Pride

“Kane, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. She lifted it to her cheek and sighed at the soft caress of the fabric.

“Is this-?”

“Cashmere,” he confirmed.

“But it’s too nice, I couldn’t-”

“You’ll look beautiful in it,” he assured her, wrapping it softly around her neck. “And this way, you’ll be nice and cozy up in the mountains this weekend.” He raised an eyebrow. “Just in case I’m not enough to keep you warm.”

Beth laughed and snuggled against him-suddenly, she didn’t care what she was wearing, or how she looked or smelled. She just cared that she had a warm body to lean against, warm lips to kiss.

“Meet me back here at the end of my shift?” she whispered as they finally broke apart.

“You can count on me.”

And she was beginning to wonder if it might just be true.

www.matchmadeinhaven.com

username: Spitfire

password: MStevens88

Friday’s entree at the Haven High cafeteria: meat loaf

(Miranda thought this last log-in requirement was a master stroke-how else would the Web site screen out all the perverts and cyberfreaks?) She hit enter, and the final version of her profile popped up on the screen.

User Profile: Spitfire

Sex: female

Age: 17

Height: 5?2?

(Okay, so she’d added an extra inch and a half-but who knows, maybe she was still growing.)

Favorite color: scarlet

Favorite food: ____________________

If I were an animal, I’d be: an elephant

(It wasn’t sexy, but had the virtue of being true.)

Best lie I’ve ever told: Mom, you look great today-have you lost weight? And can I have a raise in my allowance?

Celebrity I most look like: Scarlett Johannson

(Um… maybe if you squinted? While you were high?)

Three things I can’t live without: 1) my iPod, 2) my best friend, 3) chocolate chip cookies

I am… always ready to laugh, or to make you laugh. Honest, loyal, fun (and totally willing to hold a grudge on your behalf).

You are… someone who thinks these questions are as stupid as I do. Someone who knows how to have a good time without making an ass of himself-and if the latter can’t be helped, at least is able to laugh at himself. Someone who knows what the word “latter” means. Basically, you’re smart, funny, confident, and you love that I’m all those things too.

The confident thing was a lie, of course, but she’d thought it would look good, and might attract the right kind of guy. The kind who wasn’t a desperate freak too pathetic to find his own flesh-and-blood dates. If any of the guys on matchmadeinhaven.com actually fit that profile-Miranda was seriously skeptical.

But, crazy or not, she’d decided to go for it. What, other than the final shreds of her dignity, did she have to lose?

Chapter 3

“Here’s your uniform, and here’s your mop.”

“My… mop?” Harper took the outstretched polyester hoop skirt, holding it between the tips of two fingers as if afraid of catching its germs. She just stared at the mop, however-no way was she touching that thing, much less pushing it around.

“What, did you think I was going to start you out as a waitress?” Mr. White, the Nifty Fifties manager, threw his head back and burst into mean-spirited laughter, his double chins jiggling in time with his throaty cackles. Finally he stopped, rubbing his bald spot thoughtfully. “Well, you’re pretty enough to be out front, I’ll give you that.”

Harper held herself still as his beady eyes swept over her body. He was gross-but if it meant losing the mop, well… let him look.

“But you’ve got no experience,” he continued. “You can start training as a waitress as soon as your supervisor thinks you’re ready.”

“My supervisor? Aren’t you my supervisor?” Harper looked around the restaurant, wondering which of the crater-faced losers would be bossing her around. Maybe this was a good thing, she thought-at least she wouldn’t have to humiliate herself, serving people she knew. Safe in back with the mop, she could work completely undercover.

“Me?” Mr. White expelled another hearty chuckle. “I don’t supervise people at your level. No, I’ve got someone perfect for the job. In fact, you probably know her.” He stuck his bulbous head out of the kitchen door, bellowing, “Manning! Get back here for a minute.”

Harper’s knees almost gave out, and she was forced to lean against the grimy wall for support. Of course, she thought. She should have known.

“Yes, Mr. White?” Beth bounded into the kitchen and stopped short when she saw Harper, looking horrified. Harper couldn’t even take her usual pleasure at the sight of Beth in her tacky uniform, knowing full well that soon, she’d be sharing the same fate.

“Good news, I’m giving you a little helper,” the manager said shortly. “Harper Grace, meet Beth Manning, your new boss.”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Beth said coolly.

“Yep, I figured.” He thrust the mop handle into Harper’s hands and kicked a rolling bucket of soapy water toward her. She squealed and squirmed away as some of it sloshed over the top and splattered onto her faux Manolos.

“I want Harper here to start with the basics: floors, toilets, spills-you know the drill. And don’t be giving her any special treatment just because you two are friends-got that?”

“Oh yes, Mr. White,” Beth assured him, a broad smile crossing her face. “I know exactly what to do with her.”

Harper leaned back against the wall again and clenched the mop tightly.

You can handle this, she told herself sternly.

She just hoped it was true.

Adam usually counted the days until the start of basketball season. Though too modest to admit it aloud, he knew exactly how good he was at nearly every sport Haven High had to offer. Last year he’d led the league in lacrosse assists, and as captain of the swim team he’d just set a new school record in the butterfly relay-but there was nothing like basketball. It wasn’t just the adulation of the town during basketball season: the cheers of the crowd, the triumphant headlines, the adoring cheerleaders-though all of that helped. It was the game itself, the rough, heavy feel of the ball cradled in his hands, the flicker of weightlessness in those moments his feet left the ground, the cool certainty of a perfect shot, when the ball flew from your fingers, sailing through the air in a perfect arc. You could close your eyes, turn away-and just wait for the soft, satisfying swish.

He’d woken at dawn that morning and spent the day bouncing around the house, filled with nervous energy, just waiting for nightfall, for the first practice of the season. Now that he was finally stepping into the locker room, he suddenly realized he hadn’t felt so happy, so relaxed in weeks. And then, in an instant, it all went to shit.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sourly.

“I-”

“Never mind, I don’t want to hear it.” Adam turned away and flung open his locker, throwing his gym bag to the floor and pulling off his T-shirt in one fast, fluid motion. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. He