“Thanks, dude,” I hear a couple of times. He drags most of the attention in the place with him.
I turn my back, curl my shoulders inward, pray he doesn’t see me.
Howard returns, holding up an envelope. “Look me up after the ankle’s healed,” he offers. “If I haven’t filled the position, I’ll take you back.”
Hard to believe when there’s zero sympathy anywhere to be found in his expression. Besides, with campus only a mile away it’s unlikely this job will be here in the next thirty minutes let alone in six weeks. Plenty of able bodies around to fill my shoes.
“I had to dock your last check for the three days you called out sick.” He hands it over.
I take it from him with a heavy heart. I’ve finally hit bottom. There’s my sugar. My day can’t get any worse. I’ve officially lost my only source of income and I can’t even call my parents because they will stress, and in turn, I’ll stress even more.
A whiff of chlorine and laundry detergent tickles my nose. As I’m rubbing it, the sudden, obvious presence of a tall person standing much too close for comfort draws my attention to the left and up, up, up. Where I’m met by a set of blazing green eyes staring back at me. My attention falls to lips molded into a sulky frown.
My day just got worse.
“What?” is the only thing I can think to say under scrutiny so intense it could strip paint off a car.
“Hi, Reagan,” Josie says a bit too loudly, compelling both of us to glance her way.
“Hi, Josie,” he returns with a crooked smile.
My gaze skips between the two of them. Then takes a full lap around the joint to find a stifling amount of attention––mostly female––attached to the guy standing next to me.
Spare me. Fine, okay, he’s hot. No question. And maybe if my life wasn’t crumbling around me, I would be trying to stuff my panties in his mouth the same way Josie is clearly thinking about doing.
But these girls? I’m just going to say it––some of them look concussed. Josie included. I am almost one hundred percent certain I’ve never worn a concussed look over a boy and if I ever do somebody needs to slap me.
“Rea! Call me so we can make plans,” one of the glamour girls sitting in the corner shouts. She’s so perfect she looks Photoshopped.
Delete. Delete my prior claim. This guy is way out of my league. The only way my panties would ever get near his face is if he had a gushing head wound and I needed to stop the bleeding to save his life.
He gives Photoshopped girl an absent nod and returns to bore holes in my head with his hot stare. “You lost your job?” he asks with unmistakable concern in his voice.
It’s my turn to frown. “Were you eavesdropping?” The guilty look he gives me is all the answer I need. “Great.”
Now that my humiliation is complete, it’s time for a speedy departure. I hobble away from the counter, last paycheck firmly grasped in one hand, and push through a wall of guys. Members of the soccer team, judging by the uniforms. The inconsiderate jerks barely make room for the girl on crutches. I head for the exit with Reynolds on my heels.
The urge to ugly cry is strong and this guy is not allowed to watch. I’ve never been a fan of messy public displays of emotion and right now one is imminent.
“You’ve got that determined, stalkery look about you, Reynolds. Stand down,” I grumble under my breath and hear him chuckle.
“Determination is implied in stalking.” I stop and shoot a glare over my shoulder because…really? “You might want to use another adjective is all I’m saying.”
I blink. He smiles.
“How about annoying?”
“That works.”
In my haste to be gone, I bum-rush the door and almost lose my balance. My life has officially become a comedy of errors.
Thankfully, strong hands reach out and set me safely back on my feet––pardon, my foot––before I get a taste of the cement sidewalk. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome,” my stalker replies in a semi-amused tone.
A marine haze hugs the shoreline, making the overcast sky the color of opals. Something to be grateful for since I have to wait for the campus shuttle and I forgot to spackle on the SPF 50.
While I wait for a convertible Bentley with a surfboard sticking out of the back seat to drive by before stepping off the sidewalk, I sneak a side-eye and find Reagan staring straight ahead. I’m assuming he’s going to his car while I’m headed to the shuttle stop.
I am dead wrong. He’s a barnacle. A monkey on my back. Toilet paper stuck to my shoe. All the metaphors for shit you can’t get rid of. I pick my way between cars to reach the other side of the Malibu Mart parking lot with him riding my every step.