“Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”

“If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”

His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.

“All right, your turn,” he says.

“For what?”

“Ask me a question.”

“Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”

“Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”

“Of course they do.”

He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”

“When you came into the store?”

“Yes.”

That’s easy. “Arrogant.”

“Really? What made you think that?”

Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”

He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”

Chapter 9

“No. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”

I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.

His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”

“You stay there. I’ll be you.” I walk to the far end of the stockroom and pretend to come in a door, holding a cell phone to my ear. I swagger a few steps, stop and stare at the wall, then hold up my hand and beckon him. I wait for him to laugh, but when I glance over he has a mortified look on his face.

“I may have exaggerated it just a bit,” I say even though I didn’t.

“That’s how you saw me?”

I clear my throat and walk slowly back to the couch. “So are you the soccer player or the math genius?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your grandmother brags. I’m wondering which grandson you are.”

“The one who hasn’t done much of anything.”

I toe the table leg with my slipper. “You do know who you’re talking to?”

“I do. Caymen.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m the queen of having done nothing, so I’m sure you’ve far outdone me.”

“What haven’t you done that you want to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. I think unhappiness comes from unfulfilled expectations.”

“So the less you expect from life . . .”

“No. It’s not like that. I just try to be happy and not wish I could do more.” Well, I was getting better at that goal at least. And having people like him around only serves as a reminder of everything I don’t have.

He finishes off his muffin then throws the wrapper in the bag. “And does it work? Are you happy?”

“Mostly.”

He raises his Styrofoam cup in a toast. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”

I nod and move my foot onto the coffee table. The order form in my pocket crinkles with the movement. I pull it out. “I should go. I have some work to do before we open.”

“Right. Of course. I should go, too.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say something more.

I stand and he follows suit, picking up his jacket. I walk him to the front door and open it.

As he walks away I realize how little our question-and-answer session revealed about each other. I have no idea how old he is or where he goes to school or what he likes to do. Did we steer clear of those questions on purpose? Did we both ask ridiculous, meaningless questions because deep down we really don’t want to know the other person?

He pushes a button on his keys and the fancy silver sports car in front of the shop beeps. That car alone answers any question I could possibly have about him. No need for any more. He opens the door and throws me that smile and I hear myself yell, “Are you a senior?”

He nods. “You?”

“Yeah.” I hold up my drink. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem.”

I shut the door and lean against it. Why?

It takes me several minutes to push myself away from the door and head upstairs. My mom’s in the bathroom so I drag a chair to the old computer and start entering orders online.

“Did I hear the phone ring?” my mom asks when she comes into the dining area rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

“Yeah. I answered it.”

“Who was it?”

“Just someone asking what time we opened.” And that is the first time in my life I have lied to my mother. We tell each other everything. It surprises me. I should’ve said, “This kid named Xander—yes, he goes by Xander on purpose—who has his T-shirts ironed and wears jewelry.” That would’ve been fun. My mom would’ve tried to pretend she was offended. We could’ve talked about how he probably gets his hair cut twice a month. She would’ve given a polite “it’s best if we don’t hang out with people like that” speech. I would’ve agreed. I do agree.

So what stopped me?

“Can you finish up this order, Mom? My hair is going to dry all funky if I don’t get ahold of a blow-dryer.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.”

I close myself in the bathroom and press my palms to my eyes. What stopped me?

Loyalty.

I didn’t want my mom to have bad feelings toward him. Somehow the guy had managed to climb out of the box full of people I had already labeled off-limits with a permanent marker and he’d become different. And now, much to my irritation, I feel some form of loyalty to Xander Spence.

I had to change this immediately.

Chapter 10

Monday morning I wave good-bye to my mom and open the front door to the shop. As I walk toward school, I notice a sports car that looks just like Xander’s parked a few doors down. I bend over to look inside, and when I straighten up again Xander is on my opposite side. I jump. He hands me a cup of hot chocolate and takes a sip from his cup.

I look at the cup—the same as yesterday’s. “I only want this if you drank out of it first,” I say, refusing to say, “What are you doing here?” That might give away that I care.

He grabs the cup from me, takes a drink then hands it back.

It surprises me so much that he acted on my sarcasm that I can’t help but laugh. “I believe there’s a meeting Thursday nights at Luigi’s for those addicted to Eddie’s muffins. If that doesn’t work, I hear there’s a pill you can take.”

“I’m afraid my addiction is not one I’m willing to give up yet,” he says.

I give him a sideways glance. We were still talking about muffins, right? “I’m sorry.”

“So whose turn is it for a question?” he asks.

“Mine,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. But I’d rather ask than answer.

“Okay, what’s it gonna be?”

“Do you have any brothers?” I know he doesn’t have any sisters because his grandma said she has only one granddaughter and he already told me that is his cousin.

“Yes, I have two older brothers. Samuel is twenty-three, just graduated from law school.”

“Which law school?”

“Harvard.”

Of course.

“My other brother, Lucas, is twenty and away at college.”

“Those are pretty normal names.”

“Normal?”

“No Chets or Wellingtons or anything.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Do you know any Wellingtons?”

“Of course not, but you probably do.”