If I'd done the mature thing and owned up to my mistakes, I would have admitted that I'd had enough cash for the tickets, but at the last minute, I'd run into some purple hoodies and completely lost my mind – along with two hundred dollars. However, I wasn't in the mood to own up to anything. Those hoodies were required, damn it.
But they were also the reason that – while a Cobra Starship show was in action less than ten minutes away – I was stuck working the night shift at The Sprinkle Factory. Instead of being one of the many sweaty, adrenaline-fueled people in the audience, I was one of two apron-wearing, scoop-holding employees at a 24-hour ice cream place. Because so many people in a bar-and-casino area like Atlantic City were sober and in the mood for a milkshake at midnight.
"It's almost over," Josh reassured me, resting his hand on my shoulder.
"Your glasses are all lopsided again," I mumbled, brushing his hand away. Josh was one of those sweet, caring, the-glass-is-half-full kinds of people. I bet he's never even swatted a fly.
While he adjusted his ever-crooked glasses, I stole a glance at the wall clock over his shoulder. Almost 2 a.m. In less than thirty minutes, I would be free to go home – or back to the suite that served as my home for the summer. My cousin Amanda – the red-haired, curvier, all-around-better American version of me – worked as a maid at the Bally's hotel. I ate her food. I slept on her couch. She hadn't asked me to clear off yet, so I must have been a decent roommate. Except maybe I shouldn't have done that thing with the toothbrush to her toilet, that might have been –
"Reen," Josh said, in that patient tone of voice that meant I'd been tuning him out for at least a full minute. "I think I see a customer."
I frowned. "We never have customers at this hour."
He pointed. "Look."
Before I could even turn completely, the chimes above the door jangled like car keys, announcing the arrival of a tall, stumbling bloke. With his high cheekbones, his hips, and his flashy sneakers, this guy seemed too familiar. I squinted to make sure I wasn't imagining him in my current state of delirium.
No. I wasn't seeing things quite yet.
Let it be known, here and now, that I did not shout, "Gabe Saporta!" or, "Gabanti!" at the guy, but that I did shout, "Holy shit!" and proceeded to drop my ice-cream scoop. It hit the floor with a clatter.
Gabe lunged for it, landing a good three feet away. He stretched his arm out, his fingers grasping air. I sighed and leaped over the counter, crossing Gabe to reach for the scoop. As I passed him, his other arm shot out from under his body and grabbed hold of my ankle.
"Get the hell off," I snapped. Rudeness was a reflex.
"I want to get it."
"I work here."
The hot pink flush of his skin deepened. Either he was actually embarrassed about the whole ice-cream scoop thing, or he was getting drunker by the second. "Don't you know who I think I am?" he snapped.
"Why, you're Gabe Saporta," I said. "You're the bloke who's piss-drunk and bladdered right now. Get the hell off my ankle."
His mouth quirked up into a smug, adorable grin. One by one, he pried his fingers from my ankle, until only his thumb was pressing into my skin. "I'm leaving my fingerprint on you," he explained. "Leaving my mark."
It was such a stupid gesture – the kind of thing a five-year-old would do to be cute – but it made my insides melt like ice cream left out too long in the sun.
Then I stomped on his fingers and swiped up the ice cream scoop. I handed it to Josh.
"Would you like some ice cream, sir?" he offered, watching Gabe struggle to drag himself across the floor.
"Yeah," Gabe said. "Yeah, I'd like a vanilla –"
His head collided with the counter as he pushed himself up. He clutched his dark hair, his face twisted in pain. "Shit," he whispered. Tears clung to his thick lashes.
Compassion was supposed to be Josh's thing, but the pang in my chest felt a little like sympathy.
"Come on." I offered him my hand. "There's ice in the back."
"I'm fine."
"Gabe."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're drunk and you've banged your head. That's bad. Come with me."
His mouth twitched in frustration. He gave in, reached for my hand and pulled himself up. Without another word, I led him around the counter, to the storage freezer. The door slammed shut behind us.
A sudden blast of cold from the continuous air conditioner sent shivers running through me. Gabe didn't seem to notice the drop in temperature. He watched me with a guarded expression. I looked away, shuffling past stacks of boxes, all loaded with ice cream, to the crates where we kept the crushed ice for the slushie machines. "Can I borrow your cap?" I asked.
Still wary, he took off the bright red baseball cap and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said, then used it to scoop some ice. He watched in horror as I pressed the cap to his forehead. He winced, then his face relaxed again. The solemn expression it held reminded me that he hadn't spoken a word since I'd helped him up.
"You all right?" I asked, struggling to mask the concern in my voice with indifference. Easier said than done. There was something about his brown, puppy-dog eyes that made it so much easier to feel for him – or fall for him. Both of which I was struggling not to do.
"I'm fine," he said again. But his voice was as rigid as he was.
"You look okay," I agreed. "At least, not drunk enough to get arrested on the spot."
He bit his lip, but not before I caught the smile creeping onto his face. "Damn," he said, "and I was so hoping to end up behind bars tonight."
I shifted the ice so that it reached the other side of his head. There was a bump, and it would be huge in the morning, but for once, I kept my mouth shut and smiled.
"What's your name?" Gabe suddenly asked.
"Reen," I answered, cautiously. "Maureen Green. Shut up."
"I like your name," he snickered.
"I told you to shut up."
"No, I'm serious," he laughed. "I like your accent too."
"Say another word and I'll hit you so hard, you'll be drunk all over again."
"I like it when you make threats."
"Stuff it, dipstick."
"I like you."
I dropped the ice. "You – you what? Shit," I muttered, reaching for it at the same time as Gabe.
Our heads knocked. I shot up again, rubbing my temple. Damn. That was going to leave a mark.
Gabe stood again too, watching me curiously. Then he asked: "Do you like me?"
I glared at him. "You're a pain in the arse."
"But do you like me?"
"Also, you talk too much."
"But" – he reached down and snatched up the cap, pressed it back to his swelling forehead – "do you like me?"
I shrugged. "Is that a problem?"
"So you do," he said, perking up.
I tried to give him a filthy look, but he had this domino effect on me. He smiled; I smiled. He laughed; I laughed.
He leaned in; I leaned in. He closed his eyes. Mine fluttered shut.
Our lips touched, then went deeper, our mouths moving together until, at some point, we were kissing.
Someone pounded on the door. "Reen?" Josh called. "Reen, are you all right in there?"
Gabe pulled me closer, one hand holding up his cap, the other cupping my face as his tongue slid through my lips.
"Reen?" The pounding grew louder, more frantic.
Gabe pulled away, eyes wide, like he couldn't believe what had happened. I'm sure my expression mirrored his shock.
"Reen, I'm going to count to ten, okay?" Josh called. "And if you aren't out here, I'm breaking down the door, all right?"
The smirk returned to Gabe's face, completing him, like the cherry on top. "You ready?" he asked, nodding to the door.
"Was I born in London?" I replied, with a smirk of my own. "Let's do this."
Josh gave the door a punch for each number he counted. "Five. Six. Seven."
Gabe and I both reached for the door handle at the same time. I shot him a look.
"Eight. Eight-and-one-fourth. Eight-and-one-half."
"Let go," Gabe said, and I said, "You let go," and he pretend to think about it, then leaned in and kissed me again. My hand dropped from the handle in surprise.
"Eight-and-three-fourths. Nine. Nine-and-one-fourth."
Gabe's mouth smiled against mine. "I got the door," he said. I opened my eyes.
"Nine-and-one-half. Nine-and-three-quarters." The pounding stopped. "Reen?"
Gabe shoved the door open. Heat and light spilled in like sunshine – at two in the morning.
"Thank God," Josh breathed, throwing his long, skinny arms around me. "You scared me for a second there, Reen. Why didn't you answer me? What happened?"
I saw Gabe smirking over Josh's shoulder. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for my reply.
"Everything's fine," I said, rolling my eyes. Then I smiled. "Everything's perfect."
♥
