Chapter 6

Disclaimer: All creative rights to the characters in this story related to High School Musical belong to its original creators. Any other names, places or events that may have similarity to existing/actual names, places or events is purely coincidental and the use of such is for the purpose of this story alone. Lastly, the author does not, in any way, profit from this story.

Weather changes can be drastic. His father's temper is almost always drastic. The women he meets, more often than not, are drastic creatures. Sharpay goes into a drastic fit whenever she's given ordinary water instead of the sparkling one or when a lock of her golden hair has gone out of coif.

In other words, in his world, in his lifestyle—lifestyle he currently does not inhabit—the word drastic is often used loosely. But he was coming to grasp that drastic becomes drastic in the truest meaning of the word when you're financially lacking and have to contend yourself with others. Drastic now means going from being well-off to becoming a virtual pauper in a matter of weeks. Drastic means one moment your only concern is going from one party scene to the next then suddenly you're obliged to waking up early and slaving yourself away to earn some money.

Physically, he ached. The joints in his body he couldn't even name hurt. He was tired and he smelled of sweat, smoke and the gagging combination of ingredients found in a commercial kitchen that serves a variety of greasy, heart clogging food. He hated it. Hates working at Sam's Diner, taking orders from classless individuals, fending off pathetic flirtations from female customers and some of the waitresses and he hates washing dishes. Hates it but he also knows he has to endure it because he needs the money.

It's been a week now since he found he doesn't have access to his funds. A week since Lucille agreed to let him stay. A week since the shock of his situation had weighed down on him and he was practically at a loss what to do. Despite what Lucille thought of him, he was desperate and yes, scared of what would happen, what was to come, how he would cope. It being a novel feeling and all that uncertainty clawing one after the other in his head rendered him unable to think of another way to solve his problem.

Even now, a week in, walking back to the apartment, he felt . . . not himself. What did he know of poverty anyway? The chasm of his social position to theirs has never been more palpable in everything he has seen of this area. He was born to immense wealth and privilege so it's little wonder why he feels like he's floating in a sea of ambiguity. He's in shock to put it simply and being so he had allowed other people to decide what best to do next when the very reason he was here in the first place was his avoidance of doing what his own father thinks is best for him. The irony of it all should've been funny but it's not.

Given a key of his own—yes, it was a surprise when Lucille handed him the key—he unlocked the apartment door and strode in. Knowing there's no one home at this time of the day, Troy didn't bother announcing himself. He went straight to the sofa which also served as his bed for the night and slumped himself wearily, propping both legs up the arm rest. The sofa was too short for him. It was lumpy and cramped but he insisted on sleeping here instead of taking up Gabriella's room again thus, as the days rolled by, he was able to get used to his temporary bed and is now able to sleep through the night in it.

But was this—where he is, what he's doing—best for him? Now that he had taken his father out of the equation? Always demanding the best out of everything, he can almost hear Jack saying, 'Surely you can do better than that.'

Was he giving up already? After a week of unfamiliarity, drastic changes, was he ready to ditch this poor working class status and return to the lap of luxury? It's as easy as going to the Bolton offices or to Lava Springs and he'd be whisked away by his father. Except, surprisingly, there's this tiny voice in him who brooded in utter silence up until recently, telling him he doesn't want to be found yet. His unspoken complaints is probably a long running list by now but immediately after he experienced a horrible first day of working at Sam's Diner, he decided to take every unpleasantness as a challenge that he must overcome.

Giving up, amazingly, didn't once occur to him that first day at the diner. He surprised himself more than anyone else.

Somehow this past week something shifted, it wasn't just avoiding his father anymore. He also wants to prove he can do it on his own, his own abilities, his own wit and his earned resources. He wants to prove Jack wrong. He wants to make his father eat his words; make him realize that he's not just another heir to a billionaire, suffering from a bad case of ennui. This, he saw, is his chance and he's decided to exploit it to the fullest.

Besides, it's not like living here with Gabriella and her family is a state of perpetual discomfort for him. No, this apartment gives relative comfort and from someone who has never known discomfort in living that assessment says much. It isn't the kind of comfort he's used to but it is comfort just the same and for that he's thankful because he could've had it worse. And it's almost funny how the tones and voices in the apartment had somehow become familiar to him in so short a time. He can tell from the foot falls alone which one among his hosts arrived or went, when in the house where he spent a better part of his life in he's oblivious to everything.

Well, of course, the house in L.A., like a number of other houses the Bolton's own, is a mansion with several rooms, large house staff and all the amenities one would expect from a residence that enormous that it would be hard to keep track of the coming and goings of anyone, even if he cared enough to do so.

Also, another factor to consider for his sudden unparalleled awareness, are the people with him.

Lucille may have been a little harsh when they talked a week ago but he was astonished that she was allowing him to stay for free. She still didn't trust him but it's to be expected. Lucille was simply being cautious as she should be. Though now that he's living with them, the woman was everything he imagined a mother should be. Well, maybe not everything but she comes pretty close.

Beneath her calm exterior is a warm, kind soul that knows her responsibility as a parent and doesn't slack in fulfilling them. She's affectionate, funny, engaging to talk to but she's also strict when need be and without being domineering, she's in control of the house and her children. She provides suggestions instead of imposing them unlike he's father.

When Jason and Gabriella both suggested Troy work at the diner, Lucille told him what working there would entail and that he take time to think it over then she also made suggestions of other work places for him to consider. At that time, even in his state of mental numbness and the shock of the strictures he should follow for being allowed to stay, he recognized that he was still given rights over his choices, a freedom to decide what best to do while they extended the help he needed—and he respected Lucille all the more for that concession. Jack Bolton could learn a thing or two from her.

Jason proved what his first impression of him gathered. Funny, carefree, easy to please, a bit on the dull side when compared to Gabriella and Chad, but he seem to have accepted Troy as part of their household without prejudice or expectation of any kind. In fact, Jason often invites him in his outings—mostly to play ball or to some house party—with some of the guys from East High. At first he thought it was common courtesy why he was being invited but realized sooner that it wasn't so. Jason and his peers seem to really welcome his presence and Troy does enjoy playing with them.

On the other hand, Chad is the drastic opposite of Jason. Almost like Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. Whereas Jason is the blithe guy, Chad is the serious one. He's of the same age as Troy, attends U of A on athletic scholarship and holds a part-time job to pay for his living allowance. In other words, he's more responsible, relatively independent and more adult than Jason and even Troy. He also barely speaks to him, barely acknowledges his presence in the apartment and Troy has a niggling vibe that Chad personally doesn't like him. Probably even detests the idea of him extending his stay with them. He once considered trying to gain his good side but had to discard the idea in favour of his own dilemma. Besides, its Lucille's good graces he should be worrying about, not one of her son's.

And then there's Gabriella . . .Gabriella, who by just one look in those stunning brown eyes of hers, he could see concern, compassion, friendship and encouragement. She makes an effort to make things comfortable for him . . . preparing the sofa where he would sleep, asking him what other personal items he needed aside from the basic ones they were able to provide on short notice, offering to familiarize him with the area, accompanying him that first day at the diner as if he was a young boy scared of going to school for the very first time—and he felt like it too—but nevertheless, appreciated the gesture.

It was also a given, even before his money problem became known, he enjoys her company, her wit, her penchant for cleanliness and her soft heart for strays—just four days ago she came home with a mangy cat that was half-wild it looked positively scary and dangerous. But she earned the ugly animal's trust so easily that she was able to care and nourish it before handing the cat to the local animal sanctuary when she couldn't find a home for it. He'd been amazed to witness her concern for the stray. He'd never seen anyone care so much and he couldn't help thinking what a lucky beast that was—almost as lucky as him, technically speaking, because on an afterthought he realized he's her stray too and not once did she neglect him.

He was certain these animals wouldn't mind being strays, like he doesn't mind being referred to as a stray, if Gabriella were the one to take care of them.

She's also no simpering miss. She can meet his arrogance head on and is never in awe of him though she suspects and could see some evidence of his privileged upbringing in his behaviour—such refreshing personality rare to come by but he found in the most unlikely girl outside his social circle.

Added to that, he likes her eyes—stunning, dark liquid gold in colour and quite expressive. He's never seen a pair more mesmerizing—and her lips—pink, wonderfully shaped, luscious—he found himself thinking a couple of days ago that if he could he'd kiss her lips all day and not grow weary of it, before he came to his senses and immediately quashed the startling thought.

The sound of the lock opening made Troy turn his head to the door and he smiled at Gabriella entering the apartment in her favoured loose fitting shirt and pants with her ever present backpack and clutching a thin binder close to her chest. "You're early." He greeted swinging his legs to sit, his bleak mood lifting. "No rehearsal?"

"None. Miss Darbus isn't around and Kelsi decided we all needed a break." She laid her things on the empty couch across Troy and sat on the space he patted beside him on the sofa. "How was work today, Troy Hewitt?"

"The usual." He shrugged, moving back a little to allow a comfortable space between them. He barely paid heed to the name he used to identify himself to people outside of Gabriella's family, excepting Kelsi. He used his mother's middle name for his employment at the diner . . . just to be on the safe side since he can't be sure if there are some who'd be familiar with the Bolton name. Thankfully, being employed in the diner didn't require much paper work. Lucille's word had been enough to convince Sam Mortimer, the owner, that he was a distant relative of the Montez's.

Gabriella giggled and curled a jean clad leg under her, looking at him with rapt attention. "Usual as in you were fending off flirting girls left and right."

"Being flirted on is not all it's cracked up to be, you know." Troy remarked with an edge of reprimand. The reminder of the shockingly forward patrons of the diner is probably the topmost hated thing on his list of complaints. Coming to terms, grudgingly at that, with actually working to have money to spend, he did not expect to be fawned and flirted over as if he's the only male in the area that can cater to their fantasies. The women in his circle are equally forward and aggressive but at least they employed some subtlety and he could put them off with a cold look or a few curt words. The females here are made of entirely sterner stuff. "I feel like a hunted animal."

She arched one delicate brow. "I find it hard to believe no woman in L.A. flirts with you."

"I didn't say that. They flirt. I can smell flirtation a mile away and I can handle it no matter how crass, tacky or vulgar. But circumstances are different here." He explained wryly, ignoring the compliment underlying her statement to his looks. "I'm working and I'd like to do that in peace—and I can't believe I'm saying this—I don't like having to worry about women trying to paw me."

Gabriella kept a straight face at his arrogant tone which she's aware comes second nature to him but her pink lips were twitching at the corners and Troy's gaze dipped to stare at it. "Claw." She said.

Transfixed, Troy traced the sweep of her lips then, as though able to recall himself again, his eyes flicked back to meet hers and forced to hold it there. In the week since he's been here, despite everything that's happened, despite the drastic changes in his day to day living—of all things to take interest in, he found he was developing a fascination for those dewy lips of hers. Whether she was smiling, talking, pouting, biting her lower lip—he's drawn to it. He couldn't seem to help it. He seems to have suddenly recognized her desirability on some atavistic level.

He had not been prepared for his thoughts to go on a less platonic direction where Gabriella was concerned.

Almost without fail, this week past, his eyes immediately seek to look at her lips and he's plunged into an appalling lack of control he would liken to an adolescent with a severe crush or it could be called an appallingly adolescent state of sexual awareness in her presence . . . not good at all. For both of them.

"What?" He pressed, taking control of his body and he shifted a little.

"Girls claw. Guys paw." Gabriella slowly intoned, curious of the odd, fleeting look that flashed in his eyes. She's been seeing the same look from him every time they talk and she's quite clueless what triggers it or what to make of it. She's tempted to point it out and ask him what else was troubling him aside from his present worries but the thought that he would think her a nosy little nobody intruding even into his private thoughts made her hold back. Troy, she's come to know, keeps his thoughts on a tight lid and details of his life as a rich man's son carefully private.

Although her curiosity of him remains persistent, she respects his silently communicated desire to keep his background undisclosed. Troy doesn't ask about her parents—even though he's probably just as curious why she's living with her aunt and her situation with two adoptive brothers definitely invites questions—because, she deduced, by asking such personal stuff, the same will be asked from him and unlike her, he's not willing to tell.

At any rate, it's not part of the deal that he should tell them about his privileged life . . . a life he would be returning to once he's saved enough money for him to use. He promised to abide by the rules Lucille laid out for him in lieu of his temporary boarding in the apartment. He even insisted on paying for his stay with what was left of his money, only he couldn't win that argument when Lucille adamantly refused to accept it.

"Right. Guys do the pawing." He chuckled and gently chucked her chin with the knuckle of his hand—another little gesture he does often and couldn't help doing when they talk. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

"You do that." She could not imagine what must be going through his head or what he must be feeling with the big changes in his life, albeit temporary, but it wouldn't be encouraging for sure. Like Kelsi said, a prince thrust out from the palace into the streets will never be a pleasant experience.

As it is, she feels sad for him. Not pity. Never that because he doesn't look pitiful at all. Just imagining his plight makes her compassionate for him, makes her want to reach out to ease some of his burdens. She also wants to reach out to stroke her fingers through his wheat coloured hair, feel the locks run through her fingers—no, no! Don't you dare go there!

Quickly, Gabriella stamped the notion, reminding herself that this isn't one of her romance novels. Though he may look like some kind of prince, she in contrast doesn't fill nor fit the role of princess. And there's nothing going on between them other than simple friendship that is perhaps temporary. She would do well to keep that in mind at all times. "I'm starving." Her voice came out unnaturally shrill and Gabriella silently cursed for letting her thoughts stray toward impossible directions. "Let's make something to eat."

He pressed back into the cushions, closing his eyes. "Gabriella, food isn't really high on my wish list right now."

"Don't be silly." She stood abruptly, taking command to distract the wayward thoughts and pulled him from the sofa by the arm. "What we make won't taste nor smell like fast food. Come on."

Allowing himself to be tugged toward the kitchen, Gabriella took charge at once, gathering ingredients and kitchen utensils needed for whatever it was she planned to make. Standing beside her by the small work area, she gave him a chopping board and a knife then tossed a plump tomato at him which he easily caught. "Here. You do that first then the red pepper and onion." She ordered.

He put down the tomato on the board and stared at it like it's some sort of alien specimen he was trying to figure out how to dismember. "What will I do exactly with this?"

His tone made Gabriella pause from cracking an egg in a bowl. She looked incredulously at him. "We're making omelette." She informed him. She assumed it should've been obvious with the items in front of them.

"Oh, I like omelette." He enthused, knowledge finally dawning on him what with the eggs and vegetables. "So, what will I do with the tomato?"

"You've never made omelette before." Gabriella stated on a sudden realization that the man beside her, although he's never once said so, is from a well-to-do family. A very well-to-do family from every bit of evidence so far. His meals are probably prepared by a chef hence, she's asking him to do the impossible with preparing the ingredients for the omelette.

"Never dreamed of it." He affirmed with a careless shrug but he grabbed the knife, held the tomato in place and tried to work on it.

Gabriella shook herself from staring agape and looked at the tomato. In a calm, controlled voice, she said, "Troy, slice it. Don't poke it."

"Slice not poke." He repeated then eyed the tomato critically whose smooth skin now bore evidence of his knife stabbing abilities and its juices were slowly leaking onto the chopping board. He grimaced and conceded with a sigh. "You have to show me how to do this, Gabriella."

"Are you sure you want to do this? I can—" She started to reach for the knife he held.

He moved it out of her reach. "I will eat too. I'm doing my share in the work. Equal rights here, Montez." He admonished with a disapproving glance at her hands ready to take the knife from him, barely realizing how odd an attitude it was for him to insist on doing such a domestic task."Show me."

Gabriella couldn't help it. She burst out laughing. "You are the most arrogant guy I know." And as it happens, she quite enjoys his arrogant side but she'll be dead before she admits that aloud.

"Why thank you, Miss Montez." He retorted but with good humour, her infectious laughter making him grin. Among other things, he likes that she's not so easily intimidated by him. "I do try not to disappoint."

She rolled her eyes at him but resisted a rejoinder. Abandoning the eggs, Gabriella reached out again. He wants to do it so she'll humour him. Besides, she reasoned, there's no harm in educating him on how to cut up vegetables. Would knowledge on how to slice veggies for an omelette be a plus factor of attraction to the ladies in his social circle? Why the hell is she even worrying about his effect on the ladies? That's his problem, if it ever is, not hers.

As Troy made room for her by standing a little sideways, Gabriella grasped over his left hand holding the tomato with her own left hand and her right going over his hand holding the knife. "Like this . . ." She began, thrusting all silly notions aside and slowly showing him, hand over hand, the correct way to hold and cut the tomato.

The pressure of her smaller hand would tighten and loosen on his much larger ones as she urged him to work on the tomato following her instructions. At that moment, Troy knew he should be concentrating on the tomato and her instructing voice. It's what his brain was telling him but Gabriella was too close . . . which proved to be a distraction to his awareness. So close that her slim shoulders, even with the tiniest of movements, were brushing against his chest. And as if that wasn't enough provocation to his highly strung senses, her bowed head was directly under his nose. He could smell the floral scent of her shampoo combined with that distinctive scent of hers—warm, soft, inviting, oh so feminine—teasing his olfactory sense. His nostrils flared, his body went taut.

How he liked her scent. But it was sidetracking him, damn it, making him think thoughts he shouldn't be thinking while cutting up vegetables for an omelette.

He had to fight down an urge to wrap his arms around her, turn her around and press her small lissom frame against his—good Lord, this isn't right!

And that man part without a brain . . . there's that unwelcome twitch again. How long has it been since he had a warm, willing woman to satiate his carnal needs? The way his body is reacting to her nearness, he feels like an ill disciplined boy.

Squelching a groan and forcibly pushing aside inappropriate thoughts of the girl in front of him, Troy mentally reminded himself that this is the same girl who made him feel welcome; keeping a steady string of conversation with him, asking how his day went—if there were any problems or difficulties, telling him not to overdo himself or if he needed anything he shouldn't hesitate to tell her. The same kind girl who saved his life in more ways than one, the girl who lives in the same roof with him, the girl who is the niece of the owner of this apartment and therefore whatever unwanted thoughts he was having now might possibly be the effects of being very grateful to her kindness and consideration.

Yes, that's all there is to it. The fact that he hasn't gotten laid since his release from the holding cell at the LAPD headquarters, the only plausible reason is deprived libido. What else could it be anyway, considering the circumstances of the situation? He was noticing the little things about her because of their proximity and because they've spent a lot of time together this past week . . . plus, she's also enjoyable company. Company he wouldn't want to relinquish.

"Got it?" Gabriella turned halfway, looking up to him, her shoulder pressing against his chest making him tense up. There was a questioning expression on her pretty but unadorned face. This close, her skin was flawless, glowing with health and he wanted to lift a hand to stroke it.

He forced his hands still.

Their eyes met, held for a minute and maybe a few seconds longer before Troy recovered himself, finally understood her query of what it is he's suppose to get and nodded, stepping back to let her move back to her place next to him. "Yes. Got it."

He mustn't have sounded convincing for she afforded him a dubious look but otherwise said nothing, turning her attention back to the eggs.

Determined to snuff out the inappropriate ideas that enshrouded his being because of Gabriella's nearness, Troy did his best with the tomatoes, the red pepper next and lastly utilized every drop of will power he could grasp on so as not to let water leak from his eyes because of the sting from the blasted onions.

From the corner of his smarting eyes, Troy spied her shoulders rocking to a tell tale mirth as he hurried on with chopping the onions. He heard himself growl but instead of getting the appropriate guilt and quelling for finding his struggles with the onion a source of enjoyment, Gabriella's mirth erupted in breathy laughter.

"This is not dignified at all. Damn it." Troy grumbled but deep down he accepted the stupid onion as comeuppance for his insidious thoughts about her mere minutes ago. "Why go to all this trouble? There are fresh vegetables from the can, isn't there? Pre-cut and ready to dump in a pan, like at the diner."

"There's no such thing as fresh anything from a can, Troy."

"Sure there is." He countered with his innate sangfroid surfacing once more. "Freshness guaranteed label means just that."

Gabriella began whisking the eggs. She really enjoys inane conversations like this with him. "Chopping up onions is a test of one's manliness."

"Like hell it is." He muttered, wiping his wet cheeks with the sleeves of his shirt.

Not pausing with her task, she fought against another round of hilarity to inform him in a cavalier manner. "A guy who can chop onions without succumbing into girly tears—"

"There are much more pleasurable ways of testing manliness. Ask any guy. And stop trying to rile me, Gabriella." Troy interrupted a little crossly, finishing with the onions and throwing her a withering glare that was spoiled by his teary eyes. "Let's get this done. I want to eat."

Replacing the bowl of frothy egg on the work table, she conceded with a dutiful slant of the head but her eyes were so filled with humour that even in his wretched eye-stinging state, he wasn't proof against it. A reluctant chuckle escaped his lips before he could suppress it as she took on a stern expression and playfully saluted him in a manly voice. "Sir, yes sir!"

* * * * * *

"Didn't you say food isn't in your wish list?" Gabriella reminded sitting across Troy at the small dining table while they shared a plate of the omelette. She gestured with the fork in her hand at the nearly empty plate, most of its content he devoured with much gusto.

Swallowing a bite of crusty roll and omelette, Troy made his defence. "This is good and I did help make it."

"Well, at least when you get back home you can boast knowing how to make an omelette. And maybe make one for your father to get on his good side."

It happened too quickly for Gabriella to realize she crossed unchartered waters. His fork froze in midair, his lips tightened and his eyes veiled. The change in him was startlingly abrupt that she waited in bated breath what he'd say and do next for her unwitting mention of his father . . . or is it the suggestion of him making an omelette when he returns to his former life? Was the idea demeaning? Was he offended? Did he not want to mend things with his father?

She didn't have to wait long. Just as hastily as his expression closed, he recovered immediately but when he replied, adopted the same detached air she encountered on their very first meeting, "That's not gonna happen. He doesn't eat omelette." He stood suddenly, went to the fridge, and grabbed two cans of soda before sitting back down, pushed one to hers and upended the other with a long gulp then he said, "I don't know any of my co workers."

The change in topic couldn't be any clearer that he wanted talk about his father dropped and Gabriella took the hint out of deference to his obvious displeasure at the mere citing of the older Mr. Bolton—not the first time it happened either. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to encourage a little familiarity with others, Troy." She suggested trying to match his offhand manner.

"So far the only familiarity I welcome is with you and a little bit with Lucille and your brothers."

"What's wrong with your co workers?"

"They're not you but since I haven't much of a choice, what do you suggest I do?"

They're not you. Plain words. Plainly stated as well. He probably doesn't mean anything by it but Gabriella—awe, inexperience and all—reeled. It was all she could do not to betray how those words affected her. If it were anyone else, she'd have easily dismissed it but for the first time in her life, although she didn't think it was possible, after a week of trying to explain her reaction to him she had to acknowledge, her leaping pulses meant she's attracted to a man. Not just any man but at Troy Bolton and all the mysteries shrouding him.

It started when they met, she accepted that now for what it was, and has grown steadily since. She was helpless to stop it, didn't want to stop it.

But, on a belated thought, does he have a girlfriend back home? It doesn't look it but so what if he does have one. Troy is hardly the guy she should feel possessive about. Crush, yes; possessive, no. He is so far out of her league and he probably wouldn't want to be in league with her either. Again—just to berate for the umpteenth time and remind herself not to dwell on the realm of fantasy influenced no doubt by her love of romance novels—theirs is all but temporary and she'd be foolish to hope for an extension after he solves his money problems.

"Don't set yourself apart too much." Gabriella advised evenly then opened the soda can but the tab refused to budge and she struggled with it.

Seeing her difficulty, his arm reached across to take the can from her and deftly solved the problem with a simple flick of his thumb then handed it back. "How?"

She smiled in thanks before her brows furrowed thoughtfully as she considered the query then after a moment of pondering, she brightened. "Sometimes responding to a knock-knock joke helps foster camaraderie among employees."

He looked at her above the soda can he was drinking as if he wanted to revised his opinion on her intelligence and her sanity. "Tell me you're not serious."

She took a sip from her soda and met his look. "Can't."

"What if the joke's corny?"

"You still laugh." She enunciated distinctly then took another sip.

He grumbled something Gabriella couldn't catch. "You're right." He granted though a bit ungraciously. "I can't help it if I approach some things with a wariness I'd feel to a snake curled around the base of a toilet but I guess I'll have to learn their names. Labelling them won't do."

"Labelling? Like name tags?"

He shook his head and took a drink as well. "I haven't actually bothered to read their name tags. I call the waitresses by their hair color . . . there's Red, Blonde and Brunette who's the cashier."

With a disapproving glare, Gabriella dryly commented, "They sure made that easy for you."

"The cook is Tum-tum 'cause he has a bulging midsection. Nice guy that."

"He'll butcher you if he finds out you call him Tum-tum." Shaking her head, Gabriella plucked the last piece of toasted bread from the plate and wagged it at him as she said, "I bet they call you popinjay . . . I know I would."

He ignored the barb, carrying on as if she didn't even speak. "The delivery slash errand guy is Sigh."

"Oh good," Gabriella perked up. "at least there's one person you call by name."

"That's not his name."

"Then why Sigh?"

His face broke into a dazzling white grin then he winked at her at the same time snatching the toast from her hand. "He sighs all the time."

Gabriella inhaled sharply, completely unprepared by the boyish charm of his wink that she belatedly registered her toast had been taken and is now being gobbled. "You are terrible!" She managed to sound stern but it had no effect on him. "Do you have labels for us too?"

He swallowed, completely unrepentant for devouring her toast. He looked to be enjoying her annoyance. "Don't have any for Jason and Chad nor Lucille."

"And me?" She held her breath, though she wasn't sure why. She's been labelled before. Some disagreeable students at East High call her unsavoury names and she's easily able to brush it off.

He pinned her with his cyan eyes and took his time staring at her before revealing. "Sweet Angel."

Expecting some ridiculous name similar to those he gave his co workers, Gabriella doubted her hearing. "What?"

"Did I ever thank you for saving me?" He asked.

She blinked. He spoke mundanely like they were still on the same thread of conversation and Gabriella had to give it to him for the smooth diversion, although he couldn't quite hide the very slight flush that marred his cheekbones. "Yes, you have." She replied. "That's why you gave me the jacket." Yet another subject he wanted dropped but she refused to acquiescence. "You call me Sweet Angel?"

"Yes. It's not why I gave the jacket to you. I just want you to have it." It was a quick assent, seeming part of one sentence, on the same subject as the jacket that Gabriella knew she'd have missed it if she wasn't keen on him.

She put the soda on the table and began slowly circling it between her palms. "Why?"

He gave her an exasperated glare but inwardly he was berating himself for his loose tongue. Like most females, Gabriella is incurably inquisitive and not just about his label on her but about his background as well. Although, he had to give her props for restraint on the latter. "You don't exhaust the giver by requiring explanations for the gift. It's insulting."

"I meant, why Sweet Angel?" She persisted wanting to win this battle against his evasiveness. When someone labels you as something quite unexpected, at the very least you deserve to know the reason for it, don't you? "I'm neither sweet nor angelic."

Oddly, he found amusement in her statement. His lips curved into a slow, tempting smile. "Or most people I know are devilish."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

Gathering the empty plates before them, Troy pushed back his chair and stood while Gabriella waited for his answer. But he gave none. "What's the deal with Kelsi hating Jason?"

Briefly she wondered what it would take to shake his damnable calm but she indulged his topic-hopping-when-it-suits-him tendencies. There will be other opportunities to get him talking. "Goes way back in grade school." She stood and tossed the empty soda cans in the trash bin then followed him by the sink.

"Tell me."

She began washing while he stood beside her ready with a towel to dry each item. "A class project. They were partners and Jason—well, they failed because of him."

"What did he do?"

"It was a week long project about responsibility and such. Each pair was tasked to take care of an egg . . . like parents take care of babies or their kids in a sort of symbolic sense."

"An egg?"

"Yes, an egg." Gabriella handed him a washed plate, already knowing what he finds objectionable about the egg. Yet another evidence of his lofty social status. "The average chicken egg. Store bought. Same as the ones we used for the omelette."

Brows curled in a quizzical frown, he briefly paused with his task. "Why not—"

"Public school, Troy. Animated baby dolls equipped with cool features of gurgling, peeing, crying, burping and throwing up are not within the public schools budget."

"But surely—"

She thrust another plate at him. "Do you want to hear it or not?"

With a flick of his wrist like a potentate commanding his subject, he ordered, "Carry on." Then took the plate from her.

Gabriella rolled her eyes but she couldn't help smirking either. His air of authority was irritating, appealing and fascinating all at once and she's inevitably drawn to him. "As I was saying, Jason and Kelsi were partners. The rule was that the partners take turns in caring for their egg, like responsible parents should. Kelsi, naturally did her part."

"And Jason naturally didn't." Troy supplied already chuckling as he anticipated hearing what the ever carefree Jason did to the poor egg unfortunate enough to have him as a parent.

"Right." The memory of that long ago day and Troy's unsuppressed amusement made Gabriella bubble in laughter as well that she had to calm herself just so she can finish telling him what happened. "Kelsi even thought it fitting to christen their egg—"

"Oh God." Troy braced both hands on the counter and bent his head, trying to keep his laughter at bay.

"Jason thought so too although his words were much more colourful than that. Chad and me stood in as godparents, by the way." She closed the tap, paused to breathe and made herself continue. "The fourth day of that week Jason had to take the egg home but before he did, he played ball with some of the street kids. It was a rousing game, I suppose, because he came home totally spent and starving. Unfortunately for the egg, there was not a scrap of food in the house 'cause Lucille hasn't done her grocery shopping yet and it was hours before she could get home. Jason had no money either so . . ."

Eyes wide and incredulous, Troy asked uncertainly. "H-he ate the egg?"

"The poor egg." Gabriella nodded gravelly. "Boiled and d-devoured." She couldn't stop it this time, she gave in and laughter welled over. Troy joined her in seconds and soon, dishes forgotten, they were laughing like idiots, sliding down the kitchen floor, clutching their middle when it became too much and they couldn't quit laughing.

Eventually—thankfully—before their guts could threaten to burst from too much laughing, they subsided. When they calmed down, they found themselves sitting on the floor side by side, backs against the kitchen cabinet, faces flushed, breathing a little laboured and they were looking at each other with silly grins lifting the corners of their mouths.

It was Gabriella who spoke first. In a quiet, half serious voice, she said, "I'm glad I met you, Troy."

"Why?" A note of his inherent smugness was in the query but coupled with a handsome smile, he looked like he was only being playful.

"Because I enjoy your company and you treat me as . . . me." She spoke slowly, sincerely, could barely peel her eyes off him, telling him with her eyes that she cherishes moments like this with him. "Except for Kelsi, most of my friends, even Chad and Jason, treat me like I'm one of the boys."

The teasing fell away from his thoughts. Troy didn't know how but he felt the earnestness of her words and it compelled him to be equally honest with her. "I'm glad I met you too, Gabriella."

She looked away from him and stared a hole at a spot on the kitchen floor before asking, "Why?"

He waited for her to turn her gaze back at him, only then did he say, "Because I enjoy your company too and you know how to make me laugh . . . really laugh." It's probably the first straight answer he gave her and Troy wouldn't have lied just to please her either. He felt it was important she knows and she deserved that honesty from him. "I'd forgotten how to do that."

* * * * * *