Amaranthine

Chapter Five

 © Copyright 2011
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Discombobulate: (dis-kam-bob-you-late)

to throw into a state of mental confusion

cause to be unable to think clearly

 

I was going to call Luke to say thank you as soon as I figured out which direction I should go to reach my first class. It was math, room two twenty. I squinted at the numbers above the office and pondered the merits of schools being equipped with one of those you-are-here directories when he approached.

“Help you find something?”

His voice was agonizingly familiar. I'd memorized its sound and the face it belonged to weeks ago. It’d been on a vicious merry go round in my mind ever since.  Coffee Shop Boy. My body froze, but my eyes rebelled and stole a look ahead. The button on his jeans was worn, tarnished silver and once again the black t-shirt he wore hugged him in places that made even my good knee weak. Perfect. Coffee Shop Boy and Parking Lot Boy were one and the same.

“You. You’re the boy from the coffee shop.” Genius, Ireland, well done.

He stepped closer, looking behind my shoulder. “You. You’re the girl from the coffee shop.”

“Yeah.” My cheeks flushed hot with fire, betraying the secret thoughts I’d had about him.

“Yeah.” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. He was enjoying this, maybe too much.

I moved to the side. “Okay, uh, thanks.”

Being faster than me was no longer something to consider an accomplishment, and by the time I had my crutches in place to move, his body blocked the way. “Thanks for what?”

“Nothing. Thanks for nothing.”

Stop talking. Just. Stop. Talking.

He smirked. “You’re welcome for nothing. What's the rush?”

“I-I need to get to math.”

“Well, seems to me you aren’t going anywhere fast and you’ve already been so kind as to thank me for nothing, so the least I can do is show you the way.”

My heart skipped. “I don’t need help.” The only thing I truly needed was to get away from him. It was like he turned on my stupid switch.

He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t let you go.”

“I beg your pardon?” I moved to cross my arms over my chest but succeeded only in dropping my backpack, which almost took me to the floor with it.

He bent over and picked it up. “You don't have to beg me for anything, you just have to ask. Anyway, I have a reputation to uphold. You’re new, you’re lost, and you need me.”

Why the universe insisted on making every hot guy unavailable, gay or arrogant was beyond my understanding. “I don't need you,” I corrected him. “In fact, I don't even know you. Can I please have my backpack?”

I stretched my arm out expectantly but he pulled the bag in toward his chest as if it was his mission to protect it. “Again, afraid not. Why don’t you drop the ice queen routine you got going on? I'm not buying it.”

Oh. My. God. Really? It was going to be like this, was it? I looked at the ceiling and prayed for some kind of patience, or at the very least for my backpack so I could hurl it at his face. “I don't need you.”