A Kiss Like This (5 page)

All thirty pounds of it.

At some point this weekend, Cubby stumbled through the door with it after a hockey victory party, lurched to the side, thanks to the five consecutive Jaeger bombs he’d consumed, narrowly avoided the porcelain Omega vase resting on an antique cherry wood table, and crashed into the wall instead.

Oh, wait.

I forgot the part where a sorority girl named Claudia was riding Cubby’s shoulders, and
she
was the one who actually smashed the trophy into the wall. You know, in case you were wondering why the fucking hole was
eight
feet up off the ground, and why I’d need a ladder to patch it in the first place.

So here I am.

Patching the wall.

I lean back, satisfied that the new drywall is even and flush to the wall, and climb down off the ladder to assess it from the floor. My head bobs once approvingly, and I flip my ball cap around so the brim is back in the front, fold up the ladder, and start hauling everything back into the basement of the house.

“You gonna be at the rink tonight?” One of my roommates, Weston McGrath, asks from his position in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter, making a giant sandwich as I pound up the back staircase in my heavy work boots, and licking mustard off his thumb as he watches me close the basement door then lock it behind me.

“Yeah, probably. But first I have to run back to the store and grab some sandpaper. I need to get that spackled hole in the foyer smooth before I can paint it.” I walk past him to the fridge and retrieve a bottle of water, twist the cap, and swallow half of it before turning back to face him.

Casually, I lean against the counter, surveying the mess he’s made as he slaps a giant blob of mayonnaise on two thick slices of bread, followed by cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, and chicken.

A few pickle slices, more lettuce, and some jalapeños.

Ham.

Condiments are all over the counter, and a head of lettuce has been wacked in half with a butcher knife I didn’t even know we had in the house.

He’s made a giant fucking mess, considering it’s just
one
sandwich.

And did I mention he’s only wearing underwear?

Weston lovingly holds up the sandwich like it’s the Stanley Cup, crushing it between his two palms so it will fit in his mouth, then takes a huge bite. Slowly he chews, making both moaning and groaning sounds as he does it.

It sounds like he’s on the receiving end of one fantastic blowjob.

“Dude.” I can’t help but laugh, stepping forward to snag a piece of chicken. “Sandwich can’t be
that
good.”

He wipes his mouth on his arm and grins.
“No, but it’s pretty damn close.” Lettuce falls onto his bare chest.

“If Molly heard you moaning, she’d be jealous.”

“Naw, my girl doesn’t get jealous. She knows she’s got this shit locked down,” he jokes, jamming the sandwich back into his face. He literally has to crush it against his mouth to take a bite.

I’m not really sure how to respond to that, so I cross my arms and wait for him to swallow. “What time you going tonight?”

He swallows before responding. “Er. Around six, I think. I can’t be out late. I have an exam tomorrow. We have that damn exposition game against Michigan on Thursday.” Weston shrugs. “I need more time on the ice than I’ve gotten in practice.”

“Yeah, alright. I can meet you there if you want me in the box.”

“You know…” His voice trails off and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Coach was asking about you yesterday.” Weston watches from the corner of his eye even as he takes the second half of his giant sandwich off the white dinner plate.

I nod slowly. Hesitantly. “Yeah? What did he say?”

“He just asked where your head was at, and if you’re ready for the season to start, because you seem so… out of it during practice. But he brought me into his office to do it, so you know it wasn’t just him being polite.”

No. Coach isn’t polite. He’s a colossal asshole.

I don’t respond, instead nodding again, bowing my head a little, and removing my ball cap briefly to run my fingers through my hair.

Wes shifts uneasily. “I’m not telling you this to pressure you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re all pumped for the new season to start, and we can’t afford to have you benched. Haggerty is a piece-of-shit goaltender, even for a second stringer, and everyone knows it.”

Yeah, I’ve noticed.

Zack Haggerty, the rookie goalie who subs my spot in the event of an injury, killed the team’s stats the one time last season I was out with mono, and I still can’t help feeling responsible.

“You know I’ve been busting my ass in practice. Of course I’m fucking ready for the season to start.” I shake my head, irritated. Just because I’m not like my obnoxiously extroverted teammates does
not
mean my head isn’t in the game.

“Six tonight, you said?”

He confirms with a nod, his shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes. Dude needs a haircut.

“Alright. Yeah, I’ll be in the net for you.”

“Sweet, thanks, Showtime.” He stuffs another hunk of bread in his gullet and swallows, extending the sandwich toward me. With a face full of mayonnaise and meat hanging from his mouth, he asks, “You want a bite?”

Shaking my head, I walk over and smack him on the back with a grin. “No way, man. I’ll catch you later, though.”

~ Abby ~

Why is it that every time you run into a store like Wal-Mart for something simple, you always end up finding
way
more stuff than you actually need?

You know what I’m talking about. Walking in to buy something—let’s use milk, shampoo, or paper towels as an example here—but end up spending fifty dollars on random crap that you had no need for. Or no intention of buying. For example, a new magazine, tank top, or that tube of onyx mascara you only bought because it’s never on sale and you finally get to save forty whole cents.

Yeah.

Balancing the pile of such random merchandise I’ve accumulated because I didn’t grab a cart on my way in, my frugality kicks in and, like the spendthrift I am, I begin putting things back on the shelves.

Since I’m technically only here for tampons, I put back the microwave popcorn, fuzzy socks, silver nail polish I will never actually wear, and a Blu-ray of
The Longest Ride
.

Actually, no. I
do
want The Longest Ride.

I add it back to my pile.

Meandering dutifully back to the feminine products like I had intended to do in the first place, I grab a hot-pink box of regular absorbency, scanning the tampon aisle one more time just in case I missed anything exciting and new.

I round the corner and start down the main drag, retracing my steps past the cosmetics, perfume, and the pharmacy, idly checking over every endcap and eyeing any packaging with metallic sheen that catches my attention—after all, that’s what the displays were designed to do, right? Entice me.

Well played, marketing people, well played
.

Like a sucker, I stand there scrutinizing everything like it’s my job, not because I need any more crap, but because I’m bored and in no hurry to return home to an empty house.

Standing in check-out lane
numero tres
, I study a display of candy, eyeballing a bag of assorted Tootsie Rolls and deciding that if I were to buy the whole bag (hypothetically, of course), I would eat all the blue-wrapped vanilla ones first. I’d definitely toss out the lemon ones—I mean,
who
eats the lemon ones? Who?

Lemon Tootsie Rolls? Come on now.

Get real.

Sighing, I mentally purchase half the chocolate candy bars on the metal shelves, a snack-size bag of Funyuns, and a roll of Mentos. It’s a rough life, but I’m muddling through.

Tapping the box of tampons clutched in my left hand listlessly against my thigh, I count the number of items the woman in front of me has stacked up on the counter. Let me tell you, it’s a lot of shit, which is annoying, since this is the Speedy Express ten-items-or-less lane.

By my estimation, the cheater has at least twenty-five items.

The cover of US Weekly catches my eye, and since I have nothing to do but stand here and wait, I grab the current issue and begin thumbing through, page after page, ignorant to the looming figure that has walked up to stand behind me.

Intently, I study page thirty-four. Sheesh, when did Brad Pitt get so dang old? My mom loves him. And seriously, have you ever seen the column,
“
Stars: They’re Just like Us”? Um, yeah, what America needs are photos of Luke Bryan pushing an entire shopping cart of French baguettes and beer in the Whole Foods parking lot. And the photo of Theo James filling his car tank with gasoline? I mean, please, do they really expect us to believe Beyoncé buys her own toothpaste?

Apparently.

I shake my head in disgust but continue flipping through it anyway. Then, over the top right-hand corner of the magazine, a pair of light-brown Timberland work boots shuffle, appearing in my line of vision and catching my attention.

Not wanting to be rude, I inch closer toward the conveyer belt so I’m not hogging up all the valuable aisle space, turning to shove the magazine back into the metal magazine rack on the endcap.

Finally! The woman in front of me begins digging through her purse for her payment and hands a credit card to the cashier.

Halle-freaking-lujah
.

With a jaunty flick of my wrist, I toss my unpaid box of tampons onto the conveyer belt, adding a last-minute pack of Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum that I’m suddenly in the mood to chew.

“That seems like an impulse buy. Are you sure you need that?” a deep baritone asks from behind me, and I flinch, startled.

I recognize the voice without even having to turn around, and wince, my body tensing up.

Cringing and wishing the ground would swallow me whole, I pivot slowly on the heels of my brown calfskin ankle boots, and paste a tight-lipped smile on my face that I’m sure looks as fake as it feels.

“Tampons are
not
an impulse buy,” I smart with authority, as heat singes my face. “They’re a necessity.”

“I meant the bubble gum,” Caleb deadpans in a deep voice.

Shoot. Me.
Now
.

As I face him, doing my best not to recoil like a wuss, a hundred impressions assault me: his height, his brooding expression, his rugged appearance.

His nearness.

Forging on, since we’re obviously hostage to this dead-end conversation, I ignore the apprehensive rolling inside my stomach. “So, how’s it going,
Showtime
?” I use air quotes when I say his nickname, then immediately regret it.

His face remains expressionless.

“Why, it’s going splendid,
Walk of Shame
. Thanks for asking.” I have a feeling he’d use air quotes too, but his hands are full.

Since mine aren’t, I narrow my eyes and boldly plant both hands on my hips. Then I remove them but let them hang clenched at my sides. “Please don’t call me that.”

Caleb just shrugs his broad shoulders and studies me from under the brim of his ball cap, his dark eyes scanning my figure before they dart to the conveyer belt, where my bright, hot-pink box of tampons rolls gradually—excruciatingly slowly—toward the scanner.

In a time lapse.

At a snail’s pace.

In slow motion.

The slowest conveyer belt in the history of Express Lane checkouts. Slap some glitter, lipstick, and a spotlight on that box, and we’d have our own Broadway play called,
Hello, cruel world! Abby has her period!

I draw in a breath, center on my core, and blurt out, “Are you stalking me?”

His hardened expression doesn’t waver. “Yup. And later I’m making a lampshade out of your skin.” His lips curve into a barely perceptible sneer, and he holds up several packages of heavy-duty sanding paper and a half-gallon of paint primer that he’s been clutching in his bear-like paws.

I twist my face into a grimace and roll my eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”

When it’s finally my turn, the gray-haired woman behind the counter greets me, her hawk-like gaze shifting back and forth between Caleb and me, a smile playing at her wrinkly lips. “You find everything okay, hun?” She smacks her gum.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I tensely shoot another frown at Caleb, who continues to regard me intensely, and swipe my debit card nervously through the digital card reader. Uncomfortable, I shake my head.
What is
with
this guy
?

“Do you want your receipt with you or in the bag?” The woman asks, extending the white slip of paper.

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be returning
those
,” Caleb smirks, the muscles beneath his unshaven jaw lifting his full lips into the slightest trace of a smile. As if abruptly remembering his faux pas, that phantom smile is wiped from his face, replaced by another scowl.

Now, that ghost smile may have disappeared, but not quickly enough, for in the middle of that unhappy mouth, below the flawlessly indented cupid’s bow of those full, rich lips, are a set of straight, snowy-white teeth. And among that set of straight, snowy-white teeth?

A gap.

A gap, set in the center of those very wolfish teeth, making its debut for a fleeting moment. I wonder if I only imagined it. Because,
guh!
A gap.

And I caught a glimpse of it.

Dear… Lord…

A
gap.

I freeze in place, holding the bag of feminine products and candy suspended mid-air, transfixed—struck dumb—by the sight of Caleb’s mouth.

He openly stares back at me, and the amused air of his expression grows surly in an
instant
, his mouth snapping shut like an angry crocodile’s. I actually hear his teeth lock down.

Even so, I continue my trancelike perusal of him, recognizing with horrifying clarity that I’m no better than any other warm-blooded female who’s ever lusted after our male counterparts solely based on physical attributes.

Attributes that will forever forward make me go weak in the knees… say stupid crap… stammer and stutter… agonize over my words.

Stare. Gawk. Daydream.