Page 12 of I Think He Knows
“I’ll add it to the pile of rejects,” she says through a gritted, pearly-white-teeth grimace, which isn’t super becoming of a customer service professional. Maybe it’s because she has a perfectly normal-size, perky chest area that looks in the region of a C cup—the Goldilocks of bra sizes. Not too big, not too small, juuuuust right. Clearly, she can’t empathize.
“A little help with the zipper?” I ask Perky Chest but she’s already turning away. She quickens her tippy-tappy stiletto step, pretending not to hear me.
Charming.
I can’t wait until this embarrassing debacle is over and I’m back in my comfy floral jumpsuit that hides all my lumpy bits like magic.
I reach behind me, but the zipper is out of reach. Like, way out of reach.
“I volunteer as tribute,” the low, throaty voice comes from close behind me and Carter’s minty breath tickles my shoulder. It’s cold in the store, and the hit of warmth against my skin makes me shiver. How did he get over here so fast?
“I deeply regret inviting you shopping today.” I turn to punch Carter in the arm. “And stop practicing on me for your date tonight.”
“Like I need practice.” My best friend gives me his best smile. It’s the devastating one—the one that makes his blue eyes twinkle like fairy lights, and the dimple in his right cheek pop, and the corners of his eyes crease in a way that gives you no choice but to stare at his face and think “how could anyone not fall in love with this man?”
Anyone except me, that is. I’m officially immune to Carter’s Unlucky Charms.
Or so I tell myself. Constantly.
We’re just friends. Only ever have been, only ever will be. Couples have meet-cutes. We had a meet-puke. And from that horrific, vomit-soaked night ten years ago, and in all the time that’s passed in which our friendship has blossomed and bloomed and grown, he’s never once given any indication that he sees me as anything more than just that: his best friend.
Not that I’m complaining. As far as best friends go, Carter is the very best. He’s been there for me through everything. The year I met Carter was the hardest year of my life—a year where I unexpectedly became a mother and unexpectedly lost my mother, who was the closest person to me in the world. Day and night, he was right by my side (quite literally) through all of the heartache and bone-breaking exhaustion and tears, squeezing my hand reassuringly. I hadn’t known him long by that point, but he became my rock. My light in the darkness at the darkest time of my life. For that, I will always be grateful.
“Besides.” Carter smirks at me in the mirror. “Last I checked,you’rethe one who has a date tonight. Mine’s a work meeting.”
My stomach rolls at the reminder, and to put my growing anxiety on ice for a moment, I roll my eyes at Carter’s reflection in the mirror and gesture towards the sales assistant’s retreating rear end. “Well, if you’re in the market for a date, Miss Perky Chest has been undressing you with her eyes since the moment we set foot in here.”
“Nah, she probably thinks she recognizes me and can’t place where from…” Carter is halfway through pulling his ball cap down lower when his forehead crinkles. “Wait, Miss Perky Chest?”
Oops.
“The sales lady,” I clarify. “She definitely recognizes you, by the way. She’s taken about fifty pictures on her phone.”
Pictures that I’ve been trying to block by getting in the way, good friend that I am, despite the death glares she’s been shooting me like they’re going out of fashion. I know what she’s thinking, too. Real-life Carter in his faded ball cap, even more faded jeans, and stubble-clad-jaw-and-flannel-shirt combo looks different from the clean-shaven, dimpled, big-screen sensation who can wear the hell out of a tuxedo. But her question remains the same: What istheCarter James Callahan—owner of the sexiest smile in Hollywood—doing withher— the Pillsbury Doughgirl incarnate?
Hah. Joke’s on you, lady. In an entire decade of friendship, Carter has never so much as touched me in anything close to a romantic way.
Much to my chagrin.
Lana, we’re not doing that anymore, remember?
Apparently, I don’t remember.
Guess the joke’s actually on me, then.
“She’s been taking pictures?” Carter’s voice is low, and his handsome face tenses for a moment as his eyes flicker from me to the sales lady. He’s fiercely protective of his privacy, and even more so of mine.
“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “I made sure my big blue dress got in the way of every frame, so I’m sure she has nothing. Except a great chest, of course.”
Carter gives me his small, close-lipped smile, his eyes soft, which I know means he’s both thankful and a little embarrassed. He covers it up quickly and his gaze moves to follow the sales assistant, who’s now bending over to pick something up, her low-cut shirt working its glorious male-entrancing magic. He turns back at me with a too-innocent look on his face. “I hadn’t actually noticed her chest, but now that you’ve brought it to my attention…”
“Liar.” I fold my arms. I love Carter to death, but maybe a girlfriend would’ve been better suited to accompany me dress shopping. Today is his last day in Atlanta for a while, so we wanted to spend the morning together before I have to go to the office and he has to go to the airport. It might be at the cost of my sanity, though. “And in case youdodecide to make Miss Perky Chest’s dreams come true and ask for her number, let me give you a tip: there is nothing seductive about quotingThe Hunger Games. Ever.”
“Hey, do you want help with your zipper or not?”
“I do.” I sigh heavily. “But if you make a single comment about the odds being ever in my favor…”
The corners of Carter’s mouth pull upward as he raises his hands in the “surrender” position. “I won’t. Promise. I just think I would’ve played that role so much better than Hemsworth.”