Shut Out(32)

“Stop, stop, stop!” I cried, covering my ears. “I don’t want to hear the end of that sentence! It’s bad enough that he’s flirting with my coworker.”

“He’s flirting with Cash? Now that’s hot.”

“What? No! Jenna, not Cash. Geez, Chloe.”

“Whoa,” she said. “Logan has a thing for the Wicked Witch of the Library? No f*cking way.”

“He’s been flirting with her lately… and she definitely likes him.”

“Weird…. Maybe that means he has a thing for dominatrices. Whips and spiky heels and all that.”

I buried my face in my hands. “Why do you like torturing me?”

“Because you are torturing me with this whole no-sex thing.” Chloe sighed. “Lissa, I’m sexually frustrated.”

“Are you even old enough to know what sexual frustration feels like?”

“Now I am. And thanks to this strike, I know that when I’m sexually frustrated, I like to punish others. You are the logical target here.”

“You’re evil.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Sometimes,” I muttered.

She blew me a kiss across the table and winked. “Seriously, though, it’ll be fine. Throwing the sleepover here, I mean. I’ll come over early on Saturday and help you set up before and clean up afterward, okay?”

“Really? Thanks.”

“Whatever. It gives me a good reason to get away from my mother. She’s decided to quit smoking again, so she’s crabby as hell.” Chloe stood up and walked around the table to stand behind me. “Now,” she said, leaning over my shoulder, “let’s figure out what you’re making for dinner. I’m starved, and I’ve decided you’re feeding me, too.”





chapter fourteen


On Thursday, I was taking my fifteen-minute break on the sofa in the back room of the library, eating an apple and reading, when Cash walked in. I kept my eyes on the page as heat crept up my neck. I’d been trying to avoid him since our shift started—it was almost impossible to look at him after that dream I’d had a couple nights earlier.

“Hey, Lissa,” he said, sitting down on the other side of the couch. “What are you reading?”

I didn’t answer, just lifted my book a few inches so he could see the title.

“H. P. Lovecraft’s short stories,” he said. “Nice. I didn’t know you were into sci-fi.”

I nodded. “Sometimes. I try to read every genre.”

“Cool. Have you gotten around to Lysistrata yet?”

“No,” I said, flipping the page. “Sorry. I wanted to finish this collection first.”

“All right,” Cash said, sounding a little disappointed. “I’m just curious to see what you think about it.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

I peeked over the top of my book and watched as Cash unwrapped a Snickers bar. He was just wearing a maroon T-shirt and faded blue jeans, but he still looked amazing. Feeling guilty for ogling him, I hurriedly turned my attention back to the book. Don’t think about him, I told myself, keeping my eyes trained on the page as I picked up my red pen. Don’t think about him…. Just keep reading….

“Lissa,” Cash said slowly, drawing out the A at the end of my name. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but… Did you just mark a typo in your book?”

I bit my lip. “No. Of course not. Why would you say that?”

“Because you just marked something on the page with a red ink pen—like the ones teachers use to check papers.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Lissa.”

“What?” I asked, ducking my head. “You’re imagining things.”

“Let me see,” he said, not bothering to hide his laughter. “I don’t believe you.”

“Cash, stop it!” I cried. He was already leaning over me, pulling the book gently from my hands. I tugged back, and we wrestled over it for a few minutes. Then Cash poked me in the side and I let out a burst of laughter. In my momentary distraction, he swiped the book from me.

“Cash,” I whined.

He shook his head, staring at page 124. “I can’t believe it! You circled a misspelling. And you keep a red pen on you whenever you read?”

I ducked my head again and didn’t answer. Cash was sitting very close to me, his shoulder leaning against mine, our fingers nearly touching where we both held the book. My heart raced—from struggling to get the book back or his proximity, I wasn’t sure which.

Cash started flipping through the pages. “Damn,” he said. “This thing is covered in red.”

“It’s a newer edition,” I said, yanking the book back toward me. “It happens sometimes.”

“You should be a copy editor,” he said, letting go of the book. “I think you’d be good at it.”

“Maybe,” I muttered. Honestly, correcting spelling and punctuation errors for a living was more than a little appealing to me.

He leaned away from me and settled into his side of the couch again. “So,” he asked, smirking, “were you born this neurotic, or did it develop over time?”