“If you ever need to know anything about anyone, just ask my niece Chloe,” Sloane said, looking amused.
Chloe grinned, showing a dimple in one cheek. “I’m not allowed to visit Aunt Sloane at the library cause she says I talk too much. I don’t think I talk too much. I just have a lot of information that needs to be disseminated to the public.”
Waylay was staring at Chloe with half of her slice of pizza hanging out of her mouth. It had been a long time since I’d been in school and faced with a cool girl. But Chloe had cool girl written all over her.
“We should get our moms, or I guess your aunt and my mom or my aunt, to schedule a playdate. Are you into crafts or hiking? Maybe baking?”
“Uhh,” Waylay said.
“You can let me know at school,” Chloe said.
“Thanks?” Waylay croaked.
It occurred to me that if people in the grocery store were giving her the evil eye, Waylay might not have a lot of friends at school. After all, it wasn’t hard to imagine mothers not wanting their daughters to bring home Tina Witt’s daughter.
Inspiration struck. “Hey, we’re throwing a little dinner party Sunday. Would you two like to come?”
“My day off, and I don’t have to cook? Count me in,” Sloane said. “What about you, Chlo?”
“I’ll check my social calendar and get back to you. I have a birthday party and tennis lessons on Saturday, but I think I’m free Sunday.”
“Great!” I said. Waylay shot me a look that made me think I sounded a little bit desperate.
“Perfect! Let’s grab our to-go order before it gets cold,” Sloane suggested, steering Chloe toward the counter.
“Damn, that kid can talk,” Liza observed. She looked at me. “So when were you gonna invite me to this dinner party?”
“Uh…now?”
We ate our pizza, I ate our salad, and Liza picked up the bill like the patron saint of temporarily broke tenants. We hit the sidewalk and the Virginia heat. But Liza headed in the opposite direction of the car. She tottered down to the building on the corner and knocked loudly on Whiskey Clipper’s plate glass window.
Waylay joined her, and they both started waving.
“What are you two doing?” I asked, hurrying after them.
“Knox owns this place too and does some barbering,” Liza said with a hint of pride.
Wearing his usual uniform of worn jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and ancient motorcycle boots, Knox Morgan was standing behind one of the salon chairs, taking a straight razor to a customer’s cheek. He had a leather apron-like organizer hung low on his hips with scissors and other tools tucked in the pouches.
I’d never had a barber fetish before. I didn’t even know if that was a legitimate fetish. But watching those tattooed forearms, those dexterous hands work, I felt an annoying pulse of desire spark to life under the pizza I’d inhaled.
His gaze met mine, and for a second, it felt like the glass wasn’t there. It felt like I was being dragged into his gravity against my will. It felt like it was just the two of us sharing some kind of secret.
I knew what I’d be thinking about and hating myself for when I laid down in bed tonight.
FOURTEEN
THE DINNER PARTY
Knox
“Beer and catch a game? Beer and shoot the shit on the deck?” I asked Jeremiah as he and Waylon followed me up the steps to my cabin. Once every two weeks or so, I’d take an early night, and we’d get together outside of work.
“I wanna find out what’s got your beard so droopy. You were fine a couple of days ago. Your usual grumpy self. Now you’re pouting.”
“I don’t pout. I ponder. In a manly way.”
Jeremiah snickered behind me.
I unlocked the door and, despite my best efforts, glanced in the direction of the cottage.
There were cars parked in front of the cottage, music playing. Great. The woman was a socializer. Another reason to stay far the hell away from her.
Not that I had to, seeing as how she’d been avoiding me like I was the problem. The past week had been a struggle. An annoying one. Naomi Witt, I’d discovered, was a warm, friendly person. And when she wasn’t feeling warm and friendly toward you, you definitely felt the cold. She refused to make eye contact with me. Her smiles and “Sure thing, boss” responses were perfunctory. Even when I drove her home and we were alone in the truck, the frostiness didn’t thaw a degree.
Every time I thought I’d gotten a handle on it, she popped up. Either in her backyard or at my grandmother’s. In my own bar. Hell, a few days ago, she’d floated up to the window at Whiskey Clipper like a goddamn vision.