I can’t be expected to live in a pair of flip-flops until I get my life back in control. It’s fall for fuck’s sake. The weather in Hollow Brook has been known to turn on a dime. My feet are the foundation of my body. They’re expected to last a lifetime. I can’t just leave them without stability, exposed to the elements, and expect them to offer up decades’ worth of loyal service in return. I practically deserve these shoes. My feet deserve them. Also, I snatch up a couple of OPI nail polishes in the university’s team colors of blue and orange for the big game coming up next week. Rex is playing, and Scarlett has already insisted that I go. Those gray sweats somehow magically find themselves in my arms along with a couple of scarves from the Impressionist collection that catch my eye. The scarves are exceptionally cute. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist from the engineering department to know those will be snatched up quickly. If I’ve learned one lesson in my short retail related year here at WB, it’s if you see it and you like it, you buy it or you’re not guaranteed to see it the next time you visit the bookstore.
By the time I hit the register with my half dozen different sized sketchbooks, a plethora of pencils, both colored and charcoal, scarves, sweats, shoes, polish, and the cute little eye shadow palate they had on clearance in the beauty section, I’m winded.
A tall brunette with a punched-in nose quickly rings up my order. “That’ll be three hundred fifty-three dollars and twenty-two cents.”
“What?” I balk at the ridiculous total. “That can’t be right. Did you clear the last purchase? That frat boy ahead of me in line had three fat textbooks. Everyone knows what you charge for those is highway robbery.” A smug sense of self-righteous anger fills me as if I’m on a mission to right all of the overpriced scholastic wrongs—as if my shopping spree might benefit more than my shoe collection. It just might be the catalyst to start a revolution against overinflated textbook prices the world over.
“Nope. It’s all you.”
“Me?” I glance around at the line forming in the queue. God, there are six other registers. Why the heck aren’t they all open? “Um, exactly how much are the scarves?”
She glances up at the screen as another coworker comes up alongside her. Thank goodness. I glance back at the angry mob forming behind me and give a knowing nod.
Her coworker fondles the blue-green one who slightly reminds me of Jet Madden’s eyes—not that I’m gunning to go broke as a reminder. “This is Monet, isn’t it? I’m so in love. I’ve had my eye on it for weeks.”
A tight knot builds in my belly in response to her lust-filled declaration.
“They’re sixty-nine dollars a piece,” pug nose announces. “You want to take them off?”
“Sixty-nine dollars?” An explosion of heat prickles over me at once.
“Iknow.” The cashier chooses to ignore my repetitive in nature albeit legitimate question. “It’s the last one, though. I’ve been blowing these out the door all day.”
Blowing them out the door all day? My stomach wrenches at the thought of sending one back.
“Here.” I hand over my credit card in a commanding, yet confident manner. What’s another three-hundred dollars going to hurt? It’s been hell all week. I’m lucky to be standing upright to able to purchase anything at all.
She scans the card and hands it back to me. “Oh, wait. It’s rejecting it. Let me try again.”
“What?” I glance back to find an entire infantry of coeds smirking in my direction. I’m sure their credit cards are all working just fine. Correction, I’m sureDaddy’scredit cards are working just fine. I’ve witnessed these Whitney Briggs princesses American Expressing themselves all over Hollow Brook with wild abandon. I’m sure whatever it is they’re buying is a lot more expensive, and a lot less practical, than my measly purchase.
I steal a quick glance at the crowd of girls behind me, each of which is holding a few textbooks a piece, and a wave of guilt crashes over me.
“It’s not working.” The cashier hands back the card, and my face burns with embarrassment.
“Grab a bullhorn, why don’t you?” I hiss. “Ithasto work. It worked all last week when I bought my books.” I try shoving it at her once again, but she backs away from it like it’s an infectious disease.
“I’m sorry, but that line isn’t getting any smaller. People are getting pissed. Maybe you can come back?”
“I don’t care about those people. I need these notebooks now.” I cut a quick glance to the growing crowd and spot a tall, dark, tatted nightmare with his sweet little sis.
Gah! I spin back around. “Look, just take this other stuff off.” I start pulling the scarves to the side and the cute polish in university themed colors, the sweats, the shoes—then quickly move the shoes back to the must-have pile and pull out the colored-pencils. What am I, three?
She begins the transaction over again to a choir ofah, come on!
I wince in lieu of facing the taunts of my peers. “Can’t you open another register?” I whisper loud enough for the dipstick standing behind her to hear.
“Only Loretta has the key.” She shrugs, picking up my scarf once again, and this time trying it on for size.
Beast.
“It’s still not working.” The girl with the pug nose,Loretta, tries to slide it over to me, and I slide it right back. “Do it again. This time just the books.”
“Is there a problem?” a dark, deeply delicious voice calls from behind, and as much as my body begs to freeze from horror, I’m heated to the bone at the sound of that smooth, velvet voice. Without bothering to try, I imagine him saying those magic words to me once again, and that tender spot between my thighs starts in on a quiver.
“Shit,” I hiss, stuffing my credit card back into my purse. “I’ll pick these things up later.” I glare at the girls behind the counter before zipping toward the door.
“Whoa.” Jet steps in front of me, effectively blocking the exit, and it’s almost impossible for me to meet up with his gaze. “Where’s the fire?”
