Time to figure out what the hell was going on before I tied myself up in knots. Everyone knew I hated complications.
Especially when they happened in the blink of an eye.
Damn it.
CHAPTER TWO
RUBY
Something was wrong with Cricket.
That morning she’d arrived with a smile and muffins from Sue Anne’s Bakery, determination on her face, an ugly shirt assaulting my eyes. But that was how Cricket always arrived, with the exception of exchanging muffins for doughnuts and the ugly shirt for one that wasn’t as garish but still didn’t flatter her. What I couldn’t do with a wardrobe if I had her curves . . . and money.
Me? I was what my gran called pioneer tough, with a whip-thin physique and hair that frizzed at the slightest hint of humidity. Sinewy, strong, and designed to withstand hot Louisiana summers. I might as well be a walking advertisement for a pickup truck.
I snorted as I thought about how I wasn’t made to be soft. Well, what of it? Tough wasn’t bad, and I didn’t mind being like rawhide most days.
Looking down at the check Julie Van—I squinted at the signature—Ness had written, I had a sneaking suspicion it was one of those pieces of fluff that had my boss looking like she’d eaten a beetle. But I didn’t blame Cricket. As soon as those two had waltzed inside, I had wanted to slink away and plaster myself against a wall, too. Julie and Bo Peep were the sort that made me feel substandard and twitchy. Both wore trim workout clothes that hugged their thin bodies, carried purses that had little gold letters that could have cost twenty bucks at Target or a thousand from some fancy store like Saks or Neiman’s, and carried themselves with the protection that privilege gave a person.
I shouldn’t judge someone based on the little symbol near the bottom of their yoga pants or the fact they drove a white sporty SUV that cost triple what I make in a year, but I knew they were judging me . . . because I heard them.
And for the record, I liked my tats and adored my diamond-stud nose ring, so they could go eat a bag of . . . worms.
Yeah, I was trying really hard to clean up my bad language.
The little bell rang over the door, and I glanced up to find the guy I had been thinking about more than I should lately.
Ty Walker.
The man was slick as greased owl . . . poop, and he seemed to know it. He wielded his charm like a Ginsu knife, cutting through every defense I threw up. His golden-streaked brown locks, baby blues, and very nice body had pinged on my radar the first time I’d laid eyes on him a few weeks ago, when he’d come in to arrange delivery of several pieces he’d bought one day when I’d had class. He was that guy—the one all the girls used to watch on the lifeguard stand with his mirrored sunglasses, bronzed shoulders, and flashing white teeth. The one you fantasized about but never had the balls—ahem, I mean guts—to talk to.
“Good afternoon,” I called out.
His smile flashed as he tucked his Ray-Bans into his shirt. A guy like him always wore Ray-Bans. Tom Cruise effect.
“Hey, I was hoping you’d be here.”
“I’m always here. Well, when I don’t have class.” I tried not to fidget. I didn’t want him to know how nervous he made me. Because he did.
He glided toward me, smooth and confident, propping a forearm on the glass countertop and leaning in. Expensive cologne wafted. Not overdone but noticeable. “I forgot that you’re still a college girl.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old. That’s not a girl.”
“I’ll say,” he teased, raking his gaze down my torso.
My immediate response was to look around for my hoodie. I had gotten hot earlier and had shed it when polishing the new silver service that we were going to put on the front table. Underneath, I wore a tight Lycra shirt that showed the skin between the hem and my favorite jeans. “You flirt too much.”
He gave me a gator smile. “Only ’cause I’m good at it.”
I snorted and tried to find my coolness. This guy melted me even if his words were a little too cocky, bordering on douchey. “I’m assuming you’re here to pick up the carpet Cricket ordered. It’s in the back.”
“That’s one of the reasons.”
Pleasure flooded me because I totally got that message.
Ty Walker wasn’t my normal kind of guy. Hell, I hadn’t had any kind of guy in a while. When I first started classes at Bossier Parish Community College, one of my classmates, a benign dude who loved to wear dorky T-shirts, had asked me out for coffee. It had sounded like a very grown-up kind of date. I went, and after he bought me a latte and showed me pictures of his pit bull, he inquired if I wanted to go to his car and have sex. He’d asked in the same way he might ask me if I wanted a pumpkin cheesecake muffin from the pastry case. I answered, “Not really,” and I hadn’t been on a date since. Actually, I was sort of tired of my own company, and once or twice, I had wondered what it would have been like having sex outside Starbucks in a car with Cedric. Probably anticlimax-ic with a side of dog hair on my new sweater.