Page 391 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

a slow, dirty smirk fighting through.

He bites his lip, head tilting to see more of me, and he casually flicks two fingers up from the Gatorade bottle in a small wave.

I stare, trying to place him,

but come up empty.

Never seen this guy before in my life.

“Do me a favor while I handle this?” Andrew interrupts, hand plunging into his front pocket. He pulls out his wallet, slips out a folded ten, and holds it up between two fingers. “Grab me a Gatorade?”

I look past him to the concession stand, where Dunkin’ donut boxes stack high on the counter.

Then I look down at the crumbled bill.

Then straight up into his pretty eyes.

“I want a Boston Kreme.”

For the first time all morning, the storm clears from his face, and Andrew lets his grin loose—a warm, devastatingly handsome beam that melts the ice between us—and nudges his shoulder into mine. “Go wild, Pretty Woman. Get whatever you want.”

I snatch the ten from his fingers.

“What color?”

“C’mon.”

His gaze drifts to the back of the line.

“You know what color.”

I spin on my heel,

wait in line,

check out,

and by the time I fight my way back from concessions, I’m juggling a sweaty Riptide Rush under one arm and a grease-stained bag of donuts, while shoving the last bite of a Boston Kreme into my mouth.

Andrew’s at the registration desk, cap pulled low and bent over a clipboard.

He finds me through the crowd, drops the pen, and stalks over, sliding the Gatorade out from under my elbow.

“Gimme your wrist,” he says, then loops a neon wristband around it, chin tilting a fraction as he cuts a glance sideways back at the guy.

I want to ask who the hell that is.

But Andrew’s face already has a lock on the answer: No one. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Famous last words before fists start flying.

He lifts his chin to the paper bag.

“What’cha got in there?”

I open it and pull out a powdered donut for him. He plucks it from my fingers and takes a massive bite.

Powdered sugar explodes over his lips, his chin, snows down the front of his navy zip-up.

“She’s an angel,” he mumbles around the mouthful, looking down at me with a powdery grin.