fell, landing square on her arse with a strangled little sound that made his heart sort of… stutter. Like when a car jolts over a pothole in the road. And suddenly, the anger Nate had managed to soothe with his rainy walk burst back to life, burning brighter than ever.
Who the fuck would push a girl? A little girl, for that matter? Hannah Kabbah, for all her sharp glares and superior attitude, was basically a tiny ball of fluff. Like a kitten. A newborn kitten that couldn’t quite open its eyes yet.
Nate did not like boys who stepped on kittens.
So he marched right up to Lee Beech, who was two years older and a foot wider than him. He met those cruel, smug eyes with his own. And when Lee sneered, “What the fuck do you want?” Nate answered by punching the bastard in the face.
For a moment, things moved as if in slow motion. Lee staggered back, clutching his nose, face slack with shock. Nate thought, for a moment, that things might end there. That he’d turn around, grab Hannah and Tinier Hannah, and they’d all leave.
But then a savage sort of roar went up, and Lee’s friends charged. They surrounded Nate all at once, like a wall of lanky teenage violence, and he had just enough time to think Ma’s gonna throttle me for this before the fight began.
Nate went home early that day with two black eyes, a dislocated shoulder, and a week’s worth of detentions.
And Hannah Kabbah—unbeknownst to him and much to her own discomfort—went home with a crush.
1
Ruth: Evan wants to know if you’re coming over for dinner.
Hannah: Aren’t *you* supposed to invite me to dinner? Since you’re my sister and everything?
Ruth: Do you want his fancy triple-fried chips or not??
As soon as the woman said, “Excuse me,” Hannah knew there would be trouble.
Maybe it was the way her razor-sharp bullshit-ometer shrieked like a newborn. Maybe it was her years of experience working with kids, AKA masters of pushing their luck and shirking responsibility. Whatever the reason, Hannah’s muscles tensed and her smile froze into place before she’d even turned to look at the customer. The customer who, according to her instincts, was about to try some nonsense.
It was the four-chai-tea-lattes-thanks blonde from five minutes ago, said chai lattes sitting on the counter in front of her. She pushed her honeyed fringe out of her eyes with a hand that bore a rock the size of Gibraltar. Then she tapped the counter impatiently with one French-manicured claw, just in case the solar flare coming off that ring wasn’t enough to alert Hannah to her presence.
“Can I help you?” Hannah asked sweetly, knowing very well that her patience was about to be tested. For the ninth time that day.
God must be punishing me for staring at Emma Dowl’s arse in church last week.
“I didn’t order these,” the woman said. “I wanted plain lattes. Not chai.” She spoke with such casual confidence, Hannah almost forgot that she was lying through her expensive teeth. But that blip of confidence passed quickly as Hannah’s memory whirred to life.
“No,” she said pleasantly. “I gave you exactly what you ordered. You came in…” she glanced up at the clock. “Seven minutes ago. You waited in the queue behind two other people—an older gentleman who ordered a teacake for his wife, and the gentleman in the suit who had a double espresso to go—and when it was your turn you ordered four chai lattes, double shot in two, caramel syrup in the others, one of the double shots 20 degrees cooler. I charged you £14.95, and you paid with a black Santander Select.”
The woman stared blankly at Hannah for a moment, like a robot forced to recalibrate. Then her pretty face twisted into an unattractive scowl, and she spat, “I don’t appreciate the way you’re speaking to me.”
Hannah maintained her calm smile and pleasant tone. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She should keep her mouth shut and make the damn lattes. Again. But she’d been at work for eight hours, and she’d spent the last three manning the café alone. They were ten minutes from closing. Her shoes pinched and her uniform culottes—yes, culottes—dug into her hips awfully, because she’d gained weight again and the damned things didn’t come higher than a size 16.
Frankly, Hannah was Not in the Mood.
Apparently, neither was Ms. Latte. She huffed so hard, her fluffy, blonde fringe fluttered. Then she deployed the seven most dangerous words