Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls Part 10

"I guess I could give you a breakdown on step two," he suggests in a doubtful tone.

"With detailed explanations?"

"You sure you can't just go with the flow?"

I look at him like he's stupid.

Sam caves. "Yes. With detailed explanations."

School the next day is great. I'm the bright, s.h.i.+ny new toy of interest in the hallways due to my makeover.

Jack, head meathead of the football team, holds the front door of the school open for me while totally checking me out.

The guys in my honor cla.s.ses are tongue-tied. Even Max, Jeremy's douchebag best friend, is awkward around me, instead of mean.

The power has s.h.i.+fted.

I. Love. It.

We honors kids have our cla.s.ses pretty concentrated up in this one wing on the second floor. We're even on our own lunch schedule, which means Sam and I don't see a lot of each other at school.

It also means that Sam hasn't seen me yet in this particular outfit, which on a scale of one to ten puts me at a fourteen with its amazing cleavage showingoffness. So I'm excited to meet up with him at Delish Dish after cla.s.ses.

Behind the counter, Matt chats with Rosie, a feisty senior and regular patron.

He glances at me as I enter, slide off my coat, and head for our usual booth. Sam is there, texting.

"Doesn't Ally look lovely, Rosie?" Matt asks.

Vic, an elderly curmudgeon, and another regular, pipes up from the booth next to ours. "She looks d.a.m.n s.e.xy."

"Quit it, guys. I'm blus.h.i.+ng."

I grin at Sam, who has glanced up as I slide into the booth. He just stares at me, grim.

"Bad day?"

"I didn't see you buy that one."

"No. Rach went back with me later to add a couple more things. Don't like it?"

"They're clothes." He shrugs in a "whatever" way.

"Glad I'm not trying to impress you. Everyone else seemed to love it."

"Goody for them," he mutters and s.h.i.+fts in his seat, like he's pinched his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in his underwear.

I throw an exaggerated leer his way. "What's next? Wild animal s.e.x?"

Not even a smile.

"You can do better," Matt says, frowning at Sam as he deposits two coffees on our table.

"Not Sam. Someone else. I am a modern woman owning my s.e.xuality."

Rosie swings around on her stool. "Make sure he gives you an o.r.g.a.s.m," she orders.

"Do all you old people have your hearing aids turned to eleven?" Sam fumes. "This is a private conversation."

I smile in apology for his appallingly bad manners but Sam stares pointedly until they turn away.

"Fries, Matt," he grumbles.

"Please," I correct.

"Please," he repeats.

"Me too, please," I add, glowering at Sam for his general a.s.sholishness which is definitely unlike him. He doesn't respond.

Fine. "What about that breakdown?" Maybe I can distract him back into a good mood. "What's step two?"

"The Grover Bailey."

"You mean the Abra Renfrew," I reply. "I want a girl."

Abra was the name of my favorite cat so I figure Sam won't bother fighting it.

He doesn't.

"And Abra Renfrew is who?" I ask for clarification.

"The kitten with a whip," Sam replies smoothly.

"I like that, but it sounds somewhat vague. Elaborate."

"Abra Renfrew is the sister who controls the play. Once she's owned both her own sweet self and wherever she happens to be, she then uses every situation to her advantage. There is nothing she can't make work."

I frown. "That doesn't sound very scientific."

"No s.h.i.+t, Sherlock, since it's not a result of a five-year intensive study."

I motion for him to continue. "Commence breaking down."

"Recognition, disinterest, come hither, flirtation, and invitation."

"This oughta be good," Vic chuckles.

"Go on," Rosie says.

I try not to laugh out loud at their blatant nosiness because I know it'll irritate Sam more, but come on. It's funny.

Under the weight of everyone's stares, Sam reluctantly starts.

"*Recognition.' Brief eye contact. Slight smile. Let him know you're aware of him. Followed by *disinterest.' You. Don't. Care."

"So being friendly?" I ask.

"Absolutely not. You are the million-dollar jackpot, not some cheap carny prize. Act accordingly."

"Aloof and desirable," I affirm.

"Well, you know. Desirable is a relative term. Leaving a lot to the imagination can be desirable. Wearing a turtleneck. A long dress."

"I always did like a glimpse of a well-turned ankle," Vic offers.

"You also liked it when women couldn't vote. *Come hither?' Sam?" Rosie prompts. She glances at him with fond amus.e.m.e.nt. "Don't leave us hanging," she says. "This is fascinating."

Sam looks like he's about to give her the finger but instead mimes tossing his hair. He shoots a sly sideways glance at me.

Okay, that's kinda hot.

Matt comes out with our fries in time to catch it. "Do that again, baby," he says. "I get all s.h.i.+very."

"First time it's free," Sam replies. "Second time you gotta pay and you can't afford me."

Matt looks mock insulted.

"*Flirtation,'" Sam continues. "Now you may speak. But only about superficial and preferably s.e.xually innuendoed topics. Nothing you're actually interested in."

"So don't be me," I mutter, dousing my fries in ketchup.

"Crazy, right?" Sam steals the ketchup away. "So, really, why would you want to do this? You have a great personality and you should let it s.h.i.+ne. Dazzle them with all those fun animal facts at your fingertips."

Enough is enough.

"Sam," I say sternly.

"Don't be you," he agrees, sounding resigned. "This isn't a meaningful connection of the minds, if you get what I mean."

"A child would get what you mean. *Invitation?'"

"Get up and leave, but throw a look over your shoulder," Matt offers.

Sam nods. "That works. Anything that gets you out of there. And remember, you can always leave alone. There's no shame in a nice quiet evening."

"You got written copies?" asks Vic. "I could use it for Bingo night."

"Unless it comes with a map and detailed technical instructions, it wouldn't help you, you old coot," Rosie tells him.

Vic scowls and turns away.

"That sounds like fun, Ally," Rosie tells me.

I nod, enthusiastic.

Sam is tight-lipped. Seems the veritable master is having issues with his creation.

Too. Freaking. Bad.

Abra Renfrew is in the house.

Chapter thirteen.

Ally looks off-the-charts hot and it's killing me. Death by blue b.a.l.l.s.

I'd gotten c.o.c.ky about my mental well-being where she was concerned after that initial makeover shock. At paragliding she was hidden under a helmet and layers of warm fleece. Afterward, I had my hookups with Alicia and Nikki to distract me. And Ally's "show me what you got" disaster set her back several stages in the hot race.

But today? In that top?

I can't get home to take a cold shower fast enough.

I race down the hallway and collide with some woman coming out of our bathroom. Wearing the same top as Ally. And while she stretches it out a h.e.l.l of a lot more, she doesn't look half as good in it.

"You must totally be Greg's son," she beams at me. "I'm Alexa."

"Hey. I'm Sam."

Not bad, Dad. Obviously she's my dad's latest "girlfriend." Since they only tend to last a couple dates, the quotes are a must.

Alexa has blond hair, blue eyes, big t.i.ts. My dad's standard. And if she's like the rest, she's probably in her late twenties, which is pretty good for my forty-five-year-old dad.

"Sam." My dad comes out of his bedroom, shrugging into his jacket. He's got dark hair and blue eyes and is always laughing. Ladies love him.

Dad slings an arm around me. "Alexa, you met my boy?"

"He's like a mini you."

Now all I can picture is Mini Me from Austin Powers. Not a great look.

"The kid is a rock star with the girls."