How to Hook a Hottie by Tina Ferraro Page A

even know, knew about the business, word was truly out there. Which meant the discreetness I had been able to offer was now gone. I'd have to think that through, and use it to the best of my ability.
    “Fifty up front, nonrefundable. And another fifty if we seal the deal.”
    She listened, lines forming in her brow, then backed away. “I don't have that kind of money,” she said, loud enough for anyone near to hear.
    “I'm sorry. But if I cut my rate for you, my other customers could demand the same. And I have expenses to cover.” To keep her from asking for specifics on those expenses, which I couldn't exactly provide, I changed the subject. “By the way, how did you hear about me?”
    A smile lifted her mouth. She was attractive, in an anemic sort of way. She'd probably be an easy fix-up. Maybe we could do some sort of installment plan.
    “Who hasn't heard about you? You hooked Brandon Callister, you got Chelsea Mead a date with a football player. You're like . . . a love goddess.”
    Love goddess? No. Although how could I not like the sound of that?
    But before I could respond, she disappeared into the crowd.
    Carlton was instantly upon me. His bright blue eyes narrowed in on me like a laser beam, and my palm was suddenly holding some folded bills. I knew cash when I felt it. Still, I peeked. (I had to.) Tens and twenties. This guy did his homework.
    “Brianne Betts,” he said, the name floating on a long sigh.
    I knew her. Big lips. Possibly collagen. Or maybe she had an ancestor who'd mated with a duck. No guarantees, but I'd give the two of them a try. “Sure, let's do it,” I told him.
    I slipped the wad of bills into the back pocket of my jeans. I felt rather like a human vending machine. Insert money, make your selection, and voilà, I will spit out your date! (Yeah, right.)
    Carlton and I exchanged contact information. Then, finally alone—or as alone as anyone could be at my school—I did a book swap while I tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. I was torn between the euphoric feeling of having two more clients—and two more deposits—and well, guilt. Mark's anger was a shocker, and I had been completely and utterly unprepared for it.
    Lots of thoughts. Lots of questions.
    Only one answer: find Dal.

Eleven
    L exie wasn't ready when I got to her house, which meant I was forced to wait on the doorstep with her mother. I figured it was as good a chance as any to show Mrs. H. that I was a top-notch employee.
    “Lexie's coach reminded everybody that deposits are due for the qualifying competition. I don't know if you paid already, but I thought I'd mention that if you or Mr. H. are unable to make the trip in May, I
will
be eighteen by then, and legally able to chaperone.”
    Mrs. H.'s gaze iced me. I shivered inside my coat—nothing to do with the freezing temperature.
    “Just an FYI,” I added.
    She let out something like a snort. I figured I'd better get back on more solid ground, so I mentioned Lexie's broken laces and waited for her to tell me she had already bought twelve new fashion pairs or something.
    “If you think it's so important,” she answered, “pick her up some new ones yourself. I'll throw you a few extra dollars next payday.”
    My brow furrowed. They sold some plain old white laces at the rink. But those were hardly up to the elevated standard of what the other girls wore.
    “Mom,” Lexie said, cruising through the door. “New
laces,
remember? Did you buy them?”
    I glanced at Mrs. H. Surely she'd take credit for assigning me the job. Instead, she shrugged. “Kate's taking care of it.”
    Then before either of us could respond, Mrs. H. closed the door—practically on Lexie's heels.
    Wow.
    As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, Lexie started toward my car. “I don't
like
the stupid ones they sell at the rink,” she yelled back. “They're ugly.”
    “Yeah, well, if we stop anywhere, we'll be late. And we don't want penalty laps.”
    I