Crave (Harlequin Teen)

waggled his eyebrows like a goofy comedian while he gave me money for his order.
    I tried to put on my Ice Princess mask but wasn’t quick enough. A small laugh escaped me. “Well, it would be convenient for flirting with the Charmers.” In fact, the escorts were notorious for dating the Charmers. Since his player notoriety was already firmly established in our school, he’d fit right in.
    “Good point. It would make it easier to actually see a Charmer, since your team seems to have nonstop practices and performances.”
    I nodded, though the idea of his dating a Charmer made my stomach churn.
    “So you think I should do it?” He stopped smiling, solemnly waiting as if my answer actually mattered to him.
    “I…” Because I yearned to gaze into his eyes, I stared down at the five-dollar bill he’d given me instead. “I’ll go get your change.”
    I tried not to run for the safety of the kitchen. What refuge could it really offer anyway? The building was mostly glass on the upper half of its front three walls. And I knew with absolute certainty that Tristan was staring at me now. Probably wondering if I was nuts.
    I lingered inside until the manager frowned at me, then I slowly walked back to his truck. “Here’s your change.” I counted it out, careful not to touch him in the process.
    “Aren’t you going to give me something?”
    Pulse racing, my gaze slid up to his mouth. “What?”
    “A straw?”
    “Oh!” With a relieved laugh, I got him a straw from my half apron’s pocket.
    And gasped as his fingers wrapped around both the straw and my hand. “And your answer to my question?” he murmured, his hold a gentle torment to my skin.
    A breeze kicked up around us, bringing with it the slightest hint of his cologne, a little bit spicy, a little bit cool and crisp. I wanted to drink it in.
    What was the question?
    Oh, yeah. Should he be a Charmers escort?
    Oh, Lord, what a question to ask me of all people, and while holding my hand, too. He must know or at least suspect that I had a crush on him. Okay, a bit more than a crush now, but that was beside the point.
    He stared at me, still waiting for my answer, his strong fingers gentle and warm on my skin. Oh, crud.
    “Um, Tristan, I think you should do whatever will make you happy.” There, that was a good reply. “I’d better go. Thanks for helping out the Charmers. Have a great…” Whatever else I had meant to say was forgotten as he lifted my hand to press a kiss to the back of it.
    He paused then murmured, “Thanks for helping me decide.”
    After he released my hand, I stumbled away a few steps, completely speechless. We both froze for what seemed a long time. When I could think again, I turned and slowly walked to the safety of the kitchen, rubbing my still-tingling hand as I went.
    Tristan
    I sat in my truck, unable to move or do anything but watch Savannah walk away from what she probably thought was another crazy stalker.
    Was it too much too soon, kissing her hand like that? I’d hoped it would remind her of our shared dream last night. But what if it scared her off instead?
    I’d hoped that after last night we could make more progress today. I’d had it all scripted out, though I’d had to order a milk shake I didn’t want just to get her to come to my truck. But the conversation hadn’t followed the plan at all. Why couldn’t I get her to relax and be herself with me in real life like I could in our dreams?
    Somehow I had to get her to let her guard down around me in real life, too. One or two shared dreams a year wasn’t going to cut it. We needed to spend more waking time together.
    Hmm. Well, she did say I should do whatever would make me happy. Mom had said “any activity but sports.” And seeing Savannah every day up close and outside the Clann’s spying eyes would definitely make me happy as well as give her time to learn to relax around me.
    Grinning, I grabbed my cell phone, pulled up the internet and searched Google for a certain woman’s number.
    Savannah
    I clutched my thermos cup of tea in one hand and the ring of team keys in the other as I got out of my truck in the JHS front parking lot. The truck was an old, single-cab Chevy S10, primer gray and in desperate need of a few layers of paint. My father had had it delivered last week for my sixteenth birthday, an obvious and unsuccessful bribe to try and get me to talk to him again. Apparently speaking with his daughter didn’t even rate a truck with an