Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book) (6 page)

Brooke got the blame.

Shope’s chalk screeched over the blackboard.
The clock on the wall had to be broken. Brooke drummed her fingers.
She pretended the girl who’d called her fifty was absent instead of
doodling, as usual, two feet away.

To think, in the beginning, she’d actually
fooled herself into thinking they’d be the first couple in history
to rise above the pettiness of divorce. They’d stay friends. Her
need for acceptance and empathy from her peers had clawed at her.
She’d resisted. She refused to blame him for her choices. She rose
above it.

Jason did not. He never corrected the flying
assumptions. Very upstanding of him. She could just see him, cowing
his head, a simpering nod, never saying a word against a single
accusation sent Brooke’s way. Nope, Jason never defended her honor.
If he had, Brooke wouldn’t have become so stranded. So isolated
that she actually considered calling the whole thing off and
groveling back into his good graces.

Maybe that had been his plan, to starve her
out, her very own fall of Rome.

Then along came Millie. Just in time. She’d
plowed into Brooke’s world. Everything changed. Not a big bang
change either. Incremental, uncomfortable at first. Then easy and
new and before Brooke knew it, she was focused on her new business,
taking classes and no longer thought about Debbie’s simpering nods
or anyone else’s.

If Millie had a surprise for her, Brooke
would trust her. Hold her breath, plug her nose and dive in. She
trusted her to read her papers, she trusted her when Millie dragged
her to a new restaurant. Plunked her in front of a new TV show or
into a new pair of shoes. Perpetually late, sometimes thoughtless,
she was the truest friend Brooke had ever had.

The flash of black on white under her nose
snatched Brooke’s thoughts back to class, which was ending. She
slipped her graded paper, another miserable B minus, into her bag
and forced herself to walk, not run, for the door. Shope offered
his typical farewell, reminding them of their assignment, comparing
their lives to desperate victims’ decades past.

She just left. Got in her car and headed for
Meadow Wood Mall. Seeing that B, though, got
him
back in her
head. She imagined Elliott sitting in Shope’s darkening office,
desk lamp highlighting his mighty red pen’s scholastic slaughter.
Loathing his job and taking it out on students. Did her meager
grade make him feel like a bigger man? Hah.

Blinker flipped, she pulled into traffic. “He
probably doesn’t even read the things,” she said to herself.

Not once had she gotten comments or
suggestions, after all. No explanations along the margins. Which
rankled her. How could she improve if no one told her how to?
Probably liked it that way, though. Or, maybe he didn’t care, just
slapped a letter on them in random order. Alphabetical. Alan
through Faust, an A, Finch through Munkle, a B, and so on.

Wait, was that her turn back there? She
glanced in her rearview mirror. No. Good.

Of course, he’d have to switch his system
around to keep a system like that up. Otherwise, the average would
look skewed. Too many fails.

Humph.

She’d put her soul into those papers. Well,
not her soul exactly, but a lot of work. A lot of stress for so
many B’s. She kind of hoped he did hate his job. Shope was probably
a pain to work for. It made her feel better, too, imagining he had
better things to do than sift through historical regurgitation that
couldn’t possibly merit an A.

Thank God she hadn’t admitted that paper was
hers.

The car behind hers honked.

Brooke winced and waved at the driver, whose
hands were up in the universal come on dummy. She knew, she knew.
Wouldn’t get any greener if she watered it. She pressed the gas
pedal.

What did she care what Elliott thought,
anyhow? She wasn’t taking the class to ace it. She was there to
learn about an era from which she was building a business on.
Namely, what the memorabilia she sold meant to people. Context.
Besides, he didn’t even know she was in the class. She had said she
found the paper when she’d given it to him. So, it wasn’t as though
he’d rushed to his seat and read every last word, hands gripped in
ecstasy. Judging her the whole way through, laughing or nodding or
any of the other things she’d spent far too much time
picturing.

Oh no. That was her turn back there. Yes?
Great.

She banged a u-turn and shook her focus back
to Millie. Yes, her friend. And her friend’s make-it-up-to-her
surprise. Maybe she’d ask Millie about Elliott. She had told her
about him last week at dinner. Well, in part. Not the Blue Eyes
part, or the assistant part. Or the butterflies. Still, Millie knew
some of it. Thankfully, Millie hadn’t sniffed out that details were
missing or Brooke might’ve had to lie to fill in the blanks.

Brooke didn’t lie well. Made her twitchy.

For whatever reason, she didn’t want Millie
to know the whole truth. Tonight though, maybe she’d spill it
anyway. Get some advice. About her grades, particularly. How could
she word it?

Pulling into a parking spot outside mall
entrance five, Brooke felt lighter already. With her entourage of
confidence, Millie would know what to do. Millie could make a pair
of sweats look grateful just to be on her. She’d know exactly what
to say to end all this wasted energy thinking about, wondering
about, some guy who, belly flutters aside, didn’t have a shot in
the world with her.

Or her with him.

He probably didn’t even want one after the
way she’d left.

Brooke locked her car, ignoring the defeat
that last part inspired. “There,” she said out loud. “Solved. Now,
get yourself together, go in, find Millie and have some fun.”

Ten minutes later, Brooke stood blindfolded
and cursing herself for trusting Millie, somewhere in the vicinity
of the mall food court. Don’t peek? Brooke gritted out the promise.
Anything to get this over with. Not fun.

Millie squeezed her hands. “Promise if you
hate anything, anything at all, you will tell me. Immediately.”

Had to be a shopping spree. Conversations
past after a marathon of Pretty Woman and ice cream flurried in her
mind. “I promise.”

“Promise me you will remain open-
minded.”

Uncertainty quivered over Brooke’s shoulders.
Millie had far different taste from hers. What if she didn’t get to
pick the clothes? “I promise.”

“Okay. Now, promise me you will, under no
circumstances, question why or how I am able to do this, and you
will accept what I am doing as a gift that is in no way intended as
an insult.”

Insult? Um, okay. Maybe not a spree. Worse?
Visions of scissors and hair dye slashed in her head. Queasy dread
prickled her belly. “I promise?”

Millie began bouncing, up and down. Blindfold
or not, six inches height difference were a recipe for a fall.
Luckily, before she yanked them both downward, Millie stopped.

“Wait right here.”

“Right here? Blindfolded?” Either Millie
didn’t hear her or was adding tortured silence to the surprise. For
both their sakes, it had better be the former.

Scents of fried hot dogs and warm pizza
wafted to her nose. Her stomach growled above its unease. The whir
of shoppers milling around her amplified with every passing second.
Brooke rubbed her flaming cheeks. “No one’s looking,” she told
herself. “No one here knows you.” How embarrassing! “You never
promised not to get furious about being stranded for people to
point and laugh at you.”

“Don’t worry,” a man’s voice said, warm
breath on her neck. “No one is laughing.”

Brooke stiffened, forgetting how to breathe.
Did she know that voice? Was it Blue Eyes? Time seemed to suspend
along with her capacity to think straight. Her hands rushed to
uncover her eyes but Millie’s stopped them. “Hey! No peeking
remember?”

“But, I—I.” She fought to peer out of the
blackness.

“Nope. Uh-uh. Now, come along. There you go,
walk slowly.”

“Who is that? Who’s with you?”

“No one. Just me and you.”

“Where did h—?” Did she know that voice? Or
were her collegiate insecurities coming back to nibble? Millie
certainly wouldn’t bring him, of all people. “Where did you go?
Who’s with you?”

“No one and I’m not telling where. It’s just
us. Well, for now.”

“Millie, where did you go?” Better yet, where
did he go?

“Uh-uh. I can’t tell you. But, in about seven
more steps, you will see for yourself.”

She didn’t want to take any more steps. The
odor of acrylic, the whiz of a blow dryer, closed her coffin. She
already knew. A makeover. And she had promised.

Brooke repressed the groan rising from her
chest, smiled and did her best ohmigoshforme as her best friend
served up one chromed out salon, flaming effeminate hairdresser,
glinting scissors on the side. “A makeover,” she said through a
forced smile.

Millie’s clapped her hands, gushing.
“Surprise!”

Chapter Five

A cucumber oatmeal facial, platinum
highlights and pedicure later, Brooke reclined, eyes closed as the
resident make-up artist, Chloe, layered her features. Brooke’s
cheekbones were either chiseled or gone. Millie hadn’t poked her
head in for far too long. If she didn’t know better, Brooke would
say she’d left the salon entirely.

But Millie wouldn’t just up and leave her
there. Would she? Nah. She was probably merely executing the next
step of the makeover. Makeover? More like force-over. Or wonder-
until-you-think-you’ll-scream-over. What more could possibly come?
Brooke didn’t want to know. She didn’t want her nails done, thus,
mani-pedi got downgraded to pedi. Her hair had been cut and
colored, washed and styled long ago. Prayers to hair gods, she
still looked like herself.

Once the make-up artist, Chloe, stealthily
quiet and intent on her work, finally finished, what else could
there be?

“You have gorgeous skin,” Chloe murmured,
wanding more gloss to Brooke’s lips. “How old are you, if you don’t
mind me asking?”

Tell this not-a-day-over-twenty-year-old her
age? Yeah, right. And, wasn’t it still rude to ask a woman that
kind of thing? “Thank you,” was all she said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Chloe said,
patting her shoulder. “I can guess. Your skin looks years better
than most women your age, though. I will tell you that.”

“Um, thanks.” Had that been a compliment? “I
don’t tan.”

Like the girl could even spell the word
wrinkle let alone guess how many times Brooke massaged the deep
line between her eyebrows.

“Best thing for you,” Chloe said. “Stay out
of the sun.”

Brooke let herself sigh and wish this thing
over already. Her highland hunk’s visage beckoned, rekindling
wishes of flannels and wine. She pictured herself, snuggled up,
gazing at the cover. Blue Eyes’ face swam into the hero’s
place.

She cursed herself. She should have torn that
blindfold off. Instead, Millie’s voice, right there in front of
her, had thrown her. How many seconds had passed in between? Had
Millie seen Elliott? She told herself again, it was just a passerby
who’d heard her and tossed in his two cents. Some random shopper.
The only reason she’d suspected it was Blue Eyes—correction,
Elliott—was because he’d been on her brain.

What if it had been him? She hadn’t imagined
that low timber or the nearness. The way her flesh had tingled in
awareness had been all too real. She wouldn’t react to a stranger’s
voice like that. Would she? Was she so bereft of male attention
that the first whisper in the dark gave her goose bumps? Not that
she wanted it to be him. She didn’t.

Ugh. She had to stop thinking about him!

“Is she done?” It was Carlos, her surprise
hair butcher.

“Yes,” Chloe near whispered and turned
Brooke’s chair.

Brooke opened her eyes, braced to see her new
look, but a cutting cape blocked the mirror.

“I’ll get Ms. Match.” Carlos’ delight trilled
in his voice. “Don’t you move.”

Move? Brooke forced a smile. Where could she
go? Out to the food court to find—stop!

“Don’t show her.” Millie came jingling around
the corner, her signature gold bangles announcing her. “Not yet.”
She halted upon seeing Brooke, her fingertips came to her chest.
“First, put this on. And these.”

Brooke’s mouth opened but the words never
came out.

“Remember, you promised.”

Clothes, too? It had to be going on eight
o’clock by now. The mall would close by nine, wouldn’t it? Someone
tell her she’d be able to leave soon.

Millie draped a black dress over her arm and
handed over a matching pair of slender heels. “The bathroom’s
behind you to your left. Don’t you dare look under the drape. I
want to be right by your side when you see yourself.”

Brooke fixed a smile on and reminded herself
to never get mad at Millie again, so help her. No getting mad meant
no repeating this never-ending spoil-her treatment that felt more
like torture. Give her a bookstore shopping spree. A five star
dinner. A pedicure while watching an old movie. She was too…too…old
for all this.

Too old?

Guilt stabbed through her. She should be
thrilled. She shouldn’t be too
old
for this. That brunette
from class flashed in her head. “You’re about my mom’s age….”
Yucko.

Brooke closed the bathroom door and examined
the knee length black dress’s scooped neckline and flirty skirt.
The cut would show off her collarbone. The length would disguise
her chicken legs. The heels might even camouflage her size ten skis
for feet. Brooke had to give it to Millie. She did have good
taste.

Even if she was a little pushy about it.
Besides, when was the last time Brooke had done anything like this?
Even for herself? Her wedding day? Brooke gasped. No. It couldn’t
have been that long ago.