“Did that make you nervous?”
“More annoyed than nervous, but—” I start to put down my folder as I juggle my bag, the box, and the lukewarm remains of my espresso. It balances on top of the pastry box, which I didn’t have a chance to put in the break lounge. But the bag’s strap tangles in my hair and I falter. “My parents—Mum mostly—get a little carried away playing matchmaker.” The paper cup teeters, along with me in these high heels—I knew they were a bad idea.
A strong hand grips my arm, steadying me. Chase’s other hand grabs the cup, but I lose my handle on the file and thecontents flutter to the ground. Thankfully, no liquid spills in a repeat of the night at the Smythe’s.
Together, we crouch and pick up the papers.
“This seems vaguely familiar,” Chase says.
“Do you mean me crawling around on the floor looking for something? Happens all the time.”
“No, the time in the corridor between classes when we bumped into each other.”
“Oh, right. I try not to remember things like that.” I have a statute of limitations on my most embarrassing moments, even if they involve my high school crush. Though, of course, I recall the time I exited the library, used a little too much strength when opening the door, and it slammed into Chase. Apparently, he had a tennis ball in his hand that went flying and then knocked Mrs. Wagner, an English teacher, in the head. She was ancient and a little unsteady to begin with, and bumped into a cart covered with clay pots from the advanced art class headed for the kiln. The cart zoomed toward me, knocking all my books and papers out of my hands and into the smooshed piles of clay.
It was like one of those Rube Goldberg machines on the fritz.
As I stack the papers, thankfully dry and not covered with clay or coffee, Chase’s hand brushes mine. Fluffy tingles work their way through me...or they never left me.
Gathering the last of the items from the folder Cate gave me, a photo with a handsome face and a dimple on his left cheek, perfectly tousled hair, and sparkling eyes stares up at me.
“Something has got to be wrong with these glasses,” I murmur.
It’s the exact image of the man crouched beside me. Which only means one thing. Chase Collins is my new client.
16
CHASE
Wearing glasses that remind me of when we first met, her hair in a ponytail like in high school, but smoother and with an elegant curl at the end and loose pieces framing her face, Pippa flutters her hands as though in a panic.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Well, this is interesting.”
“Interesting? No, impossible. There must be a mix-up. A mistake.” She squeezes her big brown eyes closed, trying to compose herself.
Back in high school, I’d wanted nothing more than to take her to the prom and dance with her to the songBrown Eyed Girl. It was wishful thinking, because Freddie would have just as soon knocked out my teeth, but I even found out who the DJ was going to be, so I could request in advance that he’d play it. Should’ve done so the other night at the Smythe’s party. Back in high school, though, my big plan was to ask her to be my brown-eyed girl.
Considering she was Freddie’s sister, did I have a death wish? Maybe.
Looking back, that was also the biggest cheese ball move. What can I say? I like pizza. Always have. Though I probably would’ve gotten slightly better grades had I not been staring at the back of her head in the classes we shared, waiting for her to turn around, if only to glimpse her beautiful face.
Pippa’s eyes open. She blinks a few times, catching me staring. Smoldering, I hope. I bite the inside of my lip and grip the back of my neck, feeling like I’m seventeen all over again. After all, we are at a school and in a classroom setting.
Her throat bobs on a swallow and then, giving her head a shake, she says, “I should go and see if I can find someone else to work with you.” She rushes from the room before I can tell her that isn’t necessary.
That I’m sorry for what happened in high school.
For calling her kiddo...and Pippag Thomzeg.
For ruffling her hair. It looks really pretty today.
For engaging Jerk Mode, so no one suspected I liked her.
For the sponge incident. I owe her a proper slice of cake.
For not being braver and telling her brother how I felt.
I’m about to shout after her, but that won’t score me any points at reform school. I could also follow her, but I got lost twice trying to find my way to this room, so I’m better off sitting tight.
