Almost: a love story Part 2

Worse, the laugh has disoriented me all over again. "Oh?" becomes my dorky uncontrolled response. I suddenly have hundreds of questions about how his room might have looked.

"Yeah," he goes on as though he can read my mind. "I draped my walls with these ugly tan sheets to make the desert lands go on forever. It was more of a fire hazard than anything good." His gaze is now glued back on my face as though he's looking for something, waiting for me to do something.

But what?

I glance down and fiddle with the zipper on my bag, hoping he hasn't deciphered that I'm in absolute unfamiliar territory here. By now, even the toughest kids would be running in the other direction. At the very least they'd be pulling the silent treatment on me. Maybe I'll have to take this on the direct. I could try: There is no reason we need to talk to each other. So let's just stop. As in. Forever. Don't talk to me, I won't talk to you. Deal?

He clears his throat as though he's signaling my turn, but when I refuse to engage he continues, "Anyhow...Twilight, The Hunger Games. Those books were read by thirty million girls and their moms. Guys who admit to being into romance c.r.a.p are lying or whipped. Major whipped. How's that for boy-speak? And those movies? You have to admit they were awkward."

I make the mistake of looking up just then, prepared to blast him for the *romance c.r.a.p' comment and he stuns me stupid. He's in the middle of a total-entire face involved-eyes crinkling-happy grin. Grinning and happy at me, I guess?

"Tatooine, huh? So awesome you know Star Wars facts," he adds nodding. "Do you ever watch the animated stuff?"

Grin. Grin. Grin.

I'm seriously at risk of an old-style faint. Holy-WTHECK? My neck and cheeks are volcano-hot. My entire chest swarms with an uncontrollable b.u.t.terfly attack.

b.u.t.terfly riot.

b.u.t.terfly ma.s.sacre.

Person slaughtered: Me.

Method used: Dimple.

The guy has a dimple. Of course he does. To match the Hollywood chin divot. To make the lump on my forehead pound even harder.

Points for Gray Porter: 3,000,000-bajallion, trillion to the millionth power.

Say something, Jess. Say anything.

And just when I'm about to think of what I should say next, my mouth goes into whacked overdrive like I'm possessed. "The graphic art in Clone Wars is my favorite," I say. "I love how they drew the characters. You know-how everything looks so angular and-"

My words tangle and freeze when my brain finally arrives to shut it down.

Say something but NOT THAT, you psycho!

"Clone Wars. Love it, do I? Yesss." He's actually responded in a Yoda voice!

I blink.

His eyes are kind, sparkling with laughter and still, all too green. Yoda green!

Am I losing my touch? Why won't this guy act like everyone else?

I want to giggle and smile back at him. It takes every ounce of my strength to tamp that urge away and revert to glaring. At a loss, I turn away to shove all of my product samples into my bag as a grey-haired oompa-loompa looking guy stumbles through a door behind the reception area.

"Good, good. You're both here," the man says, pausing to right his gla.s.ses. "I was worried you'd have wandered off."

"No sir, Mr. Foley. Not a chance. Nice to see you again." Gray steps forward and shakes the man's hand.

My heart feels like cards have just been shuffled under it. I recognize my instant disadvantage. How does Gray already know Mr. Foley, the CEO!?

I reach up to make sure my bun is holding and take a couple steps in their direction while I staple on a confident smile of my own.

Mr. Foley saves me by speaking first. "You must be Jessica Jordan." He shakes my hand. "I heard you had quite an interview yesterday. My product development manager says you're fantastic. She hasn't been this fired up about new products since we put unbreakable Plexiglas on the Dragon-Fire Sword replicas! Can't wait to get a look at your geek-girl book b.u.mper stickers. I hope you brought them back."

I shoot Gray a smug smile. "Of course. It's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Foley."

"Yes. Good," Mr. Foley says and seems to be giving me the once over.

I hope he approves of my carefully chosen Geekstuff.com outfit: the Ultimate Long-Safari-Skirt. Color: Puce. Sale price: $42.95. I've combined it with the Peter Pan Office Shirt, color: bright-white. Price $34.00. An item that has never been marked up or down for the past two years. A point I can't wait to bring up during my interview.

Mr. Foley's smile and small nod shows he's recognized that I'm not only an interviewee, but a valued customer, as well.

Let my points roll in. Fifty-zillion for me. Take that, Porter!

"Do you two know each other?" Mr. Foley gestures between us.

"Oh yes," Gray says in what sounds like a sarcastic tone.

"No." I blast Gray with a look. He better cut the games, now.

"So you do, or, you don't?" Mr. Foley asks again, scratching the top of his balding head.

"Sort of," I say.

"Yeah...that's what I meant," Gray says. He breaks my gaze and flushes.

"We're in the same school," I add.

"Good. That makes what I have to tell you less awkward." Mr. Foley smiles.

I have to force myself not to roll my eyes.

If this morning gets any more awkward, I could easily self-combust.

Mr. Foley continues, "Our order fulfillment servers went down and I'm helping Q.A. review a temporary hack. It's why I'm so late. Might take awhile before I can get to the interviews. Can you hold here until the fire's out?"

"No problem." I nod, hoping my expression is a perfect mix of concern and absolute hire-me, NOT HIM, sparkle.

I risk another glance at Gray and note he seems supremely uncomfortable about the new plan. We've sort of exhausted all bizarre topics possible. I'm guessing he's not looking forward to the next round of being alone with me.

Hanging with him is not at the top of my list either, but I'm not going to let anyone know that with a c.r.a.ppy poker-face. If Mr. Foley notices Gray's reaction, I'll simply gain another point for my side.

I shoot Gray a taunting, deadly smile as I continue, "I have all day, Mr. Foley. Please take your time."

"Yeah, as long as you need," Gray says.

Gray responds to my challenge with a head-shake and an odd half-smile. The guy is whacked, that has to be it.

"Are we the only people expected for the final interview?" Gray asks. He's turned his back on me. I think he's trying to block my view of Mr. Foley with his giant...giant self!

"Yes. You two are the best of the bunch. Wish I had the budget to keep you both. This is not going to be an easy decision." Mr. Foley sighs and removes his gla.s.ses to polish them on his shirt.

I step around Gray so I can be in Mr. Foley's view, but Gray beats me to the conversation again. "Is there anything we can do to help? Maybe extra hands are needed?" He sounds infuriatingly competent.

"Yes. Can I help too?" I ask, but I know I sound unoriginal-like I'm copying.

Because I am! I can't believe I underestimated Gray this much.

I'm hardly able to hold my placid smile steady through my gritted teeth, but Mr. Foley doesn't seem to notice.

WHY?.

Because he's not looking at me! He's busy smiling at Gray as though they shared some sort of private joke at yesterday's interview.

As though Gray Porter had gone home for dinner, met his wife and saved his dog from drowning!

For a consolation prize, my soon to be NOT BOSS tosses me a nod as he directly answers Gray's question, not mine. "Might take you up on that, son. Sorry about this. It won't be too long, just hang tight and I'll be back." He gives us one last, apologetic glance and a small wave before darting through the door.

I want to scream.

Mr. Foley just called my only compet.i.tion for this internship, son.

SON?!.

It's apparent I've lost the job. I eye the tense set of Gray's back and wonder what's bugging him. Can he not tell? He's Mr. Foley's golden boy.

Gray's paced across the room to the farthest point away from me. I've heard him mutter the word "c.r.a.p" like six times. As if he's the one who needs to freak out right now.

I consider the possibility that he's been pretending to be relaxed around me but can no longer hide the fact that I've finally broken through. Made him back off and fear me like he should.

Good. Let's hope that's the case. I can't leave here without this job.

Maybe I can push him harder-convince him to leave. If he's too stupid to know he's the chosen one I'm not going to bring it up. I'm going to imply the opposite.

I let out a long, attention-getting sigh and fold my arms to re-muster my smug confidence while swallowing the lump of fear lodged in the back of my throat.

"So...do you want to confess anything to me? Come clean? We seem to have lots of time."

He sucks in a breath as though my comment startled him.

"I-what-d-do you mean?"

Yes. He stuttered! I'm back on, and I'm kicking off round two. This time, I know all of his tricks: dimples, divots, smiles, and cute eye-crinkle things. Bring it on.

When he turns, I could swear he's gone completely pale and my confidence builds. I go for another sigh-the dismissive, bored one. The one that used to make the therapist say, "I think we're done for today, Jessica."

I dig in again. "You know you don't belong here. You aren't even a geek. I think you should tell me why you thought it appropriate to fling yourself all over my car. Were you trying to scare me?"

"I didn't think and I-" He flushes, still stuttering, "I-"

I don't let him finish.

"Just say it; you were trying to make me bomb the interview. I'm not an idiot. Scaring me off is the only way you'll get this job, and I think you know it." I stroll to the purple couch, place my bag on the gla.s.s oval coffee table and take a seat as though I own the place. "Decent, but failed attempt. You won't be getting any second chances."

"You were the one pulling the park-and-hide trick, not me," he says, all hints of his previous stutter are now erased. "In case you didn't notice, the spot where you chose to park is hidden by dumpsters. Come clean on that, because it looked like you were playing your own game out there."

I'm beginning to suspect this guy is as good at hiding his true feelings as I am. I know I had him sweating it just seconds ago, but now he's turned it back on me. I'm not about to admit that I arrive early to everything so I can take a nap first, so I go for a half-truth. "I parked in the shade to hang out. Behind the dumpsters is only shady spot in the whole lot. Last I'd heard, parking in the shade is not a game, or a crime. But stalking and attacking innocent people are felonies."

"Christ! I noticed your car, and I noticed you in it-snoring away. I also noticed you weren't going to wake up. You're lucky I took the trouble to give you a little a.s.sist. You owe me. You could have missed this whole interview."

I move into full-fight mode. "Oh, I owe you, do I? FYI. I wasn't asleep, you moron. I was resting. Listening to my iPod. Thanks to you, I've got bruises on my knees and a lump the size of Texas on my forehead. If you're looking for some kind of payback for what you did-well, you caused more damage than a herd of buffalo. You owe me-like plastic surgery or something!" I point at the lump.

"I'm sorry, okay? I did not intend to scare you." He stalks toward me so quickly that I don't have time to move or read his expression-as if I could.

He squats low and moves my bangs aside to survey the lump. I'm staring at the way his beige interview pants have tightened over his thighs-the way his shirt stretches over his biceps. Then, I stop breathing all together.

When I look up I read only sincere concern and apology in his expression. Not sure what to do with a guy this close to me, I decide to keep holding my breath until I count the gold flecks in each of his irises-five times two is ten total. Slowly, I risk one slow breath through my nose. And then another.

"It's pretty bad-needs ice," he says, jolting me back onto the planet by running his thumb lightly over the lump. I gasp, trying to hide the goose b.u.mps that are running up the back of my neck. "Sorry. Is it really painful?"

"Yes-no, I don't know. Sort of." I blink, annoyed by my epic choice of one syllable words.

"I see lots of head b.u.mps with the kids I coach at the rink. This one looks okay, but if you feel nauseous you might need to go to the ER."

"Not a chance-but again-a nice attempt at getting rid of me."

He smiles as his eyes scan my whole face. "You're funny. Anyone ever told you that?"

I feel a strange flutter at the base of my throat and deep inside my chest.

Holy. This has to be more b.u.t.terflies. Terrible b.u.t.terflies. My chest tightens, twisting as if it's imploded. I work to swallow. I'm suddenly afraid rainbow-winged insects are about to shoot out of my mouth and hit him in the nose.

"I didn't mean to scare you in the parking lot. Swear," he goes on, oblivious to the fact that I'm losing my mind. His gaze bores deeper into mine. "I'm sorry. Really, sorry. I messed up. Jess... I swear I thought you needed me to wake you up."

I think I love and somehow hate the way Gray has just said my name. Like he knows me. Like we're friends when we're anything but.

I swallow and stare at his chin divot because I'm terrified to look anywhere else. My therapist told me if I was ever surprised by someone-a guy-approaching me -touching me- that anything could happen.

Anything as in: me-going berserk.

But I didn't. And I'm not going to!

As awkward as this moment is, I'm intrigued with the possibilities of what this could mean. Gray Porter holding up my bangs while I memorize the depth of his chin divot ranks at the top of my things-that-have-overly-surprised me list! I don't really have such a list. But when I get home, I'm making one.

I have no urge to scratch out his eyes, or cry or-well-do anything my therapist said I might do.