Page 44 of Can't Text This

“What are you doing at the mall in the middle of the work day?” I ask.

“Oh, you know, just stalkin’ ya.”

I turn around to glare at him, and he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’m getting shoes for Embody Positivity. We try to keep a few pairs at the center for anyone who needs them.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I try to look away before he catches it.

“Stop it. You’re making me out to be a hero or some shit.”

“You’re their hero, Robbie.”

He snorts. “Am not.”

“Accept it.”

“Whatever. What areyoudoing here in the middle of the day?”

“Trying to find something classy, cute, and sensible for work.” I grab a box off the rack and show him. He shakes his head no, so I put them back and keep moving. “Besides, middle of the day is the best time to shop. No one’s around to bother me.” I raise a brow. “At least, no one issupposedto be around to bother me.”

He smirks. “Sorry, not sorry.”

“I’m shocked,” I deadpan.

“Ah, that sarcasm—I’ve missed it.”

“You have not.”

I grab another box of shoes—this one a pair of practical flats—grab the pantyhose socks they provide, and find a seat, leaving Robbie standing there.

I’m sliding the second shoe on when he eventually saunters my way. I stand, checking the shoes out in the floor-length mirror.

“Wrong. It’s my…” He holds his hand up, counting on his fingers and mouthing I don’t even know what. “Fourth—fourth favorite thing about you.”

“What are the other three things?”

“Well, for starters, your hair.”

I bark out a laugh and spin his way, deciding this pair isn’t for me. “That isnotnumber one,” I say as I slide past him and head toward the bench to take them off.

“Is too.”

“Is not, Robbie. It can’t be.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’sugly.It’s—”

He grabs my hand and tugs me his way without much effort, effectively cutting off everything I was going to say next. I let out a gasp as I crash into him, and the memories of the last time we were this close slam into me.

I can’t breathe. He’s too close, feels too good.

He drags me back over to the mirror, turning me until I’m looking at our reflection.

We look ridiculous standing here together, his arm curled around my waist, my hand clutching his.

I’m so pale compared to him, my skin untouched and pristine. He’s a walking wall of artwork. He towers over me, and that’s saying something because I’m tall for a girl. The top of my head barely brushes his chin. I’m wearing another knee-length skirt, a pale blue t-shirt to match, and a short-sleeved button-up cardigan over top. He’s in jeans and a polo.

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