Page 41 of Heart Check
Dawson’s standing in front of my booth, holding two paper cups. His cheeks are flushed from the chilly air, and his eyes are fixed on me.
At least he’s wearing a hat today. It’s cold out.
We stare at each other for a minute. Did he turn up here by accident? Is he going to ask me about ignoring his call? Are things going to be super weird between us?
Or, worst of all, will he act like nothing happened and go back to being standoffish and aloof?
My chest is suddenly icy cold at the prospect.
He clears his throat and holds out the cup in his right hand. I grab it reflexively, the warmth heating my slightly numb fingers. Then the scent hits my nose, and I practically pass out from the rich, sweet smell of it. “Is this hot chocolate?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s fucking freezing. Thought you could use something to warm you up.”
“God, thank you. I’ve been trying to grab one since I got here,” I confess, taking a sip. It’s even better than I imagined.
Maybe because Dawson’s the one handing it to you,a tiny, sneaky voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Dawson’s cheeks turn a slightly deeper shade of pink. His eyes linger on my face as I take another sip. Then he blinks hard, those thick lashes brushing his cheeks, shaking himself out of some kind of trance. “I’m looking for some gifts? And I heard there was this super talented jewelry maker here?”
“Let me know if you find her.”
He doesn’t laugh at my self-deprecating joke, doesn’t look away. As if he’s insisting on me owning this business the way he knows I do on the inside. I never should have told him how much it meant to me—that whole party was a mistake—
But I have to admit, not a lot of people take me as seriously as he does right now. Even the girls at school who liked my stuff before I became public enemy number one always just thought it was cute or whatever. They didn’t respect me as a businesswoman.
I flush under his scrutiny. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Your favorites, please,” he says without missing a beat.
I take another sip of hot chocolate in my attempt to notpass out. Dawson’s here, taking me seriously. Seeking my advice. From the start, he’s challenged me to show him why what I do matters. Maybe I used to show him from pure spite, resentful of the attention and resources he got from the rest of the school. But after the other night, when he started listening to my rants, I don’t feel like I’m trying to prove him wrong anymore.
Now, it’s more like I’m trying to prove us both right.
“Well, this line of necklaces is new… but I’m proud of this series, it’s a bestseller….”
He follows me around the booth as I point out each of my selections. I’m hyperaware of him peering over my shoulder, so close heat radiates off him like the gigantic furnace of a hockey player he is. This close together, that musky, spicy boy scent of him envelops me like a cloud.
What is it they say about scent? That it’s the most strongly connected to memory? I would’ve bet money that it was the sight of him—broad shouldered in a stupidly attractive peacoat, hair spilling out from beneath his beanie, tiny smile on his lips—but nope, that scent takes me right back to the fridge, the couch.That’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled.
My cheeks are aflame, the combination of the mortifying memory and the unexpected presence of him way too much for my poor nervous system. I can only hope he blames it on the cold, because I’m not sure I’m going to survive this interaction.
Dawson grabs one of my birthstone necklaces, seemingly oblivious to my inner panic. “You think Lindsey would like this?”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. “Oh, yes. The garnet will be nice with her coloring too.”
He casts me a smirky sideways glance. “Are you just saying that because you want to make a sale?”
I smirk back. “Does it matter? Be honest, you have no idea what you’re looking for. You’d follow my recommendation no matter what I said.”
Something in his expression shifts, and he takes half a step forward. “You’re right. I know when I’m out of my depth.”
Suddenly the air between us is thick with tension. He doesn’t seem to be mad at me for ignoring his call. What does that mean? Did Friday night mean anything to him? Has he been thinking about me at all? Surely him randomly showing up here is a sign that he has been. My pulse suddenly races, my hands turning clammy around my cup of hot chocolate. This isLuke Dawson, and I’m… me! Harper Braedon, public enemy number one, hockey hater, occupier of the social outskirts.
Somewhere deep down, I know I should just talk to him. It’s not so hard to ask a simple question, and I’ve never exactly been shy and scared.
But what if I got it all wrong and embarrass myself by bringing it up? Being on the outskirts is fine as long as I don’t dare to expect more. That would be too humiliating.
I clear my throat and take a half step back.
