Page 28 of Body Check
Bridgette
When I walk out of the salon at the end of my shift, I find a devastatingly handsome man waiting for me. He’s leaning up against his car, his stance relaxed and casual, though his face is anything but. Dutton’s resting bitch face really is textbook, and even though I know what a softie he can be, it’s clear by the set of his jaw that something is bothering him.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I tell him, happily surrendering to the hug he offers. “I could have walked to my place, or even over to yours, though. You didn’t have to drive down here.” I really do like the walk because it always gives me a chance to unwind after a long day. I love being a stylist, and I love my business classes, but sometimes, by the time I’m ready to head home, my head is swimming and I need to recharge. Walking back to my dorm is a good way to clear my head, but I suspect Dutton has other methods that will do the trick, too.
He shakes his head, waving off my protests. “This way I get to see you sooner. Besides, I thought we could drive over to this place in Murraystown. I hear they’ve got good milkshakes.”
I find myself smiling, which is something I do a lot around Dutton James. “Milkshakes, huh? Do they come with whipped cream?”
He mutters something to himself as he unlocks his car doors, then turns back to me. “Hell, yes, they do. I’m a changed man. You got me hooked on the stuff and now I need a fix.”
Laughing, I take a seat in his car and buckle myself in while he closes my door and rounds the hood before taking the seat next to me. “I’m so glad you’ve seen the light. And if the only way to satisfy you is to get some whipped cream into your system, then who am I to stand in your way? Let’s go to Murraystown, wherever that is.”
Instead of turning the ignition or typing the location into his GPS, though, he just grips the steering wheel.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. We’ve only been together for a week, so I don’t know him all that well yet, but anyone could see he’s tense, but trying his damnedest to push past it.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Everything’s great. I actually have a funny story to tell you.”
“Really?” I ask, totally failing to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Yes, really. It’s hilarious. You’re going to laugh so hard.”
His monotone delivery does little to convince me to believe his words are true. “Okay…” I say, drawing out the word like I’m handing him a cue and waiting for him to take it.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says, offering me half a smile. Well, it’s half a grimace, really, but I’ve spent enough time with him to know this is his joyful look.
“You’re not exactly known for your stand-up routine, so I’m a little leery,” I admit, setting my bag near my feet on the floorboard. The car’s not even on yet, much less moving, and that’s another sign that something’s up. From what I observed in the last week, when Dutton James wants something, he goesafter it with everything he has. So if he’s set his mind on a milkshake—and an evening with me—it makes no sense that we haven’t left the parking spot yet.
“Fair,” he agrees, turning to face me. “But no, this is wild. Seriously. You are gonna laugh so hard. So, you know how we said goodbye at the library earlier today? Well, my buddy was there waiting for me. My best friend.”
“Okay,” I say, even though nothing is okay because I have no clue where this hilarious story is going.
“And he recognized you. How crazy is that?” Dutton asks, the words sounding forced.
“He knows me from the salon?” I ask. Since I’m the new girl, I don’t have much of a client list built up yet, so I take a lot of walk-ins. It’s entirely possible that I cut his buddy’s hair at some point over the last few days.
He clears his throat again, sounding unsure. “No…uh…okay, let me try again. So…I think I know your brother.”
“Bran?” I ask, even though it’s a dumb question. Unless Dutton’s student-teaching a fourth grade class in New Jersey right now, in addition to earning his business degree, there’s no way he knows my little brother, Brody.
“Yep,” he answers, his mouth tight as he drums his fingers on the dashboard.
I shouldn’t be surprised. “Everybody knows Bran,” I explain. “He plays hockey for the school. And he’s like, the friendliest guy ever. How’d you meet?”
“Hockey,” he answers, still drumming along to a silent beat.
“You’re a fan?” I ask, feeling like I’m dragging each answer from his brain.
He nods, staring out the dashboard. “Yep. Big fan. My favorite team is the Bushtits from Woodcock U.”
I can practically feel my eyebrows recede into my hairline. Is he trying to get me riled up? “Boooo,” I jeer. “We hatethem. Seriously. There are some guys on that team my brother despises. Well, they actually transferred, I think, so now they play for Bain—” I stop midsentence because pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t even aware of are starting to fall into place. I’m looking right at them, how their curved edges align perfectly, but I don’t want to move them into position. I don’t want to solve this puzzle. “No,” I say, letting that one useless little protest fall out of my mouth and float around us.
“Yep,” he says, still nodding.
“No,” I counter, and even though I know it’s futile, the hamster on the wheel in my brain is running furiously, trying to find a way for all of this to make sense. “You can’t be. I know their names. I’ve even seen them play and trash-talked them the whole time. They’re Blue Halliday and Dick Wagner.”
“Dick Wagner?” he questions, the barest trace of amusement stealing across the features of his otherwise somber face.
