Excerpt from How to Hook a Hottie by Tina Ferraro

“So, you and the baseball player,” nagged my twelve year-old charge from the back seat of my car. “Is it true?”

My body tensed. Lexie Hoppenfeffer’s mother might be paying me to drive her kid to the ice skating rink and back each weekday afternoon, but that hourly wage did not include divulging details of my personal life. Especially not answers to questions I couldn’t even understand how she knew to ask. Or I really understood myself.

“None of your business,” I said, throwing a look in the rearview mirror.

     “It is true.” She giggled. “Don’t you even want to know how I heard?”

     Yeah. “No.”

     “Sally’s older sister is a sophomore at Franklin Pearce. She said everybody is talking about you and Brandon Callister.” She let out this exaggerated sigh and pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. Then she laughed. “I told her no way. That the Kate DelVecchio I knew wasn’t even all that nice, let alone hot enough for a guy like him.”

     Rolling up to a yield sign, I braked hard. Lexie jerked forward inside her seat belt. “Be sure to tell her,” I said, catching a glimpse of her baby blues again, “that I’m a terrible driver, too.”

     She gave me a yeah-yeah squint.

     I grinned. Probably for the first time since, well, the baseball hotshot asked me to some athletic banquet.

     The crazy thing had gone down during chem lab. Brandon had been bored--as usual. Talking at me, messing around. The very reason, I’m sure, we’d been assigned lab partners. (By no coincidence--the chem teacher was also the baseball coach.)

     I’m no brainiac, but I made up for my shortage of gray matter with determination. I had a personal agenda for ace’ing every class, and nothing and nobody was going to get in my way. Not even some attention-challenged jock.

     The whole fall quarter, I’d managed to effectively ignore him and get our work turned in. Then came our much-needed Christmas break, and now we were in the January pre-midterm grind. Which was probably why he’d started ratcheting things up. Saying things about my hair being pretty (uh-huh, shoulder-length, medium brown, real special), my eyes (brown--double special), and my mouth (yeah, right).

     Eventually, he got on my last nerve. He claimed he had to present the football MVP award since he’d won last year’s baseball MVP (“Tradition, babe”) and I just had to go with him.

     Oh, puh-lease. Didn’t he know I didn’t date outside my own species?

     But instead of stooping to his level, I blew out a sigh and called his bluff. I said sure, whatever, I’d pull something baggy and beige from my mom’s closet and go with him. If he’d just shut up.

     Amazingly, he did.

     I’d turned back to examine the salt water in the crucible, wondering how he’d squirm his way out of the invite. But to my further astonishment, after class, he’d sauntered his long, lanky self through the throng of almost three thousand people to the Student Store and bought the banquet tickets. Going as far as telling the clerk, one-man-P.A.-system Carlton Camp, that I was his date.

     I had shown up at my locker before lunch to see the Who’s Who of our Rolling Hills, Washington high school waiting to check me out. With arched brows and question marks in their eyes. Was it true that Brandon and I were now a couple?

     All that was missing was the Spokane TV affiliate.

     “You’re not denying it,” Lexie announced now from the back seat. “This is so great. My chauffeur and Brandon Callister.”

     I bit the inside of my cheek. I’d told her a gazillion times I was not her chauffeur. I was her escort. Or her babysitter. But whatever. I guessed it was nice that somebody was getting something out of this date thing.

     I was sure that by now Brandon was in total regret mode. His act had blown up in his face, and he was stuck with me. Me-- President of the Future Business Leaders club. Big whoop to a guy who would forever bask in the glory of taking our baseball team to its first-ever championship.

     And although I failed to see his sex appeal, I was apparently in the minority. Ever since he and Summer Smith split, the prettiest of the pretty, and the popularest of the popular had been cat-scratching to cuddle up to him. I could think of four or five girls off the top of my head who’d trade in their Louis Vuitton bags for a date with him.

     Hey--that’s what I’d say to him tomorrow. (More or less.) Joke’s over, haha, you won. If you really need a date, ask one of your hangers-on.

     He’d be relieved. Sure he would. And I’d feel the release of some of this
air in my overstuffed lungs. I’d be glad to have my (private) life back, to be back on track for the things I wanted and I’d planned.

     The only person who’d be disappointed would be Lexie. And somehow that thought made tomorrow’s back-out all the sweeter.

***********

     Shuffling into the rink lockerroom minutes later, Lexie realized she’d left her water bottle on the back seat of my car.

     “Go get it,” she said.

     While “retrieval” was technically part of my job description, no way I was putting up with her attitude. I rolled my eyes so high I could practically see my hairline, and told her to chill.

     “Hurry. I’m thirsty, Kate.”

     “Somehow I know you’ll live until I get back.”

     Frowning, I reminded myself--for the gazillionth time--that I didn’t work for little Lexie. I was contracted by her over-protective and over-extended big-time romance author mother, who happened to also have an over-abundance of cash to make sure her precious sweetums was properly coddled.

     Money that I was more than happy to take. For this job wasn’t about pride. It was about empowerment.

     The capital I pocketed was going to help make all my dreams come true. Help me burst from my graduation robe next June to reveal a sleek Ann Taylor business suit. And put me on course to fulfill my carefully prepared plans. My destiny.

     To become a self-made millionaire by twenty.

     And just like I wasn’t letting Brandon derail my chem grade, I wasn’t letting some bratty twelve year-old stand in my way, either. Even if it meant biting my tongue until it almost bled.

     Crossing the parking lot in the fading daylight, my breath making wispy clouds in the cold air, I spotted my Honda among the SUVs and mom-vans. Bright, attractive, with the ability to be idle or a powerhouse, my car was a symbol of what I planned to be. If I could just hold on course here for another six months, getting the grades and socking away the bucks.

     “Hey, you!” a deep voice from down the row startled me back to reality. “Whatcha doing?”

            I didn’t need to look up--but I did, anyway. Jason Dalrymple had had the same husky voice since kindergarten, back when he used to dare me to time-out worthy pursuits like eating jarred paste and aiming for kids dumb enough to stand at the bottom of the playground slide.

     His voice was deeper now. His eyebrows were darker. He was more than two feet taller. Even his name had evolved. He’d gone from being Jason when we were little to J-Dal in middle school (when J-Lo was all the rage). And now, with so many Jasons roaming the high school halls, he went simply by Dal.

     And these days he had far better things to do with his energies than try to get me in trouble. In fact, he was the one who’d hooked me up with Mrs. Hoppenfeffer. He worked at the rink, helping fund his hockey “habit” and saving for college. As well as splurging on the occasional weekend to see his University of Washington girlfriend.

     He and Marissa Penny had been canoodling since last year, when she’d been a senior at Franklin Pearce. The whole thing had started as a dare--Dal had wanted to go to the Homecoming Dance, and I’d called him a coward for asking me, and not trying to get a “real” date. Hours later, he’d strutted up and told me he was going with Marissa. I’d patted his shoulder and told him “good going,” and to this day, acted happy for him that the relationship had become so solid. Still, sometimes I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Not because I wanted my hands on him, but because I liked being the only girl in his life.

     My best friend jealousy had eased up when Marissa went off to college, except on mornings after he’d been away to see her. When he’d go on and on about how much fun they had, how great campus life was. Yada, yada, yada.

     I was not into going to college and I was not into spending weekends without my best bud, so those mornings, I pretty much had to bite my tongue until it bled or he changed subjects.

     Grabbing Lexie’s water bottle from my back seat now, I held it up. “The Rink Rat sent me back to the car to get this.”

     He knocked some dark strands out of his eyes. His hair was usually a mess of bed-head curls and angles, but today it actually looked combed. Imagine that.

     “Yeah, what a bummer if she got parched.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Although I’d think that someone who was going to a sports banquet with Brandon Callister would be above such a menial task.”

     I felt my mouth drop open. Give me a break. Not him, too!

     He knew Brandon and I were lab partners. So he couldn’t be as electrically shocked as the people who didn’t know me or how I could have risen to such awe-inspiring, Brandon-worthy heights.

     “Oh, please, Dal,” I said, putting just enough disgust into my tone to get my point across.

     “It’s bull, then?”

     I stared into his eyes, which he called hazel, but were known to change with the light and his moods. Right now they were sort of pine green. But what I couldn’t read was the emotion behind them.

     “Nope, totally true. He asked me during lab. I thought he was just messing around, and I told him sure, and that I’d wear something from my mother’s closet.” I grinned, but Dal didn’t.

     “So that’s your out, then. It was just a joke that got out of hand.”

     My out? Okay, getting out was what I’d been thinking, too. But why did Dal jump to that same conclusion? Brandon was the prize that most girls wanted. Why wouldn’t I?

     “You’re all wrong for each other,” he said, as if tapping into my thoughts.

     True. Starting with the fact that Brandon was all about basking in his today, while I was about the future. But that didn’t mean I cared for my closest friend pointing out how mismatched we were. As if saying Brandon as all that--and I was, well, all not?

     I turned to lock my car door and fell into step beside him. The chilly air crept through the openings of my black peacoat, and I struggled to conceal a shiver or emotion.

     Finally, his voice cut through the silence. “What would you two even talk about? His stats? How much beer he drank at some idiot’s party? Come on. Is this the right guy for Complikate?”

     “Ha, ha, very funny,” I said and bumped his shoulder with mine. Using my freshman nickname (bestowed by a teacher who’d said I asked too many questions) was below the belt. Even though he had a point.

     We’ll talk about my hair, I thought. My eyes, my mouth. (Ha!) But no need to push the envelope. So I shrugged, as if admitting he was right. Which he was, of course. And once I put an end to the date, Dal would be among the first to know.

     Just not right now.

     As payback for automatically assuming a hot stuff baseball player and I were mismatched, I wanted him to squirm a little.

     Reaching the building, Dal grabbed the front door handle and tugged it open, ushering me in. I glided under his extended arm, moving within inches of his collared Winter Wonderland shirt, and through the door. Then I moved inside without a word or a glance back.

**************

     Lexie was doing warm-up laps around the ice when I spotted her, so I set her water bottle down on the team’s bench.

     I climbed up to my home-away-from-home, the top bleacher on the south side of the building. That was where you could pretty much find me five afternoons a week, along with my cell phone, school books, reading materials, laptop--and whatever dilemmas I was presently chewing on. My portable office, as I liked to say.

     I’d barely booted up my laptop when footsteps thundered up the risers. Another of the rink’s employees who also went to Franklin Pearce, Chelsea Mead, appeared. She had a great smile and figure when she bothered to showcase them, but today she wore a couple bulky T-shirts under her uniform polo shirt, and her cheeks were blotchy from running.

     “Checking out dresses for the banquet?” she asked by way of hello.
     God! Didn’t anything else happen in the world today?

     “Actually, I was about to check out the S & P 500 and the Dow Jones.”

     She paused, then did a yeah-right laugh.

     Funny, people always thought that was a joke.

     Resting a sneaker on the bleacher bench below me, she leaned in closer. “Kate, can I talk to you?”

     “Sure. Unless it’s about Brandon.”

     “Oh, uh,” she stammered. “Not really. Well, kinda.” She inhaled. “Okay, here goes. I want a date to the football banquet, too. With a particular player. And I want to know how you pulled it off. You know, what you did to get Brandon to ask you.”

            What I did? Like sprinkled fairy dust? Or maybe...snuck into his house, stole his Seattle Mariner’s autographed baseball, and refused to give it back unless he took me to an uber-boring, rubber-chicken-on-a-plate banquet? Puh-lease! The general public’s disbelief was definitely getting to me.

     “My brother’s on JV,” she went on, “so my parents are making me go. And it would just be sooo much better if I was sitting with this guy instead of them.”

     “So tell him,” I said, in no way losing the irony that I had accepted a date to the very same banquet because it was easier than saying no.

     “No way,” she said. “I couldn’t. Besides, players ask girls to this thing. Not the other way around.” She seemed to swallow hard. “I need your help. How to let him know I want to go--if he’d only ask, I’d totally say yes. I mean, what did you say to convince Brandon to ask you?”

     “Convince?”

     “Oh,” she said and waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not really what I meant. You know.”

     Yeah, I knew. And I so wanted to tell her where to stuff it. But our paths crossed here at Winter Wonderland all the time (and occasionally at school) and business lecturers advised to keep personal feelings on the back burner whenever possible. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t--”

     “I’ll pay you,” she said, tugging on the hem of her collective shirts. “Whatever it costs.”

     My denial died on my tongue.

     “Fifty up front,” she went on. “Fifty more if he asks me.”

     Fifty big ones just for saying yes? Huh. I had to waste two afternoons with Lexie to make that much. And if I could pull it off....

     Not bad, I thought, biting on the inside of my cheek. Not bad at all.

     The thing was--to be fair--what did I know about getting a guy to ask a girl out? I hadn’t done a thing to snag Brandon, unless you counted our lab assignments. And while I’d had a boyfriend for a while in tenth grade, the guy had pursued me.

     Still, odds were I knew more than Chelsea, or she wouldn’t be asking. Maybe what she really needed most was a shot-in-the-arm of confidence. And that she’d get just that from believing I was there for her.

     Fifty. Maybe a hundred.

     “That’s a lot of money, Chelsea.”

     “He’s worth every penny.”

     And I would be happy to take every penny. Part of my rise-to-the-top strategy was to access any and all business prospects that came my way, looking for the real money-makers, or what I liked to call Ideal Opportunities. So far, they’d been restricted to driving a spoiled kid around, but a person had to keep her options open.

     “Sit down,” I said and patted the bench beside me. “Let’s talk more about this.” I closed my laptop and sat up straight, giving her my full attention.

     “Oh, I can’t right now. I’ve got to get back to work. But how about tonight on the phone? Like about 7:00?”

     I nodded, retrieved one of my custom-made business cards from my backpack (“Kate DelVecchio, Entrepreneur”) and handed it to her. Then I scribbled her number inside a notebook.

     “So we’re on?” she asked, and let free that hundred-watt smile that I knew would be my cash cow.

     “We’re on.”

     I flipped my laptop back open and clicked to a search engine. I had about one hour to learn how to attract guys--something that had managed to allude me for all of my seventeen years. Good thing I liked a challenge.

***********

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