After years of being the subject of ridicule, she revels in her ability to make the in-crowd cower via the exposés on her blog, The Eastline Spy. Now that she’s carved out her place in the high school hierarchy, she uses her position to help the unpopular kids walking the hallways.
Saving a freshman from bullies? Check.
Swapping insults with the head cheerleader? Check.
Falling for the star quarterback? So not a part of her plan.
But when Brett offers to help her solve the mystery of who’s posting X-rated videos from the girls’ locker room, she’ll have to swallow her pride and learn to see past the high school stereotypes she’s never questioned—until now.
Growing up in small town Alabama, Crista relied on story-telling as a natural way for her to pass the time and keep her two younger sisters entertained.
She currently lives in the Audi-filled suburbs of Seattle with her husband and two children, maintaining her alter ego of mild-mannered physician by day while she continues to pursue writing on nights and weekends.
Just for laughs, here are some of the jobs she’s had in the past to pay the bills: barista, bartender, sommelier, stagehand, actress, morgue attendant, and autopsy assistant.
And she’s also a recovering LARPer. (She blames it on her crazy college days)
For the latest updates, deleted scenes, and answers to any burning questions you have, please check out her webpage, www.CristaMcHugh.com.
“By the way, I brought something from home that you might find helpful.” He pulled a black contraption from his backpack. “This is an infant carrier—very useful when you want to keep your hands free while carrying the baby.”
I tried to make sense of all the straps and fasteners, but after a few seconds, I was completely lost. I gritted my teeth. I would have to ask Brett for help. “How does it work?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” He looped two of the straps around my shoulders and snapped them into place. “The X goes in the back, and the pouch goes in the front like so. Then, you put the baby here and lock into place.”
Five seconds later, the doll was pressed against my chest, and Brett was conveniently helping it rest its head comfortably on my boobs. And much to my horror, I kind of liked him standing this close to me, touching that part of my body. It was far from actual groping, but every little brush of his fingers sent a little shiver through me. I was running dangerously close to giving into my hormones and letting him continue.
I slapped his hands away before it was too late. “Hands off!”
He backed away, hands up in front of him. “What? You have a nice rack.” His gaze lingered on that part of my anatomy. “In fact, I’m a little envious of Junior there.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.” I turned around and tried adjusting the doll so it wasn’t being smothered in my cleavage. The reprieve also gave me a moment to pull myself together. My cheeks were still burning from the realization that I was suffering from a bad case of Brett-itis. “Actually, I can. You’re a bonehead jock who’s too busy thinking with his dick.”
“God gave men both a brain and a penis and only enough blood to use one at a time,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Well, start thinking with your other head before I take the lower one out of commission.”
“And we’re back to the ball-busting.” The amused glint in his dark brown eyes told me he’d witnessed my moment of weakness, that he saw the flush that still lingered in my face (and other parts of my body I refused to acknowledge). “So, back to getting your phone number…”
I closed my eyes to clear my head. “Just for exchanges, right?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“Yes.” So far, every conversation I’d had with Brett ended with me alternating between wanting to punch him in the face or jump his bones.
“No worries.” When I opened my eyes, he was focused on his phone. “Anytime now.”
I gave him my number, which he entered into his contacts. Part of me wanted to snicker. How pissed off would Summer be once she discovered my number in his phone?
“Do you want my number?” he asked when he was done.
“Kind of hard to get to my phone with this doll strapped to my chest.”
His eyes flickered to my chest again. This time, I managed to limit my response to pure annoyance and snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Eyes up here, bucko.”
“Fine, let me write it down for you.” He tore a scrap of paper off something in his backpack and scribbled his number on it. He pressed it into my palm, reviving that irritating shiver I got every time he touched me. “I’m sure you’re just dying to conveniently misplace this, but please wait until after the project is done.”
The slip of paper reminded me of the one I found yesterday, but the bell rang before I could confront him about that. He was gone, and I was left with an eight-pound computerized doll and a growing sense of confusion when it came to Brett Pederson.
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