The Real You
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A. Knighton
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409K
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63
Game On
TARA
I tuck a loose curl behind Daisy’s ear with one hand and dig in my purse with the other.
“Sweetie, he’s not worth it.”
Daisy keeps sniffling. Her cute little nose is turning red, and I’m still searching for the tissues. My keys, a tampon, a pen, and then…bingo!
“Here, take this.” I pull a tissue out of the pack in my hand and give it to my crying client.
She hired me to help with her wardrobe, but now she needs reassurance, and I can’t just leave her sobbing at the mall’s coffee shop.
Discreetly, I glance at my watch. Shit. I should already be on my way to campus.
The guy I’m meeting at the college library already can’t stand me. If I make him wait, he’ll hate me even more.
“It’s pointless, Tara,” Daisy mumbles, dabbing at her red eyes. “I’m making a huge effort, and he won’t even notice.”
A fresh teardrop rolls down her cheek, and I wipe it off with my thumb. My gaze zeros in on her naturally long eyelashes.
Lots of girls would kill to have them. She could bat those lashes, and guys would do anything she wants.
The right guys. Not the jerk she’s been trying to impress.
“Daisy,” I say, placing a palm on her wet cheek so she’ll look at me. “You’re making an effort for you. You’ll look fabulous in your new pretty clothes for you. For you, not him. If he fails to notice how amazing you are, he’s not worth it.”
“I’m fat,” Daisy cries.
I smooth my hand over her back. “You’re beautiful. He’s just not your guy.”
Janet puts a glass of water on our table. “Listen to Tara,” she says. “The girl knows damn well what she’s doing. ’Em boys will fall at your feet like flies after a spritz of repellent. Look at me here. See the meat on these bones?”
Daisy looks at Janet and smiles. “You’re pretty.”
“Honey, I know, and so does my husband because he’s the right guy. That douche canoe you’ve been crying over isn’t your guy.”
A woman enters the coffee shop, and Janet winks at us. “Self-love, always.”
“You’ll look amazing in your new outfits,” I tell Daisy when Janet saunters off to take her new customer’s order. “Just remember that the dresses are for you. You have to wear them. Own them. It’s you who owns the outfit, not the other way around.”
Daisy downs her water and smiles. She has a beautiful smile and curly, shiny chocolate hair that brushes her shoulders.
Hopefully, the new clothes I helped her choose will give her some confidence.
“Thank you, Tara,” she says.
I gently squeeze her hand. “Not at all.”
“How much do I owe you for the coffee?”
“It’s on me.”
Daisy starts to thank me again, but I silence her by pulling her into a quick hug. “Send me a picture, okay? And tell me what your best friend thinks.”
“Oh my God, she’s gonna lose it.” Daisy lets out a little squeal, and relief loosens my muscles. I’d hate to leave her sad and crying.
I rise to my feet, snatching my Chanel tote bag from the back of my chair. “Have a great afternoon, Daisy.”
“You too, Tara,” she says, beaming.
Janet is back to her usual spot behind the counter. I walk up to her and retrieve my wallet from my purse.
“Those girls are lucky to have you,” Janet says, pointing her chin at Daisy’s retreating frame. “I wish I had my Tara when I was twenty and clueless. I saw the latest pictures you uploaded. That’s not personal shopping, my sweet girl. That’s art.”
I shrug, heat climbing my neck. “I like making people happy. Working till late today?”
“You bet,” Janet says, winking. “But it’s okay. We’re saving for that cruise, girl. I can’t wait.”
I tap my card on the reader. “It’s gonna be fantastic.”
“It better,” Janet says, giving me her signature broad grin. She waltzes off to another customer.
I wave goodbye and make my way out of the coffee shop, quickening my step when I glance at my watch and see the time.
The mall I’m at is busy, and I’m more than sure the roads are, too. I’ll hit traffic and be late, but it’s not like I could leave Daisy alone during her breakdown.
She might’ve hired me to help her with her clothes, but she’s a person who needed another person’s support—not just a customer who paid me.
Leaving her was out of the question, but as I get behind the wheel of my red Mercedes, I hope the price of doing what’s right won’t be too high.
***
I park on campus half an hour later.
Five minutes. I’m only late by five minutes. Relief floods me as I clutch my textbook and folder to my chest and rush to the library.
It’s not my roommate Lily’s shift today. Another girl, Josie, greets me with a wave when she hears the click of my heels on the hardwood floor.
Our college library is magnificent. Everything’s made of wood, even the ceiling.
Chandeliers hang from it, and the tall, springline windows allow plenty of sunlight in. Add the framed artworks that dot the walls and the smell of books, and you have the coziest place on campus.
It would be the coziest, if it weren’t for the six-foot-something known as The Nerd.
He’s the small stone that gets in your stilettos and makes walking a living hell, the liquid eyeliner that leaks and stains everything in your makeup bag.
My tormentor. My nightmare.
Also, my project partner.
Ironic as it is, we equally hate and need each other to pass Philosophy with a good grade. Thanks for nothing, Dr. Gonzalez.
The Nerd lifts his head off the textbook he’s been perusing and gives me a smug smirk.
Yes, that’s right. He never smiles.
He smirks.
I suspect he doesn’t talk, either, because all he ever does is snap at me. And I try my damn best to return the favor.
“Barbie,” he says, “did the Swarovski shit fall off the face of your watch, and you couldn’t read the time? Do you not own a phone?”
“I was—”
“Nah.” The Nerd slams his textbook shut and jumps to his feet. After grabbing his stuff, he winks at me. “Time is money, and I made it clear I wouldn’t wait.”
Rage floods my bloodstream. “It’s been barely five minutes, you jerk.”
The Nerd, a.k.a. Sebastian, a.k.a. Bast, spins on his heel and walks away, leaving me alone by the desk.
Murmurs reach my ears. I scan the library and spot a couple of students hunched over their notes. They pretend they didn’t, but they surely witnessed our exchange and my humiliation.
My eyes land on Josie. She gives me a sympathetic smile, and I hate it.
I hate him.
So. Damn. Much.
But here’s the truth about The Nerd—he doesn’t know me. He thinks he has Tara Van Doren figured out, but it’s eons away from the truth.
I straighten my shoulders and smooth the front of my beige dress before lowering myself into a chair and opening my notes.
I won’t fail the subject because of him. Not a chance.
You’re in for many surprises, Bast.
Game on.
