from him. It’s not a Southern saying—wait, yes! Buddy the Elf!
I grab my phone from my purse. Dang, this is so perfect! Just what I need for the photo/video bingo challenge we have going in the journalism grad department. It’s going to be hard to top someone’s pic of Professor Whitley getting his bum attacked by a goose on the quad yesterday (excellent for the Animal Attack on Campus category), but a woman-wrangling athlete quoting Buddy checks the Likes to Quote Will Ferrell box. Gah, I just might win!
Normally, I wouldn’t be so motivated to win the pool, but the prize is five hundred dollars and this girl needs new tires. Not only that, my poor car is falling apart, overhead lights winking off and on, the motor sputtering at every stop sign and red light. I’m driving on a prayer. The newspaper isn’t paying me for the internship, and my catering jobs are scarce. It would be nice to have extra money and not worry about depleting my meager savings.
Scrambling around in my purse, I finally find my phone and yank it out, only I stumble over a crate of pumpkins—Why are they out in August?—and my cell flies out of my hand, landing under the refrigerated fish section ten feet away. Dashing over, I bend down, butt in the air, I don’t care, and snag it. Phone clasped tightly, I jerk up to my feet—Success!—but Mr. Hot Pants and his entourage have vanished.
I blow out a breath.
Shoot.
Then I smile.
2
“Where are the blasted Oreos?” I say loudly enough to get his attention. My hands plant on my hips (just like his did earlier) as I check then re-check the shelves. “Usually, they’re next to the Nutter Butters,” I tell the strawberries in my cart. It’s sad that my friends are either produce or my family.
“You missed out,” says a deep male voice behind me. “So good, right? They’re my favorite. I mix up how I eat them. The first bite, I nibble, then the next one I take my time, separate the wafer from the white cream, and lick it off.”
I realize two things at once. One, he said lick, which is gross, and, two, he isn’t flirting with me, not when his voice screams boredom.
Fine. I don’t want him to flirt with me.
Nana likes to say, Serena, you don’t like to start trouble, yet somehow it’s always there when you arrive. Might get that as a tattoo, but first, a long sigh comes from my chest as I prepare to annoy Mr. Hot Pants enough to say son of a nutcracker. The fighter inside of me, the one who’s been hurt and trampled by another pretty boy, is roaring to rip him apart, to be cold as ice and let him know I am unaffected by his hot guy aura, but the other side of me is pissed I’m wearing a coffee-stained, holey Four Dragons band shirt and baggy camo pants that make me look like I’m ready for a deer hunt. I admit, lately my sense of style has gone downhill, slammed into some rocks, and rolled right off a cliff.
My thick hair has a slight frizz to it (thank you, humidity) and is scraped back in an unflattering low ponytail. My vented straw cowboy hat is old and worn, though rakish and a bit sexy in a former life. In my early days at Waylon, I wore it with a little red bikini and heeled flip-flops as I sunned at the lake with my sorority sisters. Now, it just covers bedhead. My oversized glasses are smudged from bumping my index finger into them, and there’s still a pillow crease on my cheek from my late nap.
So. Honestly, I don’t care. The day I start caring about what some jock thinks about my appearance is the day I quit. I’ve learned the hard way that the only person I should ever try to impress is me. My days of craving the attention of some womanizer are over!
I set my phone to record video. As surreptitiously as possible, I cant it in his direction as I turn. Visions of my ten-year-old Highlander tuned up with new tires dance in my head.
From my five-four height, I look up at him.
Well.
There’s no need to charm this guy. His girls are tall. I am not.
This close, about six feet apart, his beauty is pretty much a physical assault to my senses, rich and heady, vibrating with intense masculinity. He’s breathtakingly beautiful,