Two things happened simultaneously.
The first thing was I felt the douchebag’s fingers pinch my butt cheek.
The second was I saw the flash of a phone camera behind me as someone took a picture.
I turned around, swatting his hand away, my eyes burning like I’d just opened them in a pool full of chlorine.
“What in the hell?” I roared.
The kid looked me straight in the eye, chewing on the straw of his milkshake with a vicious grin.
“I heard the stories about you, Messy Nessy. You like to slip under the bleachers with boys, don’t ya? I can take you back to the scene of the crime, if you feel nostalgic.”
I was about to lose my temper, job, and freedom and really kill the kid when he was saved by the （Southern） belle.
“Waitress? Yoo-hoo, can I get some help here?” Gabriella waved her arm in the air, giving her extra shiny hair a casual flip.
I pointed at that kid. “I hope you choke on your straw.”
“I hope you choke on my straw.”
“That’s probably about accurate for size, I’m guessing.”
“Turner!” Jerry barked, suddenly paying attention to this interaction.
“All right, all right,” I muttered.
My only consolation was that, with a face and pickup lines like those, Drew hoodie kid was bound to stay a virgin deep into his thirties.
Still, it sucked that I had to keep this job to be able to provide for Bear. Finding a job in Fairhope was no easy feat, especially with my reputation. Secretly, though, I’d always wanted to save up enough to study something I liked and find something else.
I stomped my way toward Gabriella and Cruz’s booth, too angry to feel the usual anxiety that accompanied dealing with the town’s golden boy.
Cruz Costello was, and always would be, Fairhope’s favorite son.
When we were in middle school, he’d written a letter to the president, so eloquent, so hopeful, so touching, that he and his family were invited to the Thanksgiving ceremony at the White House.
In high school, Cruz was the quarterback who’d led Fairhope High to the state finals—the only time the school had ever gotten that far.
He was the only Fairhope resident to ever attend an Ivy League school.
The Great Hope of Fairhope （Yup. I went there with the puns. Deal with it）。
The one who helped Diana Hudgens give birth in her truck on a stormy Christmas Eve and earned a picture in the local newspaper, holding the crying baby with a smile, blood dripping along his muscular forearms.
It didn’t help that upon graduation from college, Cruz had followed in his retired father’s footsteps and become the town’s beloved family physician.
He was, for all appearances, holier than the water Jesus walked upon, more virtuous than Mother Teresa, and, perhaps most maddening of all, hotter than Ryan Gosling.
In. Drive.
Tall, lean, loose-limbed, and in possession of cheekbones that, frankly, should be outlawed.
He even had a pornstache he was unaware made him extra sexy. There wasn’t a woman within the town’s limit who didn’t want to see her juices on that ’stache.
Even his attire of a blind, senior CPA, consisting of khaki pants, pristine white socks, and polo shirts, couldn’t take away from the fact that the man was ride-able to a fault.
Luckily—and I use that term loosely because there was nothing lucky about my life—I was so appalled by Cruz’s general existence that I was pretty much immune to his allure.
I stopped at their table, leaning a hip against the worn-out booth and popping my gum extra loudly to hide the nervous hiccup from being touched by that kid. Whenever the occasional urge to speak up for myself rose, I remembered my job prospects in this town were slimmer than Gabby’s waist. Raising a thirteen-year-old wasn’t cheap, and besides, moving back in with my parents was not feasible. I did not get along with Momma Turner.
“Top of the mornin’ to you. How can I help Fairhope’s Bold and Beautiful?”
Gabriella scrunched her button nose in distaste. She wore casual skinny jeans, an expensive white cashmere shawl, and understated jewelry, giving her the chic appearance of effortlessness （and possibly French）。
“How are you, Nessy?” she asked without moving her lips much.
“Well, Gabriella, every morning I wake up on the wrong side of capitalism, I’m pretty sure my car’s about to die, and my back’s not getting any younger. So all in all, pretty good, thanks for asking. Yourself?”
“I just got a big contract with a cosmetic company that will probably gain my blog a lot of traction, so really good.”