“Are you suggesting we fight to prevent a fight?”
—Captain Kirk

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Saturday, September 6

I arrived at The Jumping Bean at 8:00 a.m. on the dot. Of course Dallas was already there, sitting at a corner table drinking a chai latte. I ordered chamomile tea, hoping to calm my nerves while I interviewed him.

I had a hard time getting my brain to focus on anything other than The Dallas Show. He wasn’t showing off, being stupid, or acting goofy like Toff. He simply sat there in his jeans and tight, long-sleeved thermal shirt typing on his cell, pausing occasionally to give me a questioning smile, while I frantically flipped through the pages of my journalism notebook.

Where the heck were the interview questions? I’d written them out in advance to avoid exactly this situation.

Dallas cleared his throat. I glanced at him, unnerved by how calm he seemed while I was a bundle of jangled nerves.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

I bit my lip and shook my head, flipping through my notebook so fast I tore a page. “I can’t find the questions I was going to ask you.”

Dallas shifted in his chair, watching me as my panic increased. He extended his arm, then rested his hand on top of mine, stilling my frantic page-flipping. Currents of electricity shot up my arm and down my spine while I stared at his hand, at the long fingers that were made for the cello, and probably other amaz—

“How about we just have a conversation?”

I raised my eyes from his hand to his face. He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for my answer, but all I could think of was how warm his hand felt on mine. My gaze darted to his hand, and he quickly removed it, cupping his chai instead.

“A conversation,” I parroted like an idiot bird.

“Yeah.” I heard the smile in his voice even though I stared at the table instead of him.

I willed myself to talk to him just like I would any of my friends. “Okay. First impressions,” I sputtered, vaguely recalling one of the questions I’d written. “Of California. Shady Cove.” I waved my hand nervously. “All of it.”

He kept his eyes on me and ran a hand over his chin. I hated when he did that because of how it drew attention to his extremely kissable lips. He shifted in his chair, stretching his legs out to the side. “So, first impressions.” He paused. “Overall, I’d say things here are…different than I expected.”

I clutched my pen. “Different how?”

He glanced at his phone, which had just pinged with a text. He frowned slightly, then refocused on me. “Well, it looks exactly like I expected, since I Googled the heck out of Shady Cove before we moved here.”

I waited, doodling circles on my paper.

“But not everything is matching up to appearances. Or my expectations.”

My hand stilled. “How so?”

He laughed softly. “It’s colder than I thought it would be. That fog su-stinks.”

“You can say suck, Dallas. I won’t be offended.”

His neck reddened and he shrugged. “Bad habit I’m trying to break.”

That was weird. I wanted to probe but decided to give him a break. “So yeah, the fog. It’s not always like the sunny beaches you see in the movies.”

“The weather’s definitely better than Wisconsin, though.”

I nodded and wrote, “Likes the weather.”

He leaned over to see what I’d written and laughed. “This is going to be the most boring interview ever.”

“So give me a good quote. Tell me something no one knows about you, Vespa Guy. Tell me a secret.”

His eyes darkened behind his glasses. “Maybe later, Spock.”

I swallowed, reaching for my tea. What was I doing, flirting with the one person I shouldn’t be?

“Okay…then tell me about, um…” My voice faltered as his gaze stayed on mine, not blinking. “Tell me…about the cello thing.” I made a lame attempt at pantomiming running a bow across strings.

“The cello thing?” He smirked, mimicking my cello pantomime.

I rolled my eyes. “How long have you played? Are you in the school band? Are you going on tour like those guys from Croatia?”

“Ah.” A knowing smile played at his lips. “You’re one of those girls.”

Warmth coursed through me, and I knew I was blushing. “What girls?” I asked.

“Cello-guy groupies.” He chuckled. “Those Croatians are like catnip to girls like you.”

I squirmed. “I’m hardly a groupie. But I like watching those guys.”

“Obviously.” Laughter danced in his eyes.

“They’re very talented!” I knew my protest sounded ridiculous.

He reached for a sugar packet, then twirled it on the table. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure you’d be just as appreciative of their talent if those guys were less, ah, photogenic.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Photogenic? Is that McNerd code for hot?”

He spun the sugar packet. “You tell me.”

Still blushing, I reached for my pen. “I think we’ve gone off topic. You didn’t answer my question. How long have you been playing?”

“Ten years.”

“Wow. You must be good.”

He shrugged. “I’m all right.”

Which meant he was more than all right. I ignored his false modesty and scribbled cello expert in my notebook. I thought of the hot Croatian cellists bent over their cellos, smoking hot in their leather jackets, their bodies extensions of their instruments, their—

“…and I’m not playing in the band.”

Blinking to clear away my fantasy images, I raised my eyes. “Um, what?”

“No orchestra at the school.” Dallas shrugged again. “Not enough interest, I guess, for a small school. And there’s not really a permanent spot for me in the jazz band. They said once in a while I can play with them, but…” His voice trailed away.

“Huh.” I doodled in my notebook. “That’s weird.”

“It’s not a Glee episode, Vivian. It’s not like I show up and everyone creates an entire performance based around me.”

Whoa. “You don’t have to be so condescending, Dallas.”

For once, he looked flustered instead of me. “That’s not what I—”

“Whatever.” I put up a hand to silence him. I needed to get this interview over with. Fast. “Next question. What about sports? You trying out for any teams?”

His eyes narrowed. “Not surfing.”

“You mean it’s not like a TV show, where the new guy shows up and becomes a master surfer in a few weeks and wins all the trophies?”

We glared at each other like warring soldiers until he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a napkin. I stopped breathing while I watched him, captivated by his long, dark lashes usually hidden behind the lenses.

“I don’t need any more trophies.” He glanced up at me.

“Why don’t you wear contacts?” I blurted, regretting it instantly.

His lips twitched, but he left his glasses on the table. “I do, sometimes.”

“When?” Oh my God. Hormones had taken complete control of my body, including my voice. I glanced at my arms, half-expecting to see marionette strings.

“Is that one of the official interview questions?” He was laughing at me. Maybe not on the outside but definitely on the inside; I saw it in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth. He put his glasses back on and I dropped my gaze, mortified.

“Anyway...” I cleared my throat and forced myself to resume eye contact. “Sports?”

He shook his head. “Not at school.”

I frowned. “You said something about trophies, though. What are they, cello trophies?”

“No. They’re for other stuff.” He tugged at his hair and glanced out the window.

Now I was curious, abnormally so.

“Vespa-riding trophies? Coding medals?”

He turned back to me. “No and no.”

Geez, somebody was touchy. Why’d he mention the trophies if he didn’t want to talk about them? Maybe they were little kid trophies, the ones everyone on the team gets so no one feels bad. No sports, I wrote in my notebook.

He sighed as he read what I wrote.

“That’s not exactly true,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Do you have to know everything about me for this interview?”

I flinched, then closed my notebook. “If you don’t want to do this, I can leave—”

“Vivian, wait.” He leaned across the table, covering my hand with his again. “Don’t storm off. Please.” He looked genuinely distressed.

“I wasn’t going to storm off,” I muttered. “I’m not a drama queen.”

He pulled his hand away, and his worried expression morphed into one of amusement. “Of course you aren’t. There’s no room on Vulcan for drama queens.”

I bit back a smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not used to talking about myself. It feels weird.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you.” I hesitated. “No one reads the paper, anyway, so you don’t have to worry.”

He laughed. “That’s a relief.”

“Soo…” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Sports: yes, no, or prefer not to answer?”

He dropped his gaze and fiddled with his sugar packet. “Not sports how you probably think about it. Next question.”

I didn’t think of myself as a gonzo journalist driven to uncover dirt, but my curiosity was piqued; however, he obviously didn’t want to talk about whatever mysterious activity he did well enough to earn trophies.

“Okay,” I said. “Moving on. Favorite subject in school?”

He glanced up, lips quirking. “Seriously?”

I blushed. “I know it’s stupid. Just answer.”

“Lunch.”

I rolled my eyes. “What are you, ten years old?”

He grinned. “Sometimes.”

I sighed and shook my head. “I didn’t think you’d make this so difficult.”

He raised a shoulder. “I told you I don’t like talking about myself.” He flashed me a grin that showed his dimple, making me wonder what it would be like to kiss it.

“We could talk about something else,” I said, even though I had nothing in mind.

“Great idea. Let’s talk about you.” He pushed his long sleeves up, revealing sinewy forearms that made me bite the inside of my lip.

“Me?” I managed to whisper.

“Sure. My turn to interview you. How long have you lived in Shady Cove?” He reached for my notebook and pen and started writing on a fresh piece of paper.

“Uhh..forever. My whole life.”

He looked at me over his glasses. “That explains a lot.” He scribbled “forever” on the page.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows you, and you know everyone. Makes sense.” He shot me another grin. “Sports: Yes, no, or prefer not to answer.”

“Bike riding. Yoga.”

He gave me an assessing look but said nothing.

I squirmed, hoping he didn’t think I was a Chunky Monkey. “Occasional surfing. Very occasional.”

He smiled faintly. “Because of the sharks?”

“Partly that.” I pictured Jake in his wet suit. “Just not my thing.”

He set down the pen and leaned back in his chair. “Book club. How long have you been doing that?”

I relaxed. I could talk about that all day long. “A couple of years.” I hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I have a review blog, too.”

“Yeah?” He looked impressed. “What’s the website?”

Ugh. Why had I mentioned it?

“Vivian? The website?” He held the pen, waiting.

I shook my head. “It’s not your type of website.”

He smirked. “Reviews about dragon anatomy? Cowboy action? Ropes and boots?”

My face flamed and I glared at him. “You won’t tell me about your secret trophies. I don’t have to tell you about this.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You realize I can Google it, right?”

My stomach felt like it dropped to the floor. “Try it,” I said, forcing bravado into my voice. “You couldn’t figure out my mom’s pen name.”

His eyes flashed. “I think I’ll have better luck with you.”

My pulse sped up. “Why?”

“Insider information.” He took a sip from his cup and grimaced.

“Cold?”

He nodded.

“Want me to heat it up for you?” His body tensed as his eyes locked on mine. Oh God. The loaded words hung there between us, so I grabbed his mug and jumped up from the table. I hurried away to shove his mug into the microwave in the corner of the store. Grateful that my back was to him, I took long, deep breaths.

When I returned to the table, he acted as if nothing zingy had happened between us. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe I’d imagined the heat I saw in his eyes.

Dallas took a sip of his chai and nodded at me. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Do you have any more questions for me?” He leaned back in his chair. I’d never met anyone who watched me so intently but not in a creepy way.

“Packer fan?”

He rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

“Does your family like it here?”

He nodded. “My mom and sister love the ocean. Dad likes teaching at UC.”

“What does he teach?”

“He’s in the Engineering school.”

I smirked. “Figures.”

Dallas smiled faintly but didn’t say anything.

I cleared my throat. So far I had nothing other than basic facts. Mr. Yang wouldn’t be happy. He always wanted a human interest angle. I thought of a question I wanted to ask but shouldn’t. Maybe I could dance around it. “So do you miss Wisconsin?”

He blinked a few times. Now that I knew about his long eyelashes, I realized I could see them behind the glasses, if I dared myself to watch him the way he watched me.

“Sure. I had…have lots of friends there. It would be like if you moved away from here.”

I nodded. “That must suck,” I said, more to myself than him.

“Some days less than others,” he said, his voice low.

We stared at each other without speaking, then he rested an arm on the table and drummed his fingers. “I might go back there for college, though. I applied to the University of Wisconsin.”

“Good choice, since you already have the wardrobe.”

His eyes narrowed, but I focused on his mouth, which was smiling. “I grew up thinking I’d go there since that’s where my dad taught.” He shrugged. “But now my parents are making me apply to California colleges, too. Cal Poly, USC, Berkeley. I’m drowning in college apps right now since the deadlines are coming up.”

“We have the best public colleges in the country,” I mimicked my mom.

He rolled his eyes. “Californians think everything here is better than everywhere else.”

“Isn’t it?” I widened my eyes in mock innocence, and Dallas laughed.

“Some things are. Definitely.” He studied me intently, then shifted his gaze out the window.

Heat rushed through me, but I calmed myself enough to write, “Misses Wisconsin. Might go there for college.”

“So, um, do you stay in touch with your friends?” I still wasn’t brave enough to ask what I wanted to know.

He shifted his gaze from the window back to me. “Sure.” He shrugged. “I talk to a few of my closer friends.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Actual phone calls? Don’t Wisconsonians have texting yet?”

His brow furrowed “Wisconsinites.”

“What?”

“That’s what we call ourselves. Not Wisconsonians.”

“Oh.” I scribbled Wisconsinites in my notebook and underlined it.

“And yes we have texting, but sometimes I like to actually talk to people.”

He had a girlfriend. Guys wouldn’t care if he called, but a girlfriend…

“Do you miss her? Your girlfriend?” I blurted out the words before I could lose my nerve.

His eyebrows shot up and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. It looked as if I’d finally rattled his composure instead of the other way around. It was my turn to lean back in my chair and wait for an answer. He pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. “So you’re Lois Lane in disguise, huh?”

Did that mean I was right? He had a girlfriend back in the land of Badgers and cheeseheads? My heart felt like a ball of lead, sinking to my toes. “Just doing my job. Besides, I’ve been friends with Toff since kindergarten, and I’ve never seen him pick up the phone to call anyone but his dad.”

He pulled at his hair. “Long-distance relationships are hard.” He shrugged. “But even if I was still there, we wouldn’t have lasted.” He took a sip of his chai, eyes fixed on me. “Just wasn’t meant to be.”

My heart ricocheted in my chest. Why was he telling me this? He wouldn’t tell me about his secret trophies, but he’d just told me about his girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, I corrected myself.

“Maybe I’ll try your strategy.” His eyes roved across my face.

“What strategy?” My voice sounded raspy.

“Your replacement mission. Make a list of what type of girl I want.” He paused. “But I’m interested in something longer term. Not just a date for a dance. Want to help me make my list?”

I stared at him as if he’d just asked me to plan a kidnapping.

He smirked, then reached for my notebook again and tore off the sheet of paper he’d written on. “So how does this work?” He inclined his head toward my bag. “You have your replacement notebook with you?”

I gaped at him. Who had told him about my notebook? “Um, this isn’t, uh, why we’re here, Dallas. I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not helping you find a…a…”

“Replacement girlfriend.” Laughter danced in his eyes as he watched me squirm. “Why not? Don’t you want to help out the new guy?”

I huffed a sigh of frustration. “You’re mocking me.”

“No, I’m not. Think about it logically, Spock. You know everyone. You can help me narrow the field.”

I sucked down cold tea, trying to compose myself. Help Dallas narrow the field? Introduce him to potential girlfriends? Everything in me protested, and I knew why.

Because I wanted to be the replacement.

But I couldn’t. That was the whole point of my own mission: not to fall for someone who could make me lose control. Because even if that someone seemed like an amazing person…well…letting myself get carried away again was just too scary.

“We can help each other,” he said. “Since I’m new here, I can give you an outsider’s opinion on your…what do you call them?”

“Targets,” I whispered.

His dimple flashed, deepening as he chuckled. “Targets. Right. So yeah, I’ll give you the outsider’s opinion on your targets. And you give me the inside scoop on my targets.” He paused. “Logically, this should work, Spock.”

“But…but…” I sputtered like a cartoon character. “I don’t know you well enough. To help.”

“You’re getting to know me. Working together in the store. Asking probing interview questions.” He flashed another grin. “And I’ll tell you some of my…criteria. That’s what you call it, right?”

I nodded. My hormones pounded on every nerve in my body, dying to escape and capture Dallas as their personal love slave.

He started scribbling on the paper. “Number one,” he said. “Easy on the eyeballs.” He shot me a quick look, then refocused on his list.

“Wow,” I said, my voice returning. “That’s deep, Dallas. Good to know you care about the important stuff.”

He flashed that stupid dimple again. “Just being honest, Vivian. Are you telling me it’s not on your list? Wanting a guy you think is, uh…” He cleared his throat nervously.

“Hot,” I said. “And no, it’s not on my list. In fact, it’s off my list. On purpose.”

A frown creased his forehead. “What Vulcan stupidity is that?”

I glared at him. “Let’s just say I’ve made that mistake before. Caring too much about chemistry or whatever.” I waved my hands nervously. “Being stupid enough to fall for some guy just because of how…” I was telling him too much. “Never mind.”

“No wonder Jaz thinks your list is a bad idea.” He sounded as if he’d just figured out the answer to a puzzle.

“Well, Jaz didn’t get used by a jackass, so she should keep her opinions to herself,” I snapped, then instantly wished I could shove the words back inside me where they belonged. I dropped my gaze to the table. How had a newspaper interview turned into true confessions?

“Would you like some more tea?” His voice was gentle now, not teasing. I nodded, refusing to look at him.

He took my cup and left the table. I practiced my yoga breathing while he refilled my mug with hot water and retrieved a tea bag. He returned and sat across from me, propping an ankle on his thigh.

“So,” he said. “Now that you know I’m shallow, let’s continue. Number two: she has to be smart.”

I raised my eyes to meet his, but he was looking out the window. “Obviously,” I said, and he snapped his head around.

“Why obviously?”

“Because even though you’re shallow, pretty without smart would bore you. Eventually.”

His lips twitched. “Obviously.”

I took a breath. Maybe I should help him find a girlfriend. If he started dating someone else, I could refocus on my mission instead of him. “So, one: pretty. Two: smart. What’s number three?”

“I’m not done with two. Not just smart but a certain kind of smart.”

I frowned. “Like what?”

“Not just book smart. Also people smart.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever meet someone who’s like a genius, but is also a total ass—uh, jerk?” He looked embarrassed.

“You can swear around me, Dallas. I’m not a delicate flower.”

He still looked flustered. “Anyway, you know what I mean? The type of person who uses her intelligence like a weapon to make other people feel stupid?”

I nodded. “Sure. Sounds like you have some history there.”

His eyes narrowed. “Stop digging, Lois Lane. Number three: she has to be her own person. Not someone who pretends to like the same stuff I do just to make me happy. Someone with her own interests, her own opinions.” He grinned. “Someone who likes a good debate once in a while.”

I took a sip of tea. It just might kill me to help him find his dream girl and watch them ride off into the sunset on his Vespa. “Okay. Pretty, smart, likes to argue.” I tried to sound disinterested. “That’s it?”

“Hmm…it’s a start.”

“Just a start?”

“Well…it’s all you need for now.” He tilted his head toward my bag. “Get out your list.”

“What? No freaking way, Dallas.” A few people turned when I raised my voice.

He grinned. “Feisty, huh?” He nodded toward the piece of paper. “Add feisty as number four.”

“B-but I...I’m not…” I’d never been this flustered by a guy, not even by Jake.

He leaned over to write “Four: feisty.” He raised his eyes to mine. “I didn’t say you were one of my targets, Vivian. I just said I liked feisty. Relax.”

Relax? How could I possibly relax?

“If you won’t show me your notebook, at least tell me all of your criteria.” He started playing with the sugar packet again.

“You already know,” I snapped, bothered that he’d said I wasn’t on his list. “Jaz and Amy told you everything, that day you eavesdropped.”

“Confession: I wasn’t eavesdropping; in fact, I was trying to ignore them. But Jaz is loud.” His eyes practically twinkled. “Maybe they wanted me to overhear them. Ever consider that?”

I gaped at him, then leaned over the table toward him, vibrating with frustration and something else I chose to ignore. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

He grinned. “Most of the time. But not always. Like right now, I’m pretty sure you don’t think I’m funny.” His eyes kept doing that sparkling thing. “You look ready to pounce.”

I started to say that I’d love to attack him but stopped just in time. “Anyway,” I said. “I think the interview is over.”

“Agreed. But the list discussion isn’t. Tell me more of your criteria, or I’ll file an official harassment complaint with the owner of Murder by the Sea, with Jaz and Amy as my witnesses.”

Air whooshed out of me as if he’d punched me. “You don’t give up, do you?

“Nope. It’s one of my best qualities.”

We stared at each other, neither of us blinking. So now we’d moved from bickering to a staring contest? It was fifth grade all over again; however, the longer I stared into his hypnotic green eyes, the harder breathing became. And thinking. I gave up, my eyelids fluttering like birds released from a cage. He blinked, too, and dropped his gaze, clearing his throat.

“My criteria,” I whispered, trying to regain my composure. “One: smart. Two: funny.”

He braced an elbow on the table and leaned his chin in his hand, watching me.

I took a breath. “Three: minimal chemistry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember that one.”

I ignored him and grabbed my own sugar packet to fiddle with. “He has to be um…a gentleman.” I wondered if he understood the meaning underlying my words. No way was I going to say that I didn’t want to date someone who’d just use me, then drop me for the next hookup that came along.

He sat up straight. “Gentleman. Opens car doors, buys dinner, all that stuff.”

“He doesn’t have to buy dinner all the time. We can take turns. That’s not the only definition of a gentleman. I just mean that he’s got to be a good person. I’m not looking for another asshole.”

He tapped the side of his head. “Got it. Regular showers. Tolerates chick music.” He gave me a fake look of horror. “Oh no. You like dancing, don’t you?” He shot me a suggestive grin. “I know you do.”

I blushed, remembering the kitchen dance he’d witnessed.

He shook his head in mock defeat. “I might not be able to help you with this mission, after all. The guys are already bitch—sorry—complaining about the Surfer Ball and the dancing.”

I couldn’t help smiling at how he kept stopping himself from swearing. “Are all Wisconsinites so worried about offending delicate girl ears?”

He ducked his head. “No.” He shrugged. “My mom’s been a freak about it ever since Becca repeated some stuff she overheard me say when I was sp—.” He suddenly clamped his lips shut, looking embarrassed and frustrated.

“When you were what?” I prompted.

He shook his head, refusing to finish his sentence, so I just shrugged and spun my sugar packet. “I think it’s sweet. Most guys can’t finish a sentence without an f-bomb.”

He cleared his throat and pushed his shirtsleeves up farther, revealing even more muscles. I really needed to check Tumblr to see if this was an actual cellist thing or if it was just him.

“So,” he said. “You want a smart, funny gentleman that you have absolutely no desire to sneak to the beach with after curfew.” He laughed softly. “You want a GBF.”

My heart couldn’t take much more of this.

He propped both elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “What about bonus criteria?”

“Like what?” I stared at the dark hair on his forearms, and his long fingers, and—

“—but you tell me.”

I blinked, embarrassed to have zoned out like an arm junkie. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

His lips twitched. “I said I thought we should be open to bonus criteria. Stuff that’s not on our lists that might end up being important, once we notice it in someone else.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

He shrugged. “Well, I’m going to add it to my list.” He picked up his sheet of paper and folded it carefully into fourths, then tucked it into his backpack. “I’ve gotta split. You sure you have enough for an interview? We spent half our time arguing.” He shot me another dimpled grin.

I nodded, ignoring the fact that likes to argue was one of his criteria.

He stood up, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and dangled his helmet from his hand. “I can work Monday after school and stay late that night to work on the inventory; I know we need to get it done. Saturday, too. Unless you, uh, have plans.”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “No plans.”

“When are you doing the homeless interviews?” he asked.

I side-eyed him. I didn’t need, or want, a bodyguard. “I’ll let you know,” I said evasively.

He looked a lot like Spock as he raised one eyebrow, clearly signaling he didn’t believe I’d let him tag along.

“What about your next RC target?” he asked. “No Saturday night date?”

“I told you, no dates. We’re just hanging out to see if…you know…there’s any point to an actual date.”

He raised his eyebrows, staring pointedly at our empty coffee mugs. “Excellent military strategy, Galdi. Covertly assess the target’s strengths and weaknesses.” The smile he gave me made my heart do somersaults.

“It’s not a battlefield, Lang.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Yes it is, Vivian. And I play to win.”

He turned away, his long strides getting him to the exit before I could take another breath.