Page 7 of Icing Hearts

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask him, Tory.” I sigh in exasperation. “Now can—”

“I’m askingyou, Charity.” His eyes finally meet mine and they bore through my entire existence. I feel naked. Like I’m sitting here, in the middle of the public library, without a stitch of clothing. Like every question has removed another layer and I’m just sinew, muscle, bone, and marrow, laid bare in front of him. I’m tempted to look down because my mind has me convinced I’m feeling a draft on my chest. So, I cross my arms and push back.

“Why?” I lean forward, tossing a question back, engaging in a proverbial ping-pong game. He leans away, slouching in his chair as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why are you asking me? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get to know me, Tory.” I wag my brows at him.

“Think of it as an anthropologist studying an indigenous people group.”

If there was a list of words, I never thought I’d hear Tory Amato utter, “indigenous” and “anthropologist” would be at the top. There’s an announcement over a loudspeaker that the library is closing in ten minutes and to bring any desired books to the circulation desk. So much for getting work done.

His probing questions have me itching with hives, but I tell him, “I’m happy to be your specimen, then. Can I ask you a question?”

“No,” he responds, tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

“Why not?” I freeze, stunned by his response, holding my notebook midair.

He shrugs. “I’m private.”

“And a hypocrite, apparently.”

“Apparently. Tomorrow? Back here?”

“Fine. But be on time. Please,” I beg half-heartedly.

What I don’t tell him is that I can’t afford to sit around waiting for him for three hours, and that it’s rude of him to make me wait to begin with. Because, while he may be a hypocrite, I’ve got no backbone. I’ve also got an empty bank account and an emptier stomach.

He nods once and stands up. “Here,” he says, nudging his fries toward me. At that, Tory Amato walks out of the library with nary a glance.

I wait until his head disappears down the steps to begin gobbling up his leftovers. Normally, I wouldn’t eat fast food. But I’m desperate. I eat the fries until the librarians start turning off the fluorescents.

Chapter 4

Clara

Today, Tory shows up to the library at 5:30. He has a hickey. It doesn’t bother me like I thought it would.

Anyway, I’m distracted by his face and the way his muscles ripple beneath his white shirt. The white makes the warmth of his skin so appealing that I just want to curl up inside his arms and wear him draped around me like a shawl.

He is offensive in his beauty, as usual. How dare he be so stunning? Even with his wet hair and his hickey and smelling of cinnamon and bad decisions. It’s just plain rude.

But he is mine. Not mine in the true, real sense of the word. Mine in the purely delusional sense.

Tory tosses a brown paper sack between us on the table and plops down on the seat, bouncing once before settling into the cushion.

“How much do you have saved up for a car?” he blurts out.

“Greetings to you too,” I snap back. He’s so rude. It’s actually embarrassing. At least he doesn’t eat with his mouth open like some of his friends.

His voice comes out urgent and demanding. “How much?”

Tory’s family is rich. Like, the kind of rich that gifts a sixteen-year-old a G-Wagon and a Yamaha R1 motorcycle on his actual birthday. But I don’t think they were always rich, so maybe he doesn’t know that asking someone about money in this manner is gauche.

I attempt to wave him off because this really isn’t a flattering subject. No one knows about the money. I’ve been meticulous in my efforts to maintain my family’s image after my mom died. The Goodwill one town over has excellent options, and I don’t run the risk of accidentally wearing anything that used to belong to a classmate.

“Oh, Tory, it’s imprudent to discuss one’s finances.”

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