Page 15 of Eye of the Beholder
“You’re already smiling and I haven’t even said anything yet,” I point out.
He laughs. “I’m just curious. It’s all you wear.”
I must be crazy for telling him, but the words are already on their way out of my mouth. “Gray and white are bland. They don’t attract attention or anything.” I maneuver my way through the cologne department, enjoying every second of it. Usually I spritz some on one of the little cards they give out for samples and take it home. But since Cohen is with me…
“Hang on,” he says, and I glance over my shoulder. He’s fallen behind, looking at the watches in the glass case. That’s all the chance I need. I quickly eye the colognes they’ve got set out until I find the one I like. There’s something refreshing and familiar about it that just makes me smile, which is funny, because usually my go-to scents are all floral. I did look at the list of base notes and all that once, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I see that stuff in romance novels, and personally I find it ridiculous—a woman describing a man’s scent with words like “musk” or “sandalwood” or “cedar.” Who goes around smelling different kinds of wood? Who actually knows what musk smells like? And what evenismusk?
But I digress. I spritz some of the cologne on the sample card and am just putting the bottle back on the counter when—
“That one? Really?”
Dang it. I shove the card in my back pocket as quickly as I can and spin around to face Cohen, who looks to be on the verge of laughter.
“It’s not—I was just—” But I stutter into silence. Finally I say, “I just think it smells good.” My voice is almost inaudible.
“It does,” Cohen says, and he takes a step toward me, still looking amused.
He takes another step forward. And another. And…another?
I step back automatically, but he holds his arms open, like he’s going to hug me. He stands there, looking like an idiot.
“What are you doing?” I say, raising my eyebrows. My heart is doing a weird little trippy thing. I’m not sure any guy has ever been this close to me.
Well, my dad. But I don’t think that counts.
He doesn’t answer; he just grins, stepping closer again until there’s hardly any space between us. “Inhale,” he says, touching a spot on his neck, and without thinking I do as he says—I go up on my tiptoes and sniff his neck.
He smells heavenly, exactly like the little card now shoved in my butt pocket.
Perfect. He’s just found me all but swooning over what apparently is his cologne—that’swhy he smelled familiar in the flower shop. I almost groan with embarrassment. “All right,” I say. “I know how this looks. But I didn’t know—I wasn’t being creepy. I didn’t know this is what you wear.”
“Sure, you didn’t,” he says, thankfully stepping away from me again and letting his arms fall. His smile has widened, and the teasing gleam in his eyes makes me want to bury my face in my hands in mortification.
Instead I do the dignified thing: I turn my back on him and march in the other direction.
6
Mina
Keep walking. Keep walking. Just don’t be weird. Cohen won’t be weird about it if you’re not weird about it.
Sometimes talking to myself works; sometimes it doesn’t. Right now it sort of doesn’t.
“So that’s it?” Cohen’s voice comes from behind me, and I hear him hurrying to catch up.
“So that’s what?” I say.
“You wear gray and white because they’re bland?”
“Oh,” I say, relieved that he’s letting the cologne thing drop. I shrug. “That’s why people wear anything, isn’t it?”
“What, to avoid attention?” he says, finally appearing at my side as we exit the department store and make our way through the top floor of the mall, passing store after store. This mall is a little sad; it used to be thriving, but now it’s almost always empty. I don’t know where I’ll go to buy clothes if it closes down, which at this point is a real possibility. Buying clothes online freaks me out. What if it doesn’t fit? What if it’s way uglier in person? Then I have to go to the trouble of returning it, and the whole process takes forever, anyway. Plus shipping costs. I would rather just try it on in the store and be done with it.
“No,” I say. “Because of what other people think about them. Most girls wear clothes to attract attention. I wear the clothes I wear to deflect it.” I gesture to Cohen’s outfit—a simple, long-sleeved thermal shirt and fitted jeans that show off his athletic build—and say, “You wear that because it looks good on you. Which I’m only saying because you know that already,” I say quickly, overriding his response—a smug response, judging by the look on his face. My cheeks burn. “You know it looks nice. And Jack looks good in whatever—”
Dang it. I stop speaking midsentence, but it’s too late. The topic I’m going out of my way to avoid has come up.
“Speaking of Jack,” Cohen says.
