Foolproof by Jennifer Blackwood Page B

was off-limits with a capital O . Especially him being the boss’s son.
    Flirting? Totally cool, but anything more than fun and I’d be in way over my head.
    I did a quick mirror check, pulled my hair into a high ponytail, and sped back to the service floor. Ryan slammed the phone down at register one when I came around the corner.
    “Angry customer?” We got a lot of those, unfortunately. In my month of working here, I’d learned there were two types of callers—those who wanted to know our store hours and those who loved to share their displeasure with a certain product.
    “Something like that.”
    “I hate when they yell. Like, seriously, can’t they be nice? I didn’t personally break their printer.”
    “Yeah. I hate it, too.”
    I took my position across from his register, up at Customer Service. Leaning over the counter that came up to my ribs, I said, “Are you working all summer?” His gaze stayed planted on my face, even though I knew I’d positioned myself at a perfect angle to give a little glimpse of cleavage. Something that I thought he’d be into. Damn. Losing my touch. A little voice, deep down in the rational part of me whispered, oh, girl, what are you doing? I honestly didn’t have an answer, because apparently bulging biceps led to a full-on power outage in my brain.
    “Yeah. And then I’m enrolling in the police academy in August.” He readjusted something on the display and shifted uncomfortably. Mmm lawdy, Mr. Biceps in a police uniform—bye-bye ovaries. But something was off about his response. The way he said police academy, like he had sucked on a mouthful of sour candies, made it clear this was not his first choice. “You don’t want to be a police officer?”
    “Never really interested me. My uncle said he had ‘a calling’ for it, but I got nada.” He played with his fingernail, not looking at me.
    I really wanted to ask why he’d be doing something he didn’t seem that enthused about, but stopped because a) that was completely hypocritical and b) I barely knew him and this felt too personal of a question. So, instead, I nodded and scratched at a speck on the counter.
    After a few seconds of silence, he asked, “What are you doing tonight?”
    Hello, Mr. Straight to the Point . So much for the wining and dining. Guess he was more the check, please type.
    I turned to him, trying to assess the message behind the question. What did he want out of this? One-night stand? A little wham bam thank you ma’am? Bamming did sound good right about now. Plus, I told myself I wasn’t going to get serious.
    You also said you were just going to flirt.
    I side-eyed my pesky conscience. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. What if it ended up like last time…last time when I survived winter term on Oreos and Adderall.
    No, I had this under control. Going on one date with this guy, or hooking up, or whatever, wasn’t going to send me spiraling.
    But one thing was for sure—if I was going to give Mr. Biceps a date, he needed to work for it.
    “I have plans.” If you could constitute being a third wheel as plans. Payton and her boyfriend, Blake, had invited me to go on a midnight beach trip. Even if I’d be tagging along, it was better than spending the night alone at the apartment. Easy plans to break if Ryan asked me out.
    “Oh, okay.” He went back to filling pens in the jar on the register, unfazed that I had turned him down.
    Hold up. That was it? No follow up? No how about tomorrow ? A few months of dating dry spell, and I’d lost my touch. Okay, let’s be honest, it was a fricken drought. Like, water emergency, send-in-the-reinforcements kind of drought. I played with my earrings and stared out at the service floor. What could I even say to that? Thanks for almost asking me out, I appreciate the sentiment ? Total ego bruiser, dude.
    I nodded my head and drummed my nails along the keys of the register, not sure what to say, but not comfortable enough to keep silent.