“Will you let me drive you now?”
“I need to go by my house to change.”
He smiles, his easygoing demeanor coming back immediately at my acceptance.
“I’ll take you anywhere you need to go, Care-bear.”
“Hey!” I growl at him. “I won that stupid rock-paper-scissor game you made me play. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” I used to hate the nickname thinking it made me sound young and childish. We played an intense game of rock-paper-scissors to get him to stop calling me that. The agreement had been if I won, he’d stop using the nickname. And if he won he’d have to work a weekend at The Sugar Factory. Honestly, I’m not sure either one of those situations were bad for me. Even in an apron, he was hot.
It’s a name he’d given me in middle school when I’d dressed as a bear for Halloween one year.
“That deal is expired by now. We could do another one.” He smirks.
“What are the stakes?”
“If I win you have to go to Mick’s party with me this weekend and Care-bear is back on the table.” I think over what I want to wager. I haven’t been going to any of the parties lately. I was always scared of showing up and seeing Booker with some girl or something. That’s what a lot of those parties are for. People getting drunk or high and hooking up. I’m starting to think that maybe he’s really not hooking up with anyone.
“You’ll have to be my bitch for an upcoming event I’ve entered to showcase some of my art, and you’ll be my personal driver.”
“Deal,” he says without hesitation. He puts his fist out, ready to go. “Best out of three.” I take a deep breath and count out the first one before doing scissors. He nails me with rock.
“Crap,” I mutter, going in for the next round. This time Booker counts it off. I throw paper this time and he does scissors. “The hell. You never beat me.” Mischief dances in his eyes like he knew he was going to win.
“Let’s roll, Care-bear.” He opens the car door for me. I pull my backpack off, tossing it into the back seat as if I’m bothered by him calling me that nickname again. When really I’m secretly loving the fact. His arm wraps around me again, his hand resting on my stomach. He pulls me back into his body. I always feel tiny and delicate in his hold. The Sugar Factory has made me a bit on the curvy side. Yet against Booker I fit perfectly.
He leans closer, his mouth coming to my ear. My breath hitches. This feels different than any other time we’ve been this close. His warm breath tickles my neck.
“I plan on still being your bitch and personal driver,” he says against my ear. “Only yours, Carrie.”
He releases his hold on me, leaving me stunned as he makes his way around the car to get in.
What the heck just happened? Something is changing between us. Booker isn’t the boy I once knew. He’s a man. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been misreading him all along.
I’m not sure I know this Booker at all. But I find myself wanting to.
Chapter Seven
Booker
“Booker Peters, you fine young thing. What are you doing with my Carrie?” Carrie’s mom bats her eyelashes at me.
“Driving her to The Sugar Factory, ma’am.” Ms. Montlain has always seemed a little off to me, a little too friendly, but I’d never say that out loud. She’s one of the biggest flirts I’ve ever seen. She is always dating someone new.
“Aren’t you the sweet thing?”
“Mom—" There’s a warning note in Carrie’s voice.
“Baby, you better go get your apron or you’re going to be late. I’ll take care of your Booker here.” Ms. Montlain swats Carrie’s ass.
“Let me get you a glass of water unless you want a beer.”
“It’s a little early for that, and I’m driving.” Not to mention I’m eighteen, but I don’t think that matters much to her.
“You seeing anyone these days?” she asks as she reaches for a glass from the cabinet to the right of the sink.
“No, ma’am.”
“I can’t believe a boy like you doesn’t have a girlfriend—or are you one of those that likes to play the field?” She fills the glass and carries it over to me.
“Been busy playing baseball.”
She snaps her fingers. “That’s right. I heard you were going pro.”
I drink some of the water out of politeness because that’s how my mama raised me. “Nah. You’re thinking of Colt, our pitcher. He’s going pro for sure. He plans to play one year in the minors and then be called up to the major leagues.”
“Oh that’s too bad.” Her smile dims a wattage.
“What’s too bad?” queries Carrie, who has changed into a pair of skinny jeans that emphasize her tiny waist and generous ass.