Free Berch by V. Vaughn Page A

aware of his grasp. His fingers are almost hot, and the warmth is glorious. “What I mean is, you’ve grown into your looks. I bet you have the girls following you around town these days.”
    He stands and extends his hand to help me up. I transfer my Louboutin to the hand with my purse and let him lift me to my feet. He says, “Let me see that.”
    “It’s broken.” I clutch the Prada a little tighter and am tempted to pet it, because after I return the designer goods next week, I’ll be cut off forever. “Do you think it can be fixed?”
    Berch takes my pump and the heel from my hand to inspect it. “I can repair this for you right now.” He glances at my legs and then up at me with a sly smile. “You really need to wear shoes that make your legs look this good.”
    Heat rises to my cheeks. Since when did Berch Lindholm start flirting? “Goodness, you certainly did grow up.” But he’s right. They do make my legs look good, and I sigh, because all I have in my car is a pair of sale-rack sneakers from Target I knew I’d want for the drive home when my feet would be aching. “If you have some magic to fix my shoe, I’d be grateful.”
    “Right this way.”
    I hobble across the parking lot with him to his truck. The metallic green paint of the vehicle is shimmering in the evening sun. The lock beeps, and he moves ahead to open the passenger door. Heat running down my shin makes me glance at my cut to find it’s bleeding again. “Do you have another napkin I can use?”
    I brace myself with a hand on the side of his truck to keep my bare foot lifted while he deposits things on the floor of the passenger side. I squeal when Berch grabs me by my hips and lifts me onto the seat. I gaze into his amused face and say, “Just put me in my place, why don’t you?”
    He lifts his eyebrows. “I think I will.” He reaches past me to open the glove compartment, and I resist the urge to touch his shoulder to feel the muscles I’m sure are rippling beneath a silky rayon shirt.
    I’ve always had a strange attraction to Berch. When we were kids, I tried to be near him whenever I could. He was a quiet introvert who tolerated my presence, and as we got older, I began to leave him alone as I became self-aware. In high school, I ran with the popular crowd and thought I’d cured myself of the urge. But every once in a while, our eyes would connect across the cafeteria or a dance floor, and the familiar tingle of wanting to be with Berch would zing through my veins.
    Berch hands me a napkin. “Press that hard against the bleeding, and it should stop.”
    For a while I had this fantasy that Berch was secretly in love with me and just waiting until we were old enough to date. But that time came, and he still didn’t make a move. My first date was for the sole purpose of making Berch so jealous that he’d discover we were soul mates. It didn’t work.
    The dangerously attractive aroma of epoxy travels to my nose as Berch applies it to the base of my shoe and attaches the heel. He shows it to me for my inspection and says, “This will need to set for about an hour before you can wear it. Do you really have something else?”
    His handiwork puts a smile on my face, because you can’t tell the Louboutin was ever broken. “Yes. I have sneakers in my car.” My smile fades as I realize how awful they’re going to look. I turn to slide out of the truck, but Berch places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
    “I’ll go get them.” He holds his hand out for my keys, and I search my purse for them.
    The metal jingles when I hand him my key ring. “Thank you. With my grace, I’d probably trip again.”
    He smiles at me and leaves to retrieve my shoes. I scan his truck while he’s gone. I’m tempted to search the glove box and center console for female items, but I refrain and keep my hands to myself. I do turn around and glance at what’s behind the seats. I discover a neatly folded wool blanket, a snow brush, and an