How (Not) to Fall in Love by Lisa Brown Roberts Page A

shaker set. I might not get the guy I wanted, but there was always Scooby-Doo.
    L iz told me I was free to read or do homework during slow times at her place, so one day I brought my backpack full of wire, beads, and my jewelry-making tools. I wanted to make something for her as a thank-you for hiring me. It was a quiet afternoon with only two tea drinkers sitting on a loveseat together. I set up my supplies on the rickety table that none of the customers liked. I’d just crimped on my first bead when a dark little head popped up at the table.
    “Whatcha doin’?” An adorable little girl stared at me with enormous eyes that looked vaguely familiar.
    “Where’d you come from?” I asked, wondering how I’d missed her.
    “From outside.” She parked her tiny body on the chair next to me. A small chubby hand reached tentatively toward my pile of beads.
    “Can I touch one? Please?” She looked like her heart would break if I said no.
    “Sure.” I smiled and slid a few beads toward her. “Do you want to make some jewelry with me?”
    Her eyes got even bigger and she nodded.
    “What’s your name?” I glanced around for her parental unit, not seeing anyone. Maybe her mom was in the restroom.
    “I’m Pickles.”
    I cracked up. “Pickles? Really?”
    She shrugged. “It’s my good name. I don’t like the udder one.”
    “It is a good nickname,” I agreed.
    “My name’s not Nick!” she exclaimed with a huge grin. “It’s Pickles!”
    This kid was a born comedian. My dad should add her to his act. I tied a knot at the end of a piece of silver cord and handed it to her.
    “I’m Darcy. Just Darcy. You know how to string beads, right, Pickles?”
    She nodded again, watching me closely. “Why are you making an ouchy necklace?”
    Frowning, I paused. “Ouchy?”
    “It’s all pokey.” She pointed to the copper wire in my hands.
    “The wire? It really doesn’t hurt. I get rid of the ouchy parts before I wear it.” There was no point explaining soldering to her since she was only three or four years old.
    “My brudder uses the same tools,” she said, pointing toward my pliers.
    I laughed. “Does he make jewelry, too?”
    “No, silly! He fixes stuff.”
    “Uh-huh,” I agreed, more focused on the necklace pattern spread out on the table.
    “I make my brudder a necklace,” Pickles said happily, swinging her legs under the table. I hoped she had a brother who was cool enough to wear a necklace she made. We worked together in companionable silence, Pickles occasionally sneaking another bead from my pile as I pretended not to notice. I glanced around, wondering who she belonged to.
    “Pickles? Is your mom or dad—”
    “Uh-oh,” whispered Pickles, interrupting me. She slid off the chair and hid under the table.
    I peeked under the table. “Pickles? What’s wrong?” She shook her head and put a finger to her lips to shush me. She pointed to the door. Lucas stood on the sidewalk, laughing with Homeless Harry. Harry had introduced himself that way when he stopped in for a free coffee from Liz.
    “No sense sugarcoatin’ the facts, darlin’. I am Harry and I am homeless,” he’d told me.
    “Gotta go,” I whispered to Pickles. “Customer on deck.”
    “He’s not a cussomer,” Pickles whispered. “He’s my brudder.”
    That explained the familiar eyes. And the gorgeous dark hair.
    “I’m not here!” Pickles whispered vehemently, shaking her head.
    I walked to the counter, trying to act casual. I didn’t know why Pickles was hiding from Lucas, but there was a girl code to uphold. If a sister wanted to hide, I had to help her out.
    As Lucas approached, I tried not to notice how good he made a plain T-shirt and jeans look. Yeah, we were becoming good friends, but my heart still sped up around him. But all I had to do was picture Heather to quash my palpitations.
    “Hey, Lucas. What’ll it be? Chocolate milk?”
    He shot me his sexiest grin. “Triple-shot cappuccino. Extra dry. But I