Page 21 of The Tattered Gloves
“YOU’RE LATE AGAIN, Mittens,” Sam announced.
I nearly fell through the door, huffing and puffing from my quick sprint across town. I didn’t bother responding. He’d said the same damn thing to me every day this week.
How he managed to beat me here, I had no idea. I was starting to believe he had superhuman powers.
Giving him a death stare, I proceeded toward the back stockroom, intent on dropping off my backpack. Sam, of course, followed.
“I need you to order a few things today. Oh, and some reshelving needs to be done also.”
“Got it,” I muttered, trying my best to ignore him.
In my new small world of Sugar Tree, Sam Shepherd had become the bulk of all things annoying and bothersome. Everything about that boy set my teeth on edge. The fact that he never, ever seemed to lift a finger in this place, instead disappearing into the back to do God knows what, made my blood boil. That stupid smirk he wore whenever he spoke to me. And then there was the nickname.
God, I hated the nickname.
Mittens.
What was worse was the fact that the nickname had worked its way into my school life as well.
During History, a class we unfortunately shared together, Sam had walked up to me, sly smirk in place, and asked, “Mittens, do you have notes on yesterday’s class? I was detained.”
A couple of his buddies had snickered behind him.
Detained?
More like skipped class.
Jerk.
“You’ve got a real problem with me, don’t you?” Sam asked.
I’d just dropped my backpack on the floor of the stockroom, ready to jump into the stacks of books that needed to be shifted around for today, when I found him still leaning against the doorframe.
“Excuse me?”
“I think I should be the one offended here,” he responded, evidently picking up on my tone.
Making a nonverbal shrug, I tried to ignore him, digging into the first couple of books with gusto.
“No, seriously, I want to know. You’ve been nothing but rude to me since the moment we met, and I have no idea why. Did I offend you in another life?”
Standing up tall, I met his dark green eyes.
“Look, you’re just not my type of person, okay?”
His face scrunched in a mixture of shock and amusement. “Really? And what kind of person is that exactly? Since you seem to know me so well.”
I sighed, really hating this conversation. While Sam didn’t intimidate me like most male figures, I tried to avoid confrontation at any cost.
Scratch that.
I tried to avoid conversations or talking at any cost.
“It’s not a big deal.” I tried to downplay my previous statement. “You and I are just complete opposites. We come from different worlds. And, believe me, I know your type; you don’t like me much either.”
A flash of something blazed through his irises. “You know my type? That’s interesting. And how did you work this all out, oh wise one? From the handful of conversations we’ve had?”
“I just know, okay?” I pressed on, my gloved hands running up the fabric of my shirt in discomfort.
