Puck Buddies Page 5

  Except for this tiny, gray-bobbed woman wagging her chin at him. She’s serious this morning. I can tell. She’s going to deny Shane his prize, and though he’ll handle it like the class act he is, I can’t stand for him to go home in defeat on one of his last Sundays in Portland.

  Pulling in a bracing breath, I roll my shoulders back and launch the secondary assault. “Mrs. Adamescu,” I coo as I breeze into the booth beside Shane, my arm stretched toward her and a big smile on my face.

  Immediately the firm set of her jaw softens and pleasure sparks in her brown eyes. “Sabrina. How are you darling?”

  “I’m good. It’s such a gorgeous day out there,” I say to the top of her head as she allows me to gather her into a quick one-armed hug.

  Mrs. A isn’t a fan of the touchy-feely stuff, but for some reason she likes me. Maybe it’s my upbeat vibe, my appreciation of her stories of fleeing Romania during the revolution, or the simple fact that I’ve never worn a backpack into her booth full of breakables, but we’re buddies. We bond over the stale cookies she sets out on a delicate china plate, and I always offer to mind the booth while she runs to the ladies’ room.

  “You need a bathroom break?’ I reach for a powdery wedding cookie, devouring it in two bites as I jerk my head in Shane’s direction. “This guy bothering you? Need me to send him on his way? I’ve been working out. I’ve got the muscle.”

  She laughs and flutters a hand in the air. “No muscle required,” she says, arching a brow as she tucks her hands into her apron. “Just a better offer.”

  “But that’s antique store retail for a French Art Deco bronze, Mrs. A,” Shane explains patiently, gesturing toward a lovely flapper girl posed with her arms swept over her head and a feathered headdress spilling down her back. “I won’t be able to turn a profit on the piece at that price. Especially not after paying to have it stored until my shop is ready to open. It’s going to take up a decent chunk of space.”

  Mrs. A flips both hands to face the ceiling, her fingers spread wide, silently but eloquently conveying “that’s not my problem.”

  It’s time for a different battle strategy. Mrs. A is strong on logic, not empathy. She couldn’t care less if Shane’s able to turn a profit, only if she loses money. That’s what’s at the core of this war of wills, I’m guessing—Mrs. A must have overpaid for the piece, and now she’s struggling to get a return on her investment.

  “So here’s what I’m seeing.” I tuck my book into my jacket pocket as I step back, lifting my hands to frame Shane and Mrs. A in a rectangle made of fingers. “I see two people with an incredible eye for art and an appreciation for beautiful things.” I shift the frame to focus on the statue. “I also see a lovely, but very large flapper girl taking up prime real estate and blocking access to merchandise at the back of this booth.”

  “I can get to the back just fine,” Mrs. A says with a sniff.

  “Because you’re so petite,” Shane says. “It’s a tight fit for the rest of us.” He angles to the side, clearly intending to squeeze between the statue and a rack of antique plates to demonstrate, but Mrs. A stops him with a raised finger.

  “See.” I pounce, driving my point home. “Some lunk with a big butt is going to try to get to the back of the booth to look at your beer steins and cause hundreds, if not thousands of dollars’ worth of damage.” I cross my arms with a sigh as I glance back down at the bronze. “Not to mention the time and energy spent toting that beast in and out every week. She’s got to weigh as much as you do.”

  When I glance back up at Mrs. A, amusement and resignation mingle in her features.

  I thread my fingers together and bat my lashes as I plead, “Let us take this off your hands, mama. Just so I can watch Shane sweat while he carries it around all morning.”

  She laughs and claps her hands, declaring the deal, “Done! Two thousand. But you take her with you now. This very minute.”

  The delighted smile that bursts across Shane’s face is so lovely I can’t resist doing a victory dance in his honor. Mrs. A glances over to see me Cabbage Patching and laughs again. “Such a clown.” She pats Shane on the shoulder with affection that surprises me before pointing my way with the wad of bills he’s pressed into her hand. “You hold on to this one, young man. Looks fade, passion cools, but laughter…” She pauses, a faraway look in her eyes as she adds softly, “Laughter is forever.”

  Impulsively, I lean down and press a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. A. I hope you have an amazing day filled with riches.”

  “And you stay out of trouble,” she chuffs as she wags her hands, sweeping Shane and me out of her booth. “See you next week. I’ll bring the sprinkle cookies you like.”

  “Yes!” I pump my fist and bop out of the booth behind Shane, who is cradling his treasure in one arm like she’s a ten-pound baby instead of a Labrador-sized hunk of metal.

  As soon as we’re out of Mrs. A’s earshot, I hiss, “You should make that look harder. She wants to see you suffer, dude.”

  Shane smiles down at me. “No, she doesn’t. She just likes to put me through my paces before she gives in. And she likes you. Thanks for the help. Couldn’t have sealed the deal without you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I beam at the praise as I take a closer look at the piece. “She really is gorgeous. What are you going to name her?”

  “I’m not going to name her. I’m going to shine her up and sell her to a collector.”

  I scrunch my nose. “But you have to name her first. So she doesn’t get lonely and start feeling unloved while she’s hanging out in the storage unit.”

  Shane rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “All right. How about Priscilla?”

  I glance down at the statue’s face and shake my head. “No, she doesn’t like that.”

  “Gladys?”

  I make a gagging sound.

  “Clementine?”

  Heart lifting, I press a hand to my chest as I reach out to rest the other on the statue’s smooth forehead. “Oh yes, that’s the one. She loves it. She won’t give you any trouble now.”

  “So glad we got that settled,” he says dryly, making me giggle. I’m prepared to offer further commentary on Clementine—to describe her wild and wanton past as she made her way to the New World from the shores of France—but Shane suddenly stops short and turns to face me with a serious expression.

  “All right. Let’s do it,” he says as the thickening morning crowd ambles around us.

  I blink. “Do what?”

  “The plan. Buddies with bennies.”

  “Oh. That plan.” I bite my lip, trying to hold back a goofy grin. Play it cool, Marks. But it’s all I can do not to break into another happy dance. “Okay. Sounds good.”

  Shane huffs. “No, it still sounds crazy. Potentially committing murder isn’t something I take lightly, you know.”

  “It wouldn’t be murder,” I point out. “It would be an accidental death.”

  “Oh, well, that makes it so much better.”

  “But sperm murder is funnier.” I’m determined to treat this with levity. “You could even shorten it to sperm-der for ease and convenience. Go on. Try it in a sentence.”

  Shane arches a brow. “Bree Marks was on track to becoming one of the greatest minds psychology has ever known when her life was tragically cut short by sperm-der.”

  My lips turn down hard. “That’s a terrible sentence. You’re bad at sentences. Sperm-der should be way funnier than that.”

  “No, I’m bad at pretending dangerous things aren’t dangerous.” He sighs. “But I know you. Once you’ve got your mind set on something, you don’t stop until you get what you want. I’m not stupid enough to think that if I say no that’s going to be the end of it.”

  I shrug uncomfortably. “Well, I would rather it be you than anyone else I can think of right now, but…”

  “I would rather it be me, too.” He tips his head closer to mine. “Because Mrs. A is right. You’re special, and you deserve a first time that�
�s special.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she said,” I whisper, feeling shy for the first time in ages. I’m not a shy person, but there’s something intimate about standing close to Shane, making plans to become even closer. “I’m pretty sure the word she used was clown.”

  “I heard special,” he insists.

  “You should probably get your hearing examined.”

  “I should get my head examined. But instead, I’m going to go home and research the most durable condom brands and text you later to discuss. That work for you?”

  Butterflies swooping in my stomach, I nod and keep nodding—eyes wide and a big grin on my face—until Shane laughs and leans down to kiss my cheek, whispering, “You make me feel like a jar full of cookies.”

  “A jar full of cookies with hot fudge and sprinkles on top,” I say, grinning as I turn my head, bringing my mouth closer to his. But then Shane wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me into a kiss and soon neither of us is laughing.

  We’re too busy kissing deeper, harder, devouring each other with hunger that’s totally flea-market inappropriate, a fact brought home when a high-pitched voice behind us insists, “Get a room already!”

  Pulling away from Shane with a guilty flinch, I turn to see a kid smirking up at us from beneath the rim of his ball cap. “Sorry about that,” I say, cheeks heating.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Blondie.” The kid, who can’t be more than ten, winks with flirtatiousness that makes me laugh.

  “Nice try, Romeo, but she’s with me,” Shane says, with a mock-angry expression. “Now, scram, man, before she starts considering her options.”

  Lifting his hands, with a grin that says he can’t be blamed for trying, the boy backs away into the crowd, presumably to continue prowling the flea market in search of a lady friend. Or baseball cards. Or whatever it is precocious ten-year-olds are into these days.

  “That kid is going to be dangerous when he grows up.” Shane shifts the statue to his other side. “Come on, doc. Let’s blow this joint before Clementine does damage to my blocker arm.”

  “Don’t you want to check out the rest of the booths?” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “We haven’t even gotten to your favorite row yet.”

  “I’ve got bigger things on my mind than antiques,” he says, his voice going husky as he adds, “Sexier things, too.”

  A shiver works through me from head to toe as I nod. “Right. You should get home. Fast. Don’t worry about dropping me at my place. I can walk.”

  “Are you sure? Clementine and I don’t mind making a detour. It won’t take long.”

  “I’m sure.” I bounce lightly on my toes. “A walk sounds good, actually. I’m suddenly filled with nervous energy.” I hold up a hand, stopping him before the concern creeping into his features can become words I don’t want to hear. “Wrong word. I meant excited energy. Anticipatory energy. Fervent energy.”

  He cocks a brow. “Fervent means what?”

  “Passionate enthusiasm.” I walk my fingers up his arm, giving his bicep a squeeze. “So I’m going to go walk that off, and I look forward to hearing the results of your investigation later today.”

  Shane’s teeth dig into his bottom lip. “But don’t walk it all off, okay?”

  “Oh, I won’t,” I promise as he sets off toward the exit, Clementine staring at me over his broad shoulder with a jealous look. Jealous because she knows the truth—she might be going home with him, but I’m going to be the woman in Shane’s bed.

  The woman in Shane’s bed…

  It’s really going to happen. And soon. My V card is living on borrowed time. Its days are numbered. Hell, its hours are probably numbered.

  The thought sends me speed-walking to the rear exit, where I burst out into the alley and hit the pavement running, jogging past startled vendors still unloading their wares and out into a day that sparkles with possibilities.

  Chapter 6

  From the text messages of Bree Marks

  and Shane Wallace

  Shane: You still up, night owl?

  Bree: Of course I am. It’s barely twelve. Why would I sleep through the most magical hours of the day?

  Shane: As if. Six a.m. has midnight beat any day of the week.

  Bree: Boo! Hiss! Your morning-person crazy is unwelcome here.

  Give me the witching hours or give me death.

  Shane: LOL. They used to execute women for being out at this time of night, didn’t they? Like in the old days? In Europe when they thought witches were real?

  Bree: They totally did. If a lady stayed up too late, was too poor, too rich, had too many female friends, rocked a weird birthmark, or let dairy products spoil in her cupboard, the Powers That Be figured she was a witch and therefore must be burned.

  Shane: Shit. Good thing you didn’t live back then.

  Bree: Totally. I would have been dead meat. I can’t get to sleep before one in the morning to save my life, my girlfriends are my spirit animals, and you can pretty much count on every dairy product in my fridge being moldy and sour.

  Fridge maintenance is hard.

  Shane: It is. That’s why I limit my fridge contents to beer and condiments and get takeout for every meal I can’t con you into cooking for me.

  Bree: That’s a ridiculous waste of money. You realize that, right?

  Shane: I do. I figure I’ll change my ways a year or two before I retire. Give myself time to learn to make grilled cheese and stir-fry before I take a pay cut.

  Bree: I could teach you how to make both of those things before you leave, you know. Give you a head start on feeding yourself in Kansas City.

  Shane: Maybe I’ll take you up on that. Thanks.

  Bree: You’re welcome. So what’s on your mind?

  I’m assuming there’s a reason for this text aside from talking food and figuring out what time I like to go to bed?

  Shane: Yes, there is a reason.

  I’ve been thinking about the terms and conditions for our…arrangement.

  Bree: You think we need those? I thought you hated rules.

  Shane: I hate stupid rules, but some rules are vital. Like the rules for hockey. Without them, you’d have chaos on the ice and people would get hurt.

  Bree: So you think we’re going to create chaos if we don’t have rules for being friends with bennies? Does this mean you don’t trust my judgment? Because I’ve changed since last fall, Shane. Seriously. I’m a lot more level-headed. That night with Creedence taught me to trust my gut and my friends more than my stupid, romantic side.

  Shane: It’s a good thing that asshole left town. If he hadn’t, I would be in jail for beating the shit out of him. I hate that he hurt you.

  Bree: You’re sweet. But I’m glad he left town, too. He isn’t worth wrecking your future over. He isn’t worth thinking about except as a lesson learned. My head is on my shoulders now, Walls. I’m not going to make any reckless decisions, and I honestly don’t think we need rules. We’re friends, we get along great, and we’ve always treated each other with respect. Isn’t that all we need?

  Shane: That’s all we need to have a functional relationship, but I’m not talking about safety, doc, I’m talking about fun. The rules in hockey make it fun, too.

  The rules make the game possible, winnable, and awesome.

  Bree: So you want to make…fun rules?

  Shane: Does that sound crazy?

  Bree: Well…no, I guess not. It’s kind of like relationship boundaries. We’re studying those in class right now. We’re mostly talking about dual relationships—when multiple types of connections exist between people, and how it affects power dynamics—but it overlaps with regular old boundaries. Setting limits for your behavior with others helps you stay resilient, happy, and grounded.

  Shane: Exactly. And I want us to be all of those things, which is why I think we should go into this as a fromance instead of a fuck-buddies situation.

  Bree: LOL. A fromance? Like a friendly romance?

&nb
sp; Shane: Right. A romance between friends. I want to flirt with you and tease you and surprise you with fun things in addition to getting our bang on.

  I need to woo you, Sabrina. It’s my nature.

  After thinking about it, I don’t think I can separate sex from wooing.

  Bree: So you’ve never had a friend with benefits before?

  Shane: No. I haven’t. Guess we’re both going to be learning things.

  Bree: Good. I like that. *smiley face emoji*

  Shane: You like the thought of being wooed?

  Bree: I like knowing we’re both going to be fish out of water.

  But yes, I think fromance could be nice. But only if I get to woo you, too.

  I could use some practice. I’m bad at romancing. I either play it too cool and come off disinterested, or I fawn all over the object of my adoration like a swoony, poetry-quoting puppy, and they are repulsed by my emotional slobber.

  I need to find a happy medium.

  Shane: Awesome, but no poetry for me, please. I have a junior college degree in welding. I don’t get poetry. It hurts my brain.