How to Hook a Hottie (6 page)

Again, nothing.

Oh, the heck with it—I had better things to do with my time, too. “I hereby declare this meeting adjourned,” I said, and banged the gavel so hard I thought the wood might splinter.

Nine

S
omewhere between school, the Hoppenfeffers' house, and Winter Wonderland, my emotions took a backseat to my thoughts. I asked myself honestly why I had gotten so upset at the meeting.

Inside the rink, I followed Lexie to her team bench, where she plopped down between a couple of girls and got to work tying her laces. I saw that her right lace was shredded—we'd
talked
about this last week, she was supposed to tell her mom—and instead of my usual do-it-yourself attitude, I moved over, went down on one knee, and took over the tying of her rainbow-colored lace myself. I didn't want it coming untied and tripping her during practice. I would for sure be the one blamed.

Moments later, her laces tied tightly, Lexie took to the ice. I had to admit the kid had style. Speed. Talent. It was amazing that she'd only been skating a few years. Most of the other girls had started by kindergarten, and she was as good as any of them, if not better.

But Lexie did have an advantage. Her dad could skate. I mean,
really
skate. Rocko Hoppenfeffer had been one of those Venice Beach, California, surfer dudes who'd apparently reinvented the skateboarding wheel back in their day. He'd made serious money doing skateboard endorsements, and instead of (or maybe in addition to?) wasting it on partying and girls he'd invested it up here in land and paper mills, making himself pretty appealing to the town's local celebrity, our also successful and slightly eccentric romance writer. A few years later, they'd had Lexie, who they seemed to like a lot more than I did, so I guess they were living happily ever after.

On the occasions I thought about Lexie's natural abilities on the ice, I wondered if her love for skating got passed down through her DNA or if her über-talent came from an über-desire to please her dad.

Though if Lexie was only trying to please her dad, some could mistakenly say that my Millionaire Before Twenty plan was just an attempt to get pats on the back from my overachieving mother.

And that couldn't have been farther from the truth.

Up in my office, I'd barely had time to read the three texts and four e-mails from Brandon when feet rumbled up the bleachers.

I looked up to see Chelsea and Dakota. And while these two seemed about as likely a pair as tartar sauce and a hot dog, suddenly the events at the meeting made sense. Chelsea and Dakota were friends. Chelsea must have blabbed to Dakota about my hooking her up with Mark. Dakota, in turn, had shared the details of my Six-Point Plan with the club before my arrival. Bingo! Mystery solved.

I closed my laptop and greeted them like we had this little get-together every day. Chelsea, her newly brushed and styled hair shining in the fluorescent light, stayed only long enough to say hi. Then Dakota plopped herself down next to me.

“I thought we could talk now.”

I shrugged.

“The Six-Point Plan,” she said. “Spill it. Before I lay down a penny, DelVecchio, I've got to know what I'm getting into.”

Wait. Lay down a penny? Was she another potential customer? Was more capital coming my way?

I forced a poker face—even though it almost killed me—and slowly I explained what I'd do for her. “After I crunch the numbers and decide if the hookup is possible, that is,” I added.

She inhaled, long and hard. “I want to see this hexagon.”

Me and my big mouth.

I must have looked as hesitant as I felt, because she arched a brow. “I'm a Future Business Leader, too, and you owe it to me to be on the level. Besides, I've got connections. I happen to know at least two other people who'd also be willing to sign up for this. But
only
with my endorsement.”

Two more? She had my interest, no doubt about it. And come on, how hard would it be to BS a Six-Point Plan? Harder than pulling off all As this semester and rounding up five thousand big ones to satisfy my parents? I think not!

“Okay, meet me at my locker before lunch tomorrow.” I studied her face. “You going to tell me who the guy is?”

“After I see your hexagon.”

“Okay, but I've got to warn you. It can't be somebody's boyfriend. The hexagon doesn't work with unavailable guys. I'm not out to break up couples.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving my warning away. “Chelsea already warned me that you won't help me get Dal.”

I felt myself tighten. “You're after Dal?”

“No, I'm just saying.”

“Okay, because he's taken.”

She nodded. “So tomorrow for the Six-Point Plan?”

“Totally,” I said. I had quite a night ahead of me.

•

That evening I sat in my room trying to come up with a Six-Point Plan that made any sense. Between Internet sites, some of my sister's fashion magazines, and a girl's guide to manners that my mother had chucked at me eons ago, back when she had some herself, I made lists:

What girls looked for in guys.

What guys looked for in girls.

Basic turn-ons.

Basic turnoffs.

Statistics and information on what made a happy couple.

Tests to tell if a guy/girl liked you.

Interesting stuff, actually. But the bottom line in almost every article was honesty, and the golden rule seemed to be “just be yourself.” Which was probably good advice for most people, but look where it had gotten me. People thought I was the girlfriend of a guy I could barely stand. And the only thing that had gotten me into that situation was just being myself. So you wouldn't see
me
preaching that stuff.

I tapped my nails on the keyboard, waiting for divine inspiration, and then it hit me. Or rather, it slowly sank in that I'd have to approach this problem like I did pretty much everything else in my life—by putting one foot in front of the other, armed with Wite-Out, an eraser, and the Delete key on my trusty laptop.

A half hour later, I pushed Save, then Print, which sent the document to the family computer setup down the hall. And none too soon, I held my future in my hot little hand.

Flopping on my bed, I wasn't sure whether to be proud of myself or embarrassed. I mean, did the math terms make me look scholarly or like some little kid who used big words before she knew what they meant?

Just to be safe, I grabbed a pen and added in bold letters at the bottom: “RESULTS MAY VARY.” And reminded myself that it didn't matter if
I
bought into the presentation. Only that Dakota did.

Ten

“W
hat good does
this
do me?” Dakota screamed the next day, stabbing a finger at my printed hexagon. We'd snagged a couple of seats in Mr. Packard's empty classroom under the guise of working on club business, and until this moment, we had been munching somewhat pleasantly from our respective lunch sacks.

“These,”
she continued, “are just questions.”

No way was I letting her attitude get to me. I'd worked
hard
on the darned thing. I kept my eyes on the prize: her money. “It's the first step to determine whether or not I take you on as a client. Our preliminary interview, you might say.”

“But I want specifics. A game plan.”

“If I told you, what would be the point of hiring me? I mean, does KFC give out their secret recipe when people ask?”

I sort of held my breath while she made another grab for my hexagon. True, she held it like a used tissue—someone else's used tissue—but she studied it for a long moment nonetheless. “Okay,” she said, and blew out on a sigh. “It's Jon. Jon Keller.”

I steeled myself from letting my “eeewwww” show. Why she'd want to hang with someone so loud and negative was beyond me.

But hello! He was her mirror image. And that could mean either a supereasy hookup—or a supersized disaster.

The real question was why she wanted help from
me
.

“You know Jon as well as I do,” I pointed out. “And I've never seen you let anything stand in the way of what you want. Why not just go directly to him?”

“I am looking at this like I would a business merger,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want to create the right buzz, make him realize this partnership would be mutually beneficial, and that together our possibilities are endless.” She flipped her hair to her other shoulder. “In short? I'm tired of two-week boyfriends. I want a relationship.”

Whoa. Okay.

I dug up a red Sharpie from my backpack. The hexagon was about as accurate as a TV weather forecast, but what could I do?

“Are both parties unattached and available?” I read, trying not to smile. Like anyone but Dakota would want Jon. I darkened the point. “Similar interests?” I said, then marked it. In my book, being loud and arrogant counted as an interest.

“And we're definitely on speaking terms,” she said, leaning in and jumping anxiously to the next question. “And—and we'll look good together.”

Her opinion, but I went with it.

Then I hit an unknown and looked up. “Do you cross paths outside of school?”

Her brow knitted, which I took as a no.

“Have the same favorite hangout? Same friends? Same . . . I don't know . . . church or synagogue?”

“No.” Worry flickered in her eyes. “Does that mean you won't take us on?”

I bit back a smile. My hexagon might have been based on nonsense, but it had successfully given me a shift of power, so it had done its job—and more. Plus, if I suspended reality long enough to assume it had some merit, it told me that this hookup needed to happen on campus, to take advantage of something they
did
have in common—our business club.

“Well . . . ,” I said, suddenly having a little too much fun. “I might be able to take a five-out-of-sixer like you, but of course, it would cost extra.” I paused, and when she didn't balk, I pushed on. “Hmmm . . . I'll need some additional information.” My mind raced until it settled on one of those gems of the Internet: a does-he-like-me? test. “Do you two have any classes together?”

She nodded readily. “Next period.”

I leaned in like I had to keep what I was about to say quiet. Even though we were alone I knew it all had to do with my delivery. I whispered instructions in her ear, then stood and stretched.

“Find me later, and we'll see if we can take this to the next step.”

Her face twisted in desperation, making me want to break into a dance. I
so
had her!

•

After school, I arrived back at my locker to find an actual line. Like I was giving away free cell phone minutes or SAT cheat sheets.

Mark was there, sighing. Dakota was beside him, throwing her hair from one shoulder to the other, as usual. She was followed by a paper-thin girl in low-rider jeans. And Carlton Camp, from the student store. Thinking back to that day on the quad, I shouldn't have been surprised that he had a crush.

“I'm first,” Dakota told the others in a don't-challenge-me tone.

“No,” Mark said firmly. “I was here first. And my business with Kate is private.” He eyed me seriously and nodded toward the row of lockers across the hall.

We took a few steps into traffic. I wanted this to be quick. I had some potential paying customers waiting, and although Mark didn't know it, his case was closed. “Can't whatever this is wait until the rink later?”

He shook his head. “One question.” His face looked set—clamped mouth, fixed eyes. “Did Chelsea pay you to get me to ask her to the banquet?”

“What?” I said, freezing in place.

“You heard me.”

My stomach clenched, and the world sort of went wavy before my eyes, like I was looking through my sister's glasses.

Mark knew. The Hook-ee had found out about the Hook-Upper. And he wasn't happy.

People streamed by us in both directions, their voices bouncing off lockers and the low-tiled ceiling, competing with the sudden rush of blood in my ears.

“That's . . . ,” I finally said, and swallowed. “. . . confidential.”

A curse fell from his mouth. I knew he had his answer. He turned away.

“Mark,” I said, grabbing his arm. I waited until he met my gaze again. “Let's talk more about this. There's an explanation.” At least, there would be, as soon as I came up with one.

“I thought we couldn't talk about it. That it was
confidential
.” He turned up the intensity of his glare and pulled out of my grip.

It was my turn to mutter a curse.

Immediately, Dakota was on top of me. “He looked at the clock. Jon looked.” A smile touched her mouth. “So we're on, right?”

It took me a second to regroup and remember the test I'd given her. The “Is He Staring at Me in Class?” test. The idea was for her to watch Jon out of the corner of her eye during class until she was pretty sure he was looking at her, then to throw an urgent look at the clock, hold a beat, and really fast, look back at him. If he was looking at the clock, odds were he'd followed her gaze. Which meant—bingo!—he'd been checking her out.

“That's good,” I managed to tell her. “Real good. What we wanted.” I drew in a breath. I really wanted to run this Dakota/Jon hookup by Dal first, to get his take. But odds were he'd be up for the challenge and the bucks, and it was best to strike while the iron was hot, right? “Okay, as soon as you deliver the deposit, we'll get to work.”

She reached into her pocket and slipped me what looked like a folded-up note. But the paper had weight, and my superior senses could smell the U.S. currency.

“Call me tonight,” she said, and left me to my line.

Before I could say bye to Dakota, Skinny Girl approached me. “How much?” the girl whispered.

“For what?” I had to make sure she wasn't expecting something bootlegged or illegal.

“You know, how much for you to hook me up with someone?” she said in that same superlow, hurried tone. Like she was afraid of getting caught.

I held her gaze. If this girl, who I didn't even know, knew about the business, word was truly out there. Which meant the discreetness I had been able to offer was now gone. I'd have to think that through, and use it to the best of my ability.

“Fifty up front, nonrefundable. And another fifty if we seal the deal.”

She listened, lines forming in her brow, then backed away. “I don't have that kind of money,” she said, loud enough for anyone near to hear.

“I'm sorry. But if I cut my rate for you, my other customers could demand the same. And I have expenses to cover.” To keep her from asking for specifics on those expenses, which I couldn't exactly provide, I changed the subject. “By the way, how did you hear about me?”

A smile lifted her mouth. She was attractive, in an anemic sort of way. She'd probably be an easy fix-up. Maybe we could do some sort of installment plan.

“Who hasn't heard about you? You hooked Brandon Callister, you got Chelsea Mead a date with a football player. You're like . . . a love goddess.”

Love goddess? No. Although how could I not like the sound of that?

But before I could respond, she disappeared into the crowd.

Carlton was instantly upon me. His bright blue eyes narrowed in on me like a laser beam, and my palm was suddenly holding some folded bills. I knew cash when I felt it. Still, I peeked. (I had to.) Tens and twenties. This guy did his homework.

“Brianne Betts,” he said, the name floating on a long sigh.

I knew her. Big lips. Possibly collagen. Or maybe she had an ancestor who'd mated with a duck. No guarantees, but I'd give the two of them a try. “Sure, let's do it,” I told him.

I slipped the wad of bills into the back pocket of my jeans. I felt rather like a human vending machine. Insert money, make your selection, and voilà, I will spit out your date! (Yeah, right.)

Carlton and I exchanged contact information. Then, finally alone—or as alone as anyone could be at my school—I did a book swap while I tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. I was torn between the euphoric feeling of having two more clients—and two more deposits—and well, guilt. Mark's anger was a shocker, and I had been completely and utterly unprepared for it.

Lots of thoughts. Lots of questions.

Only one answer: find Dal.