The Winner's Game(23)
There’s an intersection five or six blocks from our house where our road crosses the busiest street in town. We take a right toward a long row of shops a couple hundred yards to the east. The first store sells nothing but kites and windcatchers; it’s fun to look around at all the bright colors and designs, but without Dad’s credit card there is nothing I could afford. Dad is pinching pennies to pay my bills, though, so I doubt he’d spend his money here anyway. Next to the kite store are a couple of old antique stores, followed by an art gallery and then a clothing store dedicated almost exclusively to swimsuits.
Finally we reach the candy store. As soon as I walk through the door, my mouth begins watering. My nose, meanwhile, is attacked by a blend of sugary goodness—giant shards of peanut brittle, truffles of every flavor, hand-dipped Oreos, at least fifteen different kinds of candied apples, and the largest assortment of fudge I’ve ever seen.
Once my senses get past the sweet smells, they move on to an even sweeter sight. A totally hot guy is standing behind the counter.
Be still, my fragile heart!
He’s wearing a brown apron, plastic gloves, and a paper hat on his head that doesn’t fully cover the wavy locks of hair hanging over his ears. Unfortunately, on second glance, he looks kind of jockish. You know, sporty. And sporty guys like sporty girls, but I’m not a sporty girl. Not anymore. In fact, I’m the opposite.
I’m a girl with an acute medical problem.
I’m a girl who sports could kill.
I’m a girl who can’t help noticing a cute boy when she sees one, but who knows darn well he’s not worth dreaming about, because he would have no interest in a girl like me. Not that I’m not attractive, because I can be totally cute too, when I want to be. But let’s face it, I have flaws…inside and out.
“Hey,” he says coolly after a few seconds, “what’s up?”
He speaks, I panic. He’s definitely a sporty, too-cool-for-girls-like-me kind of guy, but his voice is as cute as his hair. His words take hold of me, freezing me in place. The best I can do is give him a confused “are you talking to me?” sort of expression, followed by a feeble, “Uh…hi.”
What guy like that would want a girl with defects like mine?
I purposefully drop my eyes to the floor. Not that I don’t want to look at him. Only that I feel kind of uncomfortable with him looking at me. At some level, probably not too deep, I’m afraid of what he might see.
“If you guys are looking for good chocolate,” he continues, “you’ve come to the right spot. We make it right here at the store.”
“You make it?” asks Cade.
“Well, not me personally. But the owner and his wife come in at like five every day. The only thing they don’t make by hand is the taffy, but they buy that fresh each morning from a place in Seaside.” I can feel his gaze following me as I approach the glass display. “Where are you from?”
“The Portland area,” I reply softly without looking up.
“Cool. I used to live there too. Until my parents split a couple years ago and I moved here with my mom.”
“Oh.” I turn my back to examine the display of candied apples on the near wall.
“You just here for the day, or are you staying through the week?”
Since my back is to him, I figure he must be speaking to Cade, so I ignore the question for several seconds, but Cade doesn’t say anything either. When I finally turn around again, he is still staring at me!
My only move is to play dumb. “Oh, were you talking to me?”
“Who else?”
“My brother?”
“I could talk to him, I guess,” he says with a chuckle as he glances down at Cade. “Is your sister always like this?”
Cade shrugs. “Only when boys are around.”
“Cade!” I can feel my cheeks getting hot.
The boy snickers at my reaction, but stays focused on my brother. “Cade, is it? Well, Cade, is there anything that looks good?”
“All of it.”
“I know, right? Should I just box up one of everything for you, or is there something specific you’d like?”
Cade orders a single square of peanut-butter fudge and two mint truffles.
“Do you think your sister—What’s her name again?—Do you think she’s going to want anything?”
“Her name is Ann,” Cade tells him, tossing a quick glance my way. I’m sure I’m still multiple shades of pink. “And yeah, she wants something.”
Oh, that rotten little brat! The smirk on his face—and the way he says it!—makes it sound like the “something” I want has nothing to do with chocolate.