Читать книгу: «Still So Hot!»
“You need to get yourself on the next flight out of here …”
Elisa had known Brett was going to kiss her before it happened, and still, it was a shock. The heat and possessiveness of his mouth and the way her hands reached for him against her better judgment.
His mouth was so soft, so demanding, so giving. It made her cells sing with pleasure.
She was aware of her body, like a chant. Want. More.
His tongue urged her lips to open, and she let him in. The stroke of his tongue against all the tender bits of her mouth made her sigh. He groaned in response. That sound undid all her resistance, and she pulled his head down to get more of him. He tasted so good, of whiskey and wine and Brett. She knew this kiss, knew it inside and out, knew that he was going to bite her lower lip before he did, knew that he wanted her to meet his thrusts and that when she did she’d feel it down to her toes, that slide and urgency.
Want. More.
She did. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her into the room where—
Reason rushed in like an unwanted rainstorm. This could not happen.
She let go of his head and gently shoved his shoulder.
He looked back at her with lust-glazed eyes.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded.
Of course what she meant was, Am I crazy? Which clearly she was …
Still So Hot!
Serena Bell
SERENA BELL writes stories about how sex messes with your head, why smart people do stupid things sometimes and how love can make it all better. She wrote her first steamy romance before she was old enough to understand what all the words meant and has been perfecting the art of hiding pages and screens from curious eyes ever since—a skill that’s particularly useful now that she’s a mother of two avid readers. When she’s not scribbling stories or getting her butt kicked at Scrabble by her kids, she’s practicing modern dance improv in the kitchen, swimming laps, needlepointing, hiking or reading on one of her large collection of electronic devices. Serena blogs regularly about writing and reading romance at www.serenabell.com and www.wonkomance.com. She also tweets like a madwoman as @serenabellbooks. You can reach her at serena@serenabell.com.
MILLS & BOON
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I’m thrilled to be working with awesome Agent Emily, aka Emily Sylvan Kim of Prospect Agent, and excellent Editor Dana, aka Harlequin’s Dana Hopkins, along with Copyeditor Ingrid Dolan and Cover Designer Tony Horvath.
And none of this would be possible without the unending support and love of Mr Bell and the two little Bells. *Hugs.*
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Excerpt
1
ELISA HENDERSON HAD imagined worst-case-scenario headlines even before her plane took off.
Dating Coach Misplaces Client.
Client Goes AWOL from Dating Boot Camp in Caribbean.
God, this was not comforting. She needed to get up. She needed to move. Most of all, she needed to find out whether Celine Carr had made the flight. But she couldn’t do that until the Fasten Seat Belt sign blinked off.
She’d gotten Celine’s text just as Elisa had arrived at the gate. Thru security. Gotta pee. Board without me. She’d taken her seat in coach—alone, since Celine had claimed the last available in first class. Elisa tried to catch a glimpse of Celine, but the aisles were filled with other passengers. By the time Elisa had realized they were about to take off, she still didn’t know if Celine was on the plane, and the flight attendants wouldn’t let Elisa up. She’d tried to call and text Celine a million times, until a redheaded flight attendant pleaded with Elisa to put the cell phone away before she got them both in trouble.
Now all she could do was cross her fingers and try not to fidget.
Think positive. She’s on the plane. She’s raring to go.
This is the weekend you teach her that she calls the shots. That she controls her dating destiny.
This is the weekend you make hiring a dating coach the new black.
She took a few deep breaths and focused on positive visualization, which always helped her beat stress: Celine, sitting in first class, smiling and signing autographs, ready to make the best promo video ever. Celine, strolling the white-sand beach at the edge of the aquamarine Caribbean, hair blowing in the breeze, beside a handsome, attentive man. Celine, confident and competent, beaming her appreciation as she said to Elisa, Thank you. You helped me see that I didn’t have to keep making the same dating mistakes. The right man was out there. Imaginary Celine tossed her hair, gave her guy a sidelong glance and linked her fingers through his. Thank you for this wonderful man.
Elisa loved the thrill of the match, the click of satisfaction she felt when she fit two people together like puzzle pieces. Plus, she loved running boot camps, intensive one-on-one weekends where she observed her clients in real-world dating situations and taught them new strategies. These weekends were a great chance to get to know a client well, learn her quirks and boost her self-esteem. And who could argue with a weekend in the Caribbean? Elisa was lucky that her sister’s friend knew Celine’s publicist, Haven, and had been willing to put them in touch. And maybe a little bit lucky, too, that Celine was already undergoing a major image revamp as Haven tried to halt her slide toward celebrity train wreck. It hadn’t been too hard to convince Haven that a high-profile boot camp could turn Celine into a dating role model instead of someone whose antics reporters mocked. And if Elisa could make that happen for a rising star like Celine Carr, she’d have the added bonus of building her business’s brand in a big way.
On the other hand, if Celine had missed the flight, Elisa would step off this plane into a barrage of firing flashbulbs and mocking voices calling out, “Where is she?”
Rendezvous Dating? Isn’t that the business run by Elisa Henderson? The one who lost Celine Carr on the way to St. Barts?
She knocked her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.
The seat belt chime sounded. She unbuckled herself and hurried down the aisle.
“Whoa,” said a deep voice, very close. She drew up abruptly to avoid a collision, and, for a moment, her mind was overwhelmed by a confusion of hands steadying her, a broad chest blocking her view and the smell of soap.
Then the voice said, “Lise?”
No. No. It wasn’t possible. She knew that voice. Way too well. That voice represented a years-old friendship and B-grade movies and Chinese takeout and Scrabble games and that bar they’d gone to so often, the Aquarium...
The eerie light of that bar, a blue-tinged drunken haze, the stumbling walk home, her couch, his fingers in her hair, the taste of a mouth she’d longed for so badly she hadn’t admitted it to herself, his tongue stroking hers, waking up every nerve ending in her entire body...
What the hell was Brett Jordan doing on her flight to the Caribbean?
She lifted her gaze and, unwillingly, took him in.
Dark hair, just long enough to be tousled. Harder-edged and squarer-jawed than he’d been at twenty-five. But cute, too—a vague upturn at the end of his nose, a slight cleft in his chin and the suggestion of dimples. He was the very definition of masculinity—and he wasn’t much farther from her face than he’d been that night when he’d finally, finally lowered his lips to hers.
Two years hadn’t quenched one ounce of the thirst. She could feel it, a sharp want that lit up all the tender parts of her mouth. She could feel it in her teeth, too. She’d nipped his lower lip that night, and he’d made a sound that didn’t have a name.
She wanted to close her eyes and shut him out—and she wanted him to pick up where he’d left off.
Oh, of all the cosmic slaps across the face. No. Please no. Not him. Not now.
“Hi, Brett.” Her voice sounded tight and unfriendly, even to her. Damn it. She’d been shooting for nonchalant, but she’d never been able to keep any part of herself in line when it came to him.
“This is wild!” he said. “What are the chances?”
Way too high, apparently.
“Well, you know,” she said, with a shrug. There. That’ll show him. He was the one who’d put the brakes on before anyone lost their pants, then messed around with her sister less than two weeks later. She’d never wanted to see him again, especially not on an airplane with no escape route and passengers peering up at them curiously. All this while the fate of her universe hung in the balance.
His grin was casual and disturbingly cute. “Are you going to St. Maarten? Or St. Barts?”
“St. Barts.” She stepped to the side, nearly elbowing a seated passenger in the head. That was his cue to step to the other side, and they’d continue on their separate ways. He’d be grateful. No muss, no fuss, just the way he liked it.
But he didn’t move from the middle of the aisle. His shoulders filled the gap between the seats so there was nothing for her to look at but the broad expanse of his chest. “Me, too. Catch me up, hot stuff. What’s going on with you?”
He was talking to her as if it had been a few weeks since they’d seen one another, not two years. They hadn’t just waved goodbye at their last visit and promised to get together soon. Their friendship had actually ended. It was as if he’d never kissed her, as if he’d never gone out with her sister. God, it galled her that he could pretend nothing had happened.
No, what really galled her was that, for him, nothing had happened. She’d been nothing more to him than a best buddy and an error in judgment.
The passengers around them had gone from curious to irritated, shifting in their seats and occasionally glaring.
“Another time, maybe.” Like never? “I have to go talk to my client.” And once again she feinted to the side, a more aggressive lunge. He’d have to get out of her way.
Instead, he stopped her with a hard hand on her arm. “You can’t slip away that easy. What if you go into hiding for another two years? Are you still in New York? I am.”
The presence of more than eight million people in the city of New York, where they’d both moved after college, made avoiding just one person easy. But hop a flight to a Caribbean island and blammo! There he was. Now that they’d run into each other once, she bet the island of Manhattan wouldn’t be big enough to contain the two of them in isolation. She’d run into him in the grocery store every week now. That was how these things worked.
She was close, too close to him. She could smell him, old familiar scents that brought back half-forgotten longings. How could eau de Pert Plus shampoo and Old Spice cologne have such a profound effect on anyone? And that hand on her arm was like iron, a display of male strength on a scale she hadn’t experienced in way too long. He was near enough that she could feel his heat, and longing slipped through her defenses and washed over her in a rush of sensation. She only prayed he couldn’t see it on her face.
This was an act, she reminded herself—those pale green eyes so intent on her, the inviting grin, the banter—it was just habit, the way he was with women.
“There are no guarantees in life,” she said. Miraculously her words came out cool and light.
He grinned at her. “See, I always liked that stuff you used to say. ‘He who laughs last, thinks slowest.’ And ‘Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.’”
He’d had that one crooked tooth on the bottom straightened since she’d seen him last. She missed the quirk of it. No, she didn’t. She didn’t miss a thing about him or their friendship.
The plane lurched slightly, and she grabbed on to a headrest. She was rewarded with raised eyebrows and a glare from the seat’s occupant.
She tried to broadcast an apology, but the aggrieved passenger just turned away.
“We should get out of the aisle,” she said. “I have to get to first class.”
“You said your client’s up there. What kind of client? Are you still working for that matchmaking company?”
“I have my own business now. I’m a dating coach. This is a one-on-one weekend dating boot camp. I watch her in action, give advice and basically play wingman—wingwoman—to her.”
“So you’re still doing it, huh? Making a career out of teaching women not to date me.”
That ego! Unreal. Sure she’d harassed him about his wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am version of romance, threatening to tell the women of Carville College, and later the island of Manhattan, that Brett Jordan was not in their best interest. But that didn’t mean he’d influenced her job choices
“I’m making a career out of teaching women not to date jerks,” she corrected.
“Did you just call me a jerk?” He grinned.
Despite herself, she had to hide a smile. “You hear what you need to hear.”
There was a brutal edge to the banter, and yet it felt familiar, very close to the old flirtation. She could miss that, too, if she weren’t careful. This was exactly why she’d avoided all contact with him.
She shook her head. “Let’s not do this.”
“Do what?”
“Small talk, catch up—the whole friends thing. It’s not a good idea.”
The last trace of smile vanished. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.”
Behind Brett, the curtain veiling first class shifted and a vision of adorableness stepped around it, with shiny blond hair, big blue eyes, dimpled cheeks and a clingy purple dress totally unsuitable for plane travel. Celine.
Instantly Elisa felt better. Screw Brett Jordan and his burning gaze. That was then. Celine and Rendezvous Dating were now. “There she is.” She made her voice light. “Hallelujah.”
He didn’t turn to look behind him. He kept his attention fixed on her. “The Facebook site. We’ll catch up online. I’ll friend you.”
She needed to end this conversation now. And she needed to avoid him for the rest of their overlapping time on St. Barts. She prayed he wasn’t also on his way to the island’s singles resort where she and Celine were headed. Wouldn’t that be the cruelest joke. She wanted him far away from her boot camp weekend. Far, far away.
Her heart pounded. It was not in her nature to be cruel, but this was self-preservation, pure and simple. She needed him gone, immediately. “No. No Facebook. No Twitter. No email. No nothing. I’m not interested in being your friend, virtual or otherwise.”
An unexpected expression crossed Celine’s face, where she stood behind Brett. Confusion. Concern. Celine touched Brett’s arm, and he turned toward her, a smile on his face.
Elisa’s internal warning system shifted into overdrive.
That wasn’t just any smile. That was Brett’s patented twenty-four-hour smile.
“Hey,” said Brett to Celine. Affectionately.
Oh, shit.
Celine’s face was tipped up toward Brett like a flower receiving the sun. “Wait a sec. You know Elisa?”
Elisa could only watch this terrible slowly unfurling mess. With an audience. People had stopped trying to pretend they weren’t listening. Elisa could see naked curiosity on a few faces.
Brett frowned. “How do you know Elisa?”
No one spoke for a moment, and Brett’s eyes moved from Elisa to Celine and back again.
And then he got it.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said to Celine. “If you were trying to date a guy who isn’t a jerk, you missed the mark by a mile.”
2
CELINE LOOKED LIKE she’d been punched. She had a sweet heart-shaped face that made her appear younger than her twenty-two years, and her bottom lip trembled. Elisa turned on Brett, years of self-righteous anger reasserting themselves. “Do you have to act like such a jerk?”
In the seat behind Brett an older woman hid a smile, but Elisa felt no sense of triumph.
“Apparently,” he said easily. He leaned back against the nearest seat, clearly enjoying himself. “I always was good at it.” The occupant of the seat gave Brett a dirty look, but Brett couldn’t have seemed more relaxed if he’d put both hands behind his head and kicked off his shoes. It pissed her off, not only because she was sweaty and stressed out, and he was the coolest customer on earth, but also because he looked so freaking good. Why were cocky asshole men so hot? It was just. Not. Fair.
She had to rein it in. Her attraction, her irritation, her temper. This was a disaster on so many levels, she didn’t know where to start figuring it out. And their audience was turning against them, passengers starting to gripe audibly to each other. Drama was one thing, open conflict another.
She’d wanted attention. That was the whole point of this outing. But now things were totally out of her control. There was this—this swerve. She didn’t want eyes on her as she untangled these knots. “We’ll talk about this after the flight lands,” she said, with as much authority as she could summon.
Brett shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Celine watched them, her gaze moving from one to the other, as if the volley of words was visible.
“I’d like to know what’s going on.” Elisa crossed her arms.
Brett raised his eyebrows. “Ask your client.”
“I thought there might be two sides to the story.”
“There’s no story.” His expression dared her to push him. “Tell you what. I just got up to stretch my legs, but I’m perfectly happy to hang out here in coach. I’ll take your seat, Elisa.”
Celine opened her mouth once, closed it again, then managed to speak one word. “Brett?” She looked up at him, borderline pleading. Even through the haze of her own anxiety, Elisa’s dating coach radar shot to high alert. Desperate! Take it down a notch! She tried to broadcast this with her gaze, but Celine wasn’t looking at her. “I’m sorry,” Celine whispered to Brett. Actually it was closer to a whimper. “I was going to tell you.”
Brett shrugged. “Okay. That’s great. I appreciate that. But you’ll pardon me if this is just a little too effed up for me. I’m a tagalong on a dating boot camp weekend. What role did you have in mind for me?” He addressed the question to both women. “Fluffer?” He chuckled.
Elisa closed her eyes. It was either that or laugh hysterically.
“Br—”
The red-haired flight attendant stepped out of first class and glared at them. “You can’t congregate here.”
Elisa squeezed Celine’s shoulder hard. “Hon, let’s go sit, okay?”
The flight attendant’s male counterpart—tall, dark and chiseled—appeared behind the redhead and put a hand on her arm. “Everything okay here?” he asked her.
He’d leaned close to ask it, closer than the situation required. Alert! Chemistry! Were the two flight attendants a couple? Or did he just wish they were?
“Please return to your seats.”
The sharp command from the redhead snapped Elisa out of her romantic reverie. “We’ll just—” Elisa began to say, tugging on Celine.
The passenger behind Elisa touched her sleeve. “Is that Celine Carr?”
“No.”
“It is! It’s Celine Carr. Guys, you were right!”
There was a flurry of activity as the passengers within earshot dug through their carry-ons, pulled out pens and notebooks, and shoved them toward Celine. Cell phones popped up above the seat tops and into the aisle, clicking with artificial shutter noises.
“Please,” said the redhead. “I can’t have you gathering in the front of the plane. You need to return to your seats.”
The passenger who’d touched Elisa’s arm turned to the flight attendant. “Can she sign autographs in the back?”
The female flight attendant cast an uncertain look at her colleague. He shrugged.
“It’s Celine Carr! From Broken.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t watch Broken?” That was another passenger.
“Ohmigod, it’s so good!”
Haven had warned Elisa that this would happen. Celine was a new star, not yet a household name, but she had a show that was rising in the ratings and people would recognize her, wherever she went. “As much of a pain as it is,” Haven had said, “you have to let her do it. They’re her fan base.”
“If we stay out of the way?” Elisa asked the uniformed woman.
The flight attendant sighed. “Okay. Until we get the beverage service going, she can sign in the back. But make sure people can get to the restrooms.”
A small shy smile had crept over Celine’s face as she surveyed the outstretched hands clutching paper and notebooks and business cards.
“Give me a minute. We need to talk about this weekend,” Elisa told Brett.
“I don’t see what there is to talk about.”
“You can’t just—”
“Folks,” the male flight attendant said in a stern voice.
“Come here a sec,” Elisa said, starting toward the back of the plane. It wouldn’t help her cause if she got them arrested for creating a disturbance on an airplane.
The fans followed, crowding into the back of the plane. Some startled bathroomgoers looked at them strangely, but others joined in, digging in pockets or squeezing through the throng to grab pens from their bags. Brett leaned against a galley wall, right behind Celine, frowning.
Elisa, heart still pounding, waited next to the red-haired flight attendant while Celine happily held court. Her loyal subjects produced napkins or their own arms for her to sign.
“Can you sign this for my daughter?”
“Can you write ‘Love to Suze’?”
“Do you watch Broken?” the flight attendant asked Elisa.
Elisa nodded. “Do you?”
“I record it on TiVo.” She was a pretty woman, with a smattering of freckles and a nice smile. “But we’re never home, so we don’t get to watch much TV.”
We. “You and—?” Elisa gestured to the male flight attendant who was chatting jovially with a passenger just out of their earshot.
“What? No!” She laughed. “He’s gay. ‘We’ is me and my roommate.”
“He’s not gay,” said Elisa. “Trust me.” Elisa pulled her business card from her pants pocket and handed it over. “It’s my job to notice these things.”
“Dating coach?”
“Yep. You want my suggestion?”
The flight attendant nodded, eyes eager.
God, Elisa loved her job. “Ask him if he wants to buy you a drink when you land. You’ll see. He’s not gay.”
The redhead looked doubtful.
“My cell number is on the card. Text me and tell me what happens.”
The flight attendant hesitated. “You sure?”
“Positive.” Elisa would be willing to bet a thousand dollars they’d be lovers within a week. If the woman took her advice.
That was a big if. People were shockingly bad at doing what was best for them.
Like Celine, who had apparently acquired a traveling companion somewhere between yesterday afternoon—when Elisa had helped Celine pack her suitcase—and this morning when she’d boarded a plane for the boot camp weekend. What had she been thinking?
Papers and pens still shuffled across the galley, voices ringing out with questions for the actress.
“Is it true they’re going to kill off Jonah?”
“Celine, will you have dinner with me?”
A voice rose from among the others. “Celine, who’s the new guy? Hey, new guy—can you move in a little closer to Celine for me?”
All motion stopped, and there was an instant of total silence. Everyone turned to look at the person who’d asked that, a man whose face was mostly veiled by a black hoodie. And then they turned to look at Brett, leaning against the wall behind Celine.
Elisa opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Brett pushed off the wall, took a threatening step forward and said, “Put that thing away.”
Hoodie guy’s mouth slowly tipped up into a smile, and he raised his hand. He had something clutched there, and for a brief, heart-stopping second, Elisa actually thought it might be a gun. Then she saw what it was and wished she’d been right in the first place.
Camera. Big camera. Real camera.
Paparazzo.
His smile got bigger as he began shooting, the shutter whirring as it squeezed off shot after shot of Brett and Celine.
* * *
THE LOOK ON Elisa’s face, pure panic, spurred Brett to action. He slid past her, jostling other passengers out of the way, and lunged at the photographer, yanking the camera out of the guy’s hands.
“That’s personal property!” The guy grabbed for it, but Brett turned his back and ran his hands over the camera’s casing, probing for the slot where the memory card lived. He found its catch, withdrew the card, dropped it to the floor and ground it into the carpet. The cheap plastic splintered. He closed the slot and handed the camera back to the photographer.
“Here’s your personal property.”
“What’s going on?”
It was the male flight attendant, followed by a well-built guy in a business suit. Sky marshal, Brett would wager. Most of the other passengers had dispersed at the sight of this new authority. The flight attendant glared at both Brett and the hooded paparazzo.
“Nothing’s going on.” Brett looked around at the remaining passengers, daring them to disagree.
No one spoke up. His good luck—paparazzi were so loathsome that fear of the crazy man in the aisle paled in comparison.
The guy in the hoodie hadn’t spoken.
“I’m going to need all of you to return to your seats, please,” the flight attendant said sternly.
Brett shot a glance Elisa’s way as she edged back toward her seat. The panic was gone, but she wasn’t making grateful Bambi eyes at him, either. She looked pissed. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised. She was probably as bewildered by his intrusion into her boot camp weekend as he was to find that his old friend was a third wheel on his Caribbean getaway.
“Hey.” He touched her arm, trying to soften her. “I meant what I said. Why don’t you and Celine take the two seats in first class? I’ll take yours. I’m sure you guys have some talking to do.”
“There weren’t two in first class when I tried to book.”
“Last-minute cancellation. Or Celine’s persuasive power.” He shrugged. “Take the seats, okay?”
Elisa gave a tight nod. Man, she was pretty. He’d forgotten. Or made himself forget. She had hair the exact color of gingerbread and hazel eyes and the smoothest skin, like a porcelain doll. He still remembered the feel of that skin pressed against his cheek, under his lips. He craved it, nights when he was tired and weak. That and the weight of her breast in his hand, her nipple hard against his fingertips, her needy noises tracing a straight line to his cock.
He was getting hard thinking about it, and that meant less blood to the brain, which couldn’t be good in a screwed-up situation like this one. Concentrate, man, he commanded himself.
“Let me get my stuff,” Elisa said. “Celine, you head up front. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Celine went obediently, and Elisa practically shoved the guy in the hoodie out of her way. She bent down to retrieve something from her seat. Yeah, that was a good view of her, too.
“What the hell, man?”
For the briefest of instants, he thought it was the voice inside his head chiding him for ogling her ass, but then he realized it was the paparazzo snarling at him. Brett shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve got extras.”
“I’m trying to do my job! You might not like it, but it’s what I do, and those were my photos you smashed.”
Brett could see the guy was one heartbeat from planting a hand in the middle of Brett’s chest and shoving. Let him try. Brett had enough aimless anger at the moment to flatten him into next week.
“Gentlemen, I need you to return to your seats,” repeated the male flight attendant. “Unless you need a personal escort?” He nodded toward the sky marshal.
The paparazzo harrumphed like an angsty teenager and slunk away. The flight attendant and sky marshal eased against the seats to let him pass.
Brett headed toward the back of the plane. He met Elisa in the aisle, where she’d just finished hoisting out her carry-on. The top few buttons of her ruffled white blouse were undone revealing the delicate thrust of her collarbone and, below that, the swell of her phenomenal breasts. A wicked taunt—the ones that got away. Over the past two years, he’d managed to mostly block the memories of kissing her and touching her. Mostly, that is, except in his dreams. He dreamed about Elisa confoundingly often—languid, dirty, wet dreams. But this was real, because she wasn’t slowly peeling off her clothes and looking at him with heat in her eyes, and she wasn’t taking slow steps toward him, which was what always happened in the dreams.
“Sit for a minute.” Elisa’s words penetrated through his fog. He was lucky she couldn’t read minds.
Her seat and the one beside it were empty—the other occupant must have been in the restroom. She slid in, and he sat beside her, hyperaware of the thinness of her blouse. He could see the hint of her skin beneath the translucent fabric.
“So, what?” she demanded. “You picked her up somewhere? And—”
“The drugstore,” he admitted, before he could stop himself.
“You picked her up at a drugstore?”
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