Page 17 of Outlaw Heartstrings
To start, I need to know what’s going on with her.
“We should catch up for drinks,” I blurt out.
“Dr-drinks…?” Her green doe eyes blink in horror at me.
Yikes. Big yikes.
I just asked Alba Anderson on a date. At least, I think I did. And she’s staring at me like I’m a two-headed alien whojust invited her for a spin around the galaxy in my rocket ship.
The teenaged version of me is in another dimension, shitting bricks right now.
Present day Easton? I swallow my nerves and push forward, as casual as can be.
“Are you free tonight?”
Before Alba can answer my question, I hear light footfalls running through the maze of bookshelves surrounding us. The footsteps are getting closer, moving straight toward us.
As I’m turning in the direction of the sound, I notice the shift in Alba’s expression.She’s frozen stiff now, her eyes wide and her face as white as a sheet. She looks terrified.
I’m about to ask what’s going on when a little voice calls out from the other side of the bookshelf. “Knock, knock…”
My brows pinch together as I stare at Alba. Tears fill her eyes as she forces on a smile. Her voice doesn’t sound like her own when she answers the kid. “Who’s there?”
My eyes swing to the little boy who steps out from behind the bookshelf with a joke book in his hand.
I look at him. He looks at me.
Then he starts yelling. “That’s Easton Raines! That’s Easton Raines!”
Wiping away the tear that has streaked down her cheek, Alba immediately steps toward the boy and stoops down to his level. “Bud, we have to use our inside voice. We’re at the library, remember?”
The child cringes, and I can’t help but feel bad for the little guy. “Sorry,” he whispers to Alba before looking up at me with big, starstruck eyes. “Mister, are you Easton Raines?”
I chuckle, staring at the kid.“I am. What’s your name?”
“I’m Jagger!” he exclaims, his volume rising all over again.
Jagger. A wave of relief swoops in so fast. I almost chuckle when I realize thatthisis Jagger.
The same Jagger that I was plotting to beat up the instant Alba uttered his name yesterday.
Turns out Jagger isn’t a boyfriend. He’s just a cute, little kid who can’t be more than six or seven years old.
“You’re my favorite hockey player,” the little guy rambles as he turns toward Alba. “We love watching you play hockey, don’t we? We never, ever miss a game. But I was really sad that you got injured.”
“Thanks, little man.” For some reason, my pulse starts to pound as I examine his face.
I can’t help the feeling that he looks familiar—with all that brown curly hair and a tiny dimple in each cheek—but I can’t put my finger on who he reminds me of. So I just smile at him.
“Can I have your autograph?” Then his eyes light up with excitement. “Can you sign my forehead? I’ve seen you do that on TV.” He jerks his little face in my direction, offering it up to be signed.
I bark out a laugh. He’s not wrong. I’ve signed my fair share of foreheads over the years.
But Alba cringes, stepping forward and trying to steer the boy back toward the aisle he popped out of. “Oh, I’d bet Easton is really busy, honey. And we’d better get going.”
I speak up fast. “I’m not busy. In fact, I have the whole summer ahead of me. I definitely have time to sign your autograph, little man.”
Jagger stares up at Alba, hands clasped over his chest. “Please…?”
