Page 75 of The Pumpkin Spice Romance
Huffing at him in exasperation, Carrie handed it over and crossed her arms, tapping her foot while he thumbed through the $400 inside and read the note she’d written sloppily on the front: NEEDED STUFFING FOR THANKSGIVING PROJECT. THIS SHOULD COVER IT. SORRY. WILL PLAN AHEAD NEXT TIME.
She tried to snatch it back but he just laughed, holding it up out of reach.
“Give that back!” She reached and jumped for the envelope, only to find herself smooshed against one very nice, solid chest.
“Umm,” she said, realizing the position she was in. They were in. His free arm was wrapped around her waist and her feet were off the floor. She dropped her arm and suddenly it rested around his shoulders.
“No, please. Keep trying.” He raised his eyebrows at her. His aviators had slipped down his nose and she found herself drowning in those gorgeous Pacific blues. “I’m really enjoying this side of pretty, Miss Perfect, four-point-oh, shoulda-been Valedictorian Carrie Smith.”
He thought she was pretty? She felt herself blush and never was she happier to be wearing a mask. “I am not Miss Perfect.” She wiggled and he thankfully let her down. “Also, I got a three-point-nine-seven. Shane McMurray got Valedictorian.”All because of that stupid science fair project where she’d tried and failed to make cold fusion a reality in six weeks, while Shane had succeeded in proving there was iron in Total Raisin Bran. Not that she was still sore about it or anything.
Buck snorted. “Shane McMurray eats paint compared to you.”
Aw, she practically melted in her Keds. That was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her.
Then he looked at the envelope still in his hand and snorted a laugh, pocketing it.
“But you’re still Strait-laced Carrie.” She started to protest that assessment, but he cut her off. “We’re breaking and entering here,Cara. Rule number one: don’t leave evidence behind when you’re committing a crime. We could consider this my very reasonable consultant’s fee for not letting you be a dumbass.” He patted his back pocket. “However, if you’re good,” his smile was a charming warning, “I’ll give it back to you when we’re out of here.”
“I was just—”
He gave her a stern look that did something inappropriate to her insides.Geez, what was wrong with her?“That envelope has your handwriting and fingerprints all over it. Now, for lesson two, I’ll show you why you don’t need that get up.” He led the way to the office, very much like her own, and pulled the VHS tape out of the security system, tossing it into one of the shelving carts.
“There see? It doesn’t matter if the cameras see us. No recording. Like my uncle would say, bada bing, bada boom.”
“That’s smart,” she said, wishing she had thought of it. She took off the mask, tossing it in the shelving cart with the VHS tape.
“Anyway, come on Cutie,” he said. Together they stepped out into the dim, silent store. Carrie paused, looking around.
“Which way?” Buck whispered behind her, causing her to jump. He laughed, a low, husky sound.
“How am I supposed to know?” she whispered back.
“You’re the nerd girl. I thought craft and bookstores were your personal nirvana.”
It was true but, “That doesn’t mean I automatically know craft store layout.” He kept looking at her expectantly.
She huffed in exasperation. “Fine, take a cart and go left, I’ll go right. We’re looking for pillow stuffing. It’s probably near sewing.”
“Alright,” he agreed. “But first, hand over your cell phone. Come on, I know you have one.”
“Why?”
“So you don’t get any ideas and do something stupid.”
She hesitated.
“Or, I can just follow you and this can take twice as long?”
“Fine, here.” She slapped her prized Nokia into his outstretched palm. “I want it back though.”
He looked at the little brick of a phone in its faux leather case in disdain. “Once this is done, can you at least get something better? Like one of those new flip phones.”
“Sure, like I’m suddenly going to buy a thousand-dollar phone. That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.” Carrie shook her head. “Besides, if I were going to spend a bunch of money, it would be on a new car.”
“The ‘81 Pontiac isn’t cutting it anymore?” he asked with a grin.
“Earl was . . . very reliable,” protested Carrie weakly, surprised he’d noticed her car in high school, or remembered the boring, gray steel box that took days to get from zero to sixty. Her current Honda Civic was economical, but not much better. She sighed. “I’d get a 60’s Mustang maybe,notthe stupid ‘80s ones. Or maybe a late-model Porche 911, or . . . how much money are we talking here?”
