The Deal

“Capiche,” she grumbles before waltzing out of my room.

I chuckle to myself as I gather the rest of my shower supplies, but I’m sidetracked yet again—I’ve barely taken two steps to the door when a cat meows in my purse. The high-pitched wail is the ringtone I chose for text messages because it’s the only one annoying enough to get my attention.

I set my toiletry case on the dresser, rifle through my bag until I locate my cell phone, then scan the message on the screen.

Hey, it’s Garrett. Wanted to hammer out the deets re: tutoring sched.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I don’t know whether to laugh or groan. The guy’s tenacious, I’ll give him that. Sighing, I quickly shoot back a text, short and not at all sweet.

Me: How’d u get this number?

Him: Study grp signup sheet.

Crap. I’d signed up for the group at the start of the semester, but that was before Cass decided we had to rehearse on Mondays and Wednesdays at the exact time the study group meets up.

Another message pops up before I can respond, and whoever said it isn’t possible to detect a person’s tone via text was totally wrong. Because Garrett’s tone is full on irritable.

Him: If u just showed up to study grp, I wouldn’t have to text u.

Me: U don’t have to text me at all. Actually, I’d prefer if u didn’t.

Him: What’ll it take to get u to say yes?

Me: Absolutely nothing.

Him: Great. So you’ll do it for free.

The groan I’ve been holding slips out.

Me: Not happening.

Him: How bout tmrw night? I’m free at eight.

Me: Can’t. I have the Spanish Flu. Highly contagious. I just saved your life, dude.

Him: Aw, I appreciate the concern. But I’m immune to pandemics that wiped out 40-mil ppl from 1918 to 1919.

Me: How is it u know so much about pandemics?

Him: I’m a history major, baby. I know tons of useless facts.

Ugh, again with the baby thing? All righty. Clearly it’s time to put an end to this before he gets his flirt on.

Me: Well, nice chatting with u. Good luck on the makeup exam.

When several seconds tick by and Garrett doesn’t respond, I give myself a mental pat on the back for successfully getting rid of him.

I’m about to walk out the door when a picture message meows out of my phone. Against my better judgment, I click to download it, and a moment later, a bare chest fills my screen. Yep. I’m talking smooth tanned skin, sculpted pecs, and the tightest six-pack I’ve ever seen.

I can’t help but snort out loud.

Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?!

Him: Yup. Did it work?

Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!

Him: In changing your mind. I’m trying to butter u up here.

Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS—I’m posting that pic on my-bri.

I’m referring, of course, to MyBriar, our school’s equivalent of Facebook, which ninety-five percent of the student body is on.

Him: Go for it. Lots of chicks will be happy to have it in their spank banks.

Me: Lose this number, dude. I mean it.

I don’t wait for a response. I just toss my phone on the bed and go take a shower.





4




Hannah


Briar University is five miles from the town of Hastings, Massachusetts, which has one main street and only about two-dozen shops and restaurants. The town is so miniscule it’s a miracle I managed to land a part-time job there, and I thank my lucky stars for it every day because most students are forced to make the hour-long drive to Boston if they want to work during the school year. For me, it’s either a ten-minute bus ride or a five-minute drive, and then I’m at Della’s, the diner I’ve been waitressing at since freshman year.

Tonight I’m lucky and get to drive over. I have an arrangement with Tracy, one of the girls who lives on my floor. She lets me use her car whenever she doesn’t need it as long as I return it with a full tank of gas. It’s a sweet deal, especially in the winter when the whole area turns into a snow-covered skating rink.

I don’t particularly like my job, but I don’t hate it either. It pays well and it’s close to campus, so really, I can’t complain.

Scratch that—tonight I’m definitely allowed to complain. Because thirty minutes before my shift ends, I find Garrett Graham in one of my booths.

Seriously.

Does this guy ever give up?

I have no desire to go over there and serve him, but I don’t have much of a choice. Lisa, the other waitress on duty, is busy tending to a group of faculty members at a table across the room, and my boss Della is behind the baby-blue Formica counter dishing out slices of pecan pie to three freshman girls sitting on the tall swivel stools.

I set my jaw and march up to Garrett, making my displeasure obvious as I meet his twinkling gray eyes. He runs a hand through his cropped dark hair and flashes a lopsided grin.

“Hey there, Hannah. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah, fancy,” I mutter, yanking my order pad out of my apron pocket. “What can I get you?”