When We Met

We turned up the volume so we could hear the interview.

“Dalton, I have to ask. What does the C stand for?”

“All I can tell you is that it’s meant for someone very special to me.” With his answer, Dalton looked directly into the camera and held up his hand in the shape of the letter C.

The interview was short. Less than sixty seconds, but it was all I needed. With tears in my eyes, I grabbed my phone, which luckily by now was partially recharged, and sent him a message even though I knew with the game starting he wouldn’t get it for a while. I just hoped he used a password for his phone, because the message was definitely for his eyes only, making it pretty clear what my plans were for him when he returned.

Three days later, the team returned home conference champions, just like Dalton promised. There was a buzz throughout Gruby’s since everyone knew the team would be showing up tonight to celebrate. I bounced around the restaurant, feeling carefree and light as a feather. Dalton and I had talked a lot over the last few days and had grown even closer. He and his dad were still on the outs, but I could tell Dalton felt better after finally confronting him. He still had the big national championship tournament coming up and the team had earned a number-one seed, so expectations were at an all-time high. Somehow I knew Dalton could handle it. It was who he was. With or without the pressure from his father, Dalton was a leader. Only he knew what direction he was going to take with basketball, but he vowed it would be fun again.

I was busy dropping an order ticket off in the kitchen when I heard the whole restaurant explode into cheers. Hurrying out through the swinging door, anxious to see him, I didn’t see the obstacle in front of me until it nearly knocked me on my ass. A large warm pair of hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me on my feet. Lifting my eyes, I found Dalton peering down at me, making my heart race.

“Dalton,” I breathed, trying to give the appearance that I was perfectly calm. “How’s it going?” I knew the question sounded stupid the moment I’d asked it.

“Uh, good.”

Of course it was good. I thumped myself on the head before Dalton grabbed my hands. “Sorry. That was a dumb question. Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.” My words were heartfelt. I wanted him to know that his dad might be a douche, but there were some of us who truly appreciated what he did.

“Thanks, babe.” He reached down to stroke my cheek. “What time do you get off?”

“Why?” I teased him playfully, but seeing him for the first time in several days, I was thinking the same thing.

“Because the only person I want to celebrate with is right here. And the kind of celebrating I have in mind is best done without an audience.”

“Let them look.” I threw my arms around him as he lifted me up and planted a deep kiss on my lips. Loud cheers and catcalls erupted through the sports bar. We would never learn. “We seem to have a thing for making out in very public places,” I whispered, blushing as the staff whooped with delight.

He pulled back slightly. “They’re just jealous. Hey, did you catch my interview?”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked momentarily confused until I winked at him. “Always busting my balls.” He chuckled. “So, I’m thinking a statement like that surely earned me some serious brownie points.”

“Oh, you think so, huh? It really wasn’t all that big. I mean, you’re the one who said, ‘Go big or go home.’” I planted a small kiss on his chin even though we were still being watched.

“Damn. You like making me earn it. Okay, you know I don’t back down. I’ll have to think of something else. You never did say, though. When does your shift end?”

“A few hours.”

“Hell with that. I’m ready to cash in now.” He lifted me into the air again. I couldn’t help squealing with delight.

“You’re the best girlfriend a guy could ask for,” Dalton murmured before kissing me again.

My heart beat a happy dance. Dalton might be the star basketball player, but as far as I was concerned, I was the one who had gotten a slam dunk.

beneath your layers

Christina Lee

chapter one

Chloe

I flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED and breathed a sigh of relief.

A bunch of college freshman had just stormed in last minute, trying on everything in creation, and then walked right out having purchased nothing. And now I was left to clean up their mess. I began by straightening the rows of cotton shirts on the front table and then I’d head back to tackle the dressing rooms.

A tap on the glass door startled me. I turned to see Blake-freaking-Davis standing outside, and my shoulders immediately stiffened. Perfectly square jaw, flawless body, and gorgeous caramel eyes. I dipped my head, focusing my attention on the shirt I was folding so he wouldn’t catch my exaggerated eye roll.

He usually walked around with a cocky grin and no-cares-in-the-world attitude—except when he was sharing the same air space as me. Tonight his teeth were clenched and he appeared to be biting the inside of his cheek to keep his pained expression neutral.

The feeling is mutual, baby.

I grabbed the keys off the counter and sized up his fla

“Jaclyn’s not here,” I said briskly. Jaclyn was Blake’s aunt and the owner of the shop.

“I figured,” he said, twirling his keys in his hand. “I’m a few minutes early.”

“Early for what?” I bit out. “It’s closing time.”

“She asked me to meet her here about some project.” Blake did odd jobs for Jaclyn from time to time, so that information didn’t surprise me. But usually it was on the weekend when he was free from his construction job.

“Oh . . .” I stepped back to allow him entrance. “You can wait for her.”

“No, you know what?” he said, edging away from the door. “Since I have extra time I’ll swing by Common Grounds to grab a coffee. Be right back.”

I knew Common Grounds well, since I made it my daily mission to consume as much of their iced hazelnut coffee as possible.

I was just about to push the door shut when he twisted back to look at me. “Do you, uh . . . want something?”

My jaw dropped open. First, because this was the most he’d spoken to me in like ever. Usually we just ignored each other. And second, because he was actually being considerate. “No, I’m good.”

Once he was gone, I worked faster on the vintage tees table so that I could leave more quickly. The less time I had to spend with Blake, the better.

Smoothing out a Beatles T-shirt, I folded back both sleeves before creasing the sides in the exact way my grandmother had taught me years ago. I was raised in her home after my mother had become pregnant with me and left her fashion career behind.

I’d practically memorized all of my mother’s portfolios, and the looks she’d created for the models in those shoots had been timeless. When the craze was low-riding pants, she’d put them in men’s high-waist trousers—and pulled it off. I pla

Luckily we shared the same passion for style. If we didn’t, I’d feel way more pressure from her than I already did to pick up where she’d left off.

I loved working at Threads and was thrilled that my professor approved it as internship credit. I needed the cash; plus it helped me keep my finger on the pulse of the industry. And Threads offered a little of everything I loved—new styles mixed with trends that stood the test of time.

Those freshmen who’d blown through here earlier didn’t appreciate vintage for what it was—they thought it was just a fad. But sporting a sixties Chanel skirt and handbag was like creating fresh art in my book. Thankfully my mother and I wore the same size. She had retained her closet full of originals from back in her heyday as a wardrobe stylist in New York.