Free Something Borrowed by Catherine Hapka Page A

a bit of a challenge. “Unless he’s not your type? Not safe and suburban enough?”
    I frowned. “Who do you think I am—Camille? I don’t go for suburban and safe.”
    â€œIf you say so.” He reached over and turned on the radio.
    I leaned forward and poked him in the shoulder. “Hey,” I said. “Who are you to call me suburban? Which of us is wearing an L.L.Bean T-shirt right now? And who just said Zoom was too edgy?”
    â€œJust ignore him,” Teresa advised me. “He’s only trying to get a rise out of you.”
    â€œYeah,” Jason said, “ignore me. I’m just kidding around.”
    We changed the subject after that, but inside I was still stewing about what he’d said. If he really thought I was too suburban and safe to be interested in a guy like that singer, he knew even less about me than I’d thought.
    As soon as I got home, I hurried upstairs and turned on my laptop. It only took a quick Google to find the official website of the Manayunk Mucus. The site had a little profile of the band members. Staring out atme from the top photo was that amazing lead singer. His name was Oliver, according to the site, and his eyes were almost as smoldering in the photo as they had been in real life. There was also a contact phone number on the site. Grabbing my cell, I dialed it. What did I have to lose?
    â€œâ€™Lo?” a hoarse, sleepy-sounding voice answered on the fifth ring.
    â€œUm, hello? I’m trying to get ahold of Oliver? The lead singer of the Manayunk Mucus?”
    â€œThis is Oliver.” The voice sounded slightly more awake this time.
    I clutched the phone tightly. “Uh, hi,” I said, taken aback. Somehow, I’d been expecting an agent or something. “My name’s Ava. I was at your show last night at Thermopylae.”
    â€œOh, really?” Now he sounded fully awake, though his voice had that same raw, smoky quality it did when he was singing. “What do you look like, darlin’? Maybe I saw you there.”
    â€œI’m about five-three, reddish blond hair,” I said. “I was wearing a green flowered halter top?”
    â€œYeah, and a black miniskirt, right?Sure, I remember you,” Oliver said right away. “I always remember the cutest girl at every gig.”
    I was kind of taken aback. Sure, I was used to getting my share of notice from the opposite sex. But this was different. Or was it?
    He’s just a guy, I reminded myself. One pant leg at a time, like all the rest of ’em.
    â€œListen, Oliver. This might seem like a strange question . . .” Before I could lose my nerve, I blurted out my dilemma.
    I hung up the phone a few minutes later feeling a little overwhelmed. For better or worse, I had a date for the following night— and another date to the wedding. One that was sure to make Camille’s twittering pink minions faint in their pink pumps.
    So there, Jason, I thought. I stared at the flickering photo of Oliver on my laptop screen and smiled.

Eight
    Camille’s bachelorette party the next evening was perfectly boring in a typical Camille-like way. I was glad that she and her dorky friends seemed to be having fun and all, but dirty Pictionary and karaoke just weren’t my thing, and I was glad to have my date with Oliver as an excuse to duck out a little early.
    I’d offered to take the train in to Center City, figuring the Main Line might be too much of a shock to Oliver’s rock-and-roll system, but he’d gallantly insisted on being the one to travel. When I arrived at the local Thai place I’d picked for the date, he was at the bar waiting for me, looking smoking hot in a cool alt-rock kind of way.
    â€œThere you are.” He stood up when I approached and looked me over. He pursed his lips. “Just as gorgeous as I remembered.”
    â€œYou too,” I said with a smile. “And boy, am I glad to see you