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At least I thought that in the beginning. He doesn’t look at her like that so much anymore.
Anyway, sometimes I’d catch him looking at her in a way that made my insides feel funny. Sometimes, in the middle of the day (between shifts at Fortnum’s and Smithie’s, one of the only times I can get any decent sleep), while I was trying to catch some z’s while Mom watched soaps, I thought of Eddie looking at me the way he looked at Indy. Sometimes, trying to sleep, I thought of Eddie doing a lot of different things with me andtome, but that didn’t exactly help me sleep.
* * *
I kinda screwed things up with Eddie.
No, that isn’t true. Ireallyscrewed things up with Eddie.
Though not intentionally.
* * *
See, he’s hot. Not hot.Hot. He’s so flipping handsome it burns your eyes to look at him.
He has to be six foot, maybe six foot one, tall for a Mexican-American. Olive-skinned, with dark hair and even darker eyes. He has a lean body made up of compact, defined muscles, and he’s one of those guys who makes whatever he wears look the bomb, instead of one of those guys who looks like he was trying to be the bomb in what he wears.
Eddie’s a cop, and from what everyone says, he’s a good one, though not a conventional one. He kinda goes his own way, which isn’t exactly encouraged by the Denver Police Department.
Anyway, when Eddie’s black eyes turn to you, I swear to God, your breath starts burning your lungs, his eyes are so hot.
He’s lush.
Since I’m not lush, there’s no hope and I’m in love with him—I get a little weird around him.
Weird as in, stupid.
* * *
The first time he spoke directly to me was about a week after I started at Fortnum’s.
Eddie was waiting at the end of the counter for his cappuccino. I was refilling the stacks of cups, so I had two big columns of cups in my hands. Eddie was talking to Lee (who, by the way, is alsohot).
Eddie’s eyes cut to me and he smiled, all super-white teeth in tanned face. The effect of this, when trained on me, totally flipped me out.
Then he said, “So, Jet, what’s your story?”
Since he used my name, I couldn’t exactly ignore him, so I looked at him blank-faced and said, “Story?”
I hadn’t told Indy or anyone about anything—not about my mom nor Smithie’s. People had been really nice about Mom, but it was weird, talking about her and us and how we were having to make a go of things. They got this look on their face that said “poor you” and it kind of pissed me off because, you know, shit happens. We all deal.
Anyway, Eddie turned more toward me. Lee’s eyes had moved to me and I was beginning to feel the heat come into my face.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Your story.”
I started to panic, so I had to find a way to say as little as possible and get the hell out of there. “No story. I’m just Jet.”
“Just Jet.” His smile didn’t dim and I was beginning to feel my insides curl.
“Yeah.” I set the cups down and started refilling.
Eddie turned to Lee, and he said, “Don’t know about you but I think there are hidden depths to Just Jet.”
“There are hidden depths to everyone,” Lee replied, still looking at me, and I could swear he could read my mind and was trying to get Eddie to leave me alone.
“Not me.” Tex, Indy’s barista, a Vietnam vet and ex-con who was crazy as a jaybird but you couldn’t help liking him, reached across me to give Eddie his cappuccino. “With me, you get what you see.”
Eddie didn’t take his eyes off me, even as he reached for the sugar (Eddie took lots of sugar in his coffee. I’d memorized this fact right away, as I memorized practically everything about Eddie).
