothing but doodle. She swears that if it
wasn’t required and the only open session left…” Michelle rolled
her eyes. “Are you even listening?”

Not at all. “Sorry, I’m distracted. I just
have a lot of work to do, Michelle.” First, she had nearly run from
that café table. And to think he’d sat down to rescue her from her
obvious anxiety. “Shope expected these back last week.”

Michelle’s eyes rolled again and she resumed
her nail examination. He wished Michelle would leave. “I’ll be
quiet.”

Maybe he’d ask Michelle what she thought of
his gesture. Putting those five books in her hands, remembering her
jaw dropping, her eyes blinking rapid fire, was mending his bruised
pride. Yet, he’d intended a different reaction. Elliott refocused
on the stack of mediocre history papers but couldn’t help himself.
He chuckled. He
had
rendered her speechless.

”What is it?” Michelle sprang up. “Is it a
funny one?”

Elliott scooted his chair in. “No. Just
thought of something offhand. Sorry.” He returned to reading the
paper in his hand. Michelle loomed closer. The desk pinched against
his chest.

Like an idiot, he kept thinking about
her
. Her reaction. Her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, too
sexy. Speechless and so sexy. He couldn’t even get his head
straight enough to ward off Michelle Shope?

“So, what’s so funny then?”

Elliott smelled Michelle’s sugary perfume. He
kept his eyes forward. “I really need to get this work done.”

Michelle sighed and slunk back to the sofa.
Out the door would have been too lucky.

Elliott sighed too. And tried again to read.
Half a page later, he thought of five snappy things he could have
said two hours ago. To render her even more speechless. Speechless
enough to be unable to fake some phone call affection like she had.
“Babe,” she had said. Irritation itched his neck. He rubbed at
it.

Not that she was the kind of woman who needed
to say much. Watching her from across the Book Exchange cafe for so
many weeks, he knew. One arch look and people bolted off her path.
Intriguing when contrasted against her true self. Whenever her
friend arrived, her chilly façade would fall. She’d relax and a
light from within would again draw him in. The icy exterior melted
to reveal warmth, compassion. Today, she’d sat waiting. Elliott had
found himself uncomfortable seeing her fidget and tense. Wasn’t
hard to figure out. Her friend had stood her up. He’d started
feeling the minutes slog by, began scanning the room, right along
with her.

“We should get a beer,” Michelle said.

“Hmm?” Today, he’d told himself he’d sit
down, make a little conversation, put her at ease. Her friend would
show, he’d leave. At ease? Anything but. Had he been wrong, or
what?

“A beer,” Michelle repeated. “You know, icy
cold adult beverage served worldwide but especially past five?”

His dad would call it moxie. In Elliott’s
twenty-six years, never had he seen such an illustrious example,
either. Moxie. Like his mother. Or so his dad always claimed. His
mom had preferred “spirited”.

“I don’t know.” He shuffled to the last page
in his hand. “Maybe another time, Michelle.”

She sighed raggedly, stood and roved to his
side. She rubbed his temples. Elliott shifted away. Dropping her
hands with a smack to her jeans, she went for the door.

“I’ll be back,” she said in a mock horror
movie voice.

Elliott pushed his chair back and stretched.
This was going nowhere. He needed a shave. He needed to eat. Maybe
then his eyes would focus on the words and actually compute
them.

He should have stuck his phone number inside
one of those books. Nah. She wouldn’t call. Better to just make
sure she saw him again and throw her a wink. Wait it out and make
her come to him. He’d made an impression. That was enough for now.
He went to the outside vending machine. He slid his last dollar in,
watching the steam of his breath in the lamplight.

A beer did sound good. One with Michelle, not
quite as good. Had to be careful not to insult her, though. Uncle
Bernie might decide to toss Elliott’s fellowship application aside
for one brokenhearted niece. Did he have any beer at home?

He made his selection and watched it drop,
his attention more on the reflection in the glass than the
contents. The outside courtyard stood dark and empty behind him,
the campus sat quiet. It would be another week before the routine
visit to the bookstore cafe. He should have followed her this
afternoon, or at least tried to figure out which building she’d
been heading to.