Read The Ivy: Secrets for Free Online Page B

usual. Even though he was still several dozen feet away, he stood out among the crowd: tall, gorgeous, perfect in every imaginable way and . . .
    Slowing down . . . Callie realized with horror. Clint came to a halt in front of the dry cleaner. He glanced at his watch and reached for the door.
    Callie grabbed the dresses on either side of her and yanked the hangers toward the center, closing the gap and concealing her—hopefully—from view. She glanced down at her dirty Converses and shuffled to the left behind the red floor-length number.
    The bell over the glass door tinkled. “Almost didn’t make it!” she heard Clint exclaim, sounding slightly out of breath. She heard footsteps and then his voice coming from near the counter. “How’s it going, Hassan?”
    “Very well, Mr. Weber. Good to see you, sir.” The owner—Hassan—was also blocked from view, and Callie stood still, holding her breath. Were her feet visible? Biting her lip, she tried to concentrate on counting the buttons of a Missoni sweater. She wasn’t even sure why exactly she was hiding, only that it was too late to be mature now.
    “I will be right back,” Hassan continued, and Callie watched, barely daring to breathe, as he disappeared down an aisle and returned with three plastic-wrapped dress shirts.
    “Two Oxfords and one tuxedo shirt, Mr. Weber,” he said, laying the shirts on the counter.
    “Thanks so much. Just in time for the Financial Aid benefit tonight,” said Clint, reaching for his wallet. “That’ll be . . . ?”
    “Seven fifty.”
    It was silent save for the ding of the cash register. Then—
    “You there!” Hassan’s voice boomed loudly. Callie cringed. “What are you doing hiding in the corner? Hurry up—the store is about to close!”
    Callie did not answer. Instead she continued to count buttons and hold her breath, willing Clint to take his tuxedo shirt and leave: please . . . go . . . now.
    “Crazy customer,” Hassan muttered. Clint chuckled sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ve seen it all,” she heard him say.
    Leave . . . leave . . . leave . . .
    There was more rustling and then—thank goodness—footsteps.
    Unfortunately they appeared to be heading in the wrong direction. “There’s something very familiar about that dress . . . and this one,” she heard Clint murmur under his breath. “Hassan, who do these belong to?”
    But before Hassan could answer, Clint was reaching out to slide the hangers aside, saying “Lex, is that you back th— Callie? ”
    “Clint!” she managed to choke out, trying to look surprised even though she knew she was redder than the dress Clint was clinging to in amazement.
    “Callie?” he said again. “What are you doing?”
    “Picking up my dry cleaning,” she said with a shrug. And not hiding—definitely not that.
    “ Your dry cleaning?” he repeated incredulously.
    “Yep,” she lied. “So funny how I didn’t see you there! What a coincidence! Isn’t it funny how these things sometimes happen? So . . . funny.”
    “Very funny,” he agreed, eyes twinkling and looking—to her horror—like that was exactly what he meant. “So, how have you been? Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
    When he smiled, tiny crinkles formed around the corners of his eyes: light green, charming, and full of warmth—the kind of glow you could bask in like it was a sunny summer day—
    “Ahem.” Hassan cleared his throat: a phlegmy, smoker’s sound. “The store is closing two minutes ago.”
    “Right. Sorry, Hassan,” Clint said, his eyes never leaving Callie’s face. “Why don’t you let me carry some of these things home for you,” he offered, reaching for a dress.
    “No!” Callie cried, intercepting him and throwing the dress over her arm. “I mean, no thank you,” she said, piling shirt after dress after skirt on top of it. “I can handle it.”
    “Okay . . .” said Clint slowly, watching her. “Well, what about later this evening? I have this benefit thing,