None of that kept the old biddies in town from continuing to speculate about what we could possibly be running from, of course. The rumors haven't stopped. And they've affected Chloe, despite how much I've tried to protect her. Mean girls in her first-grade class tease her.
I check the basket on the counter: two boxes of cupcakes, paper plates, and napkins. "Shit. I forgot juice boxes."
"Get out of here and go on over to Connie's," Opal orders, waving the cloth in her hand. She gives me a look over the edge of her purple leopard print glasses. "You’ve got time. Are you sure about going to the school?"
I frown, briefly regretting not simply dropping the cupcakes off at school this morning. I'd feel just awful if my going to her elementary school fueled more whispers and rumors from Chloe's classmates.
But it's Chloe's birthday. Technically, we celebrated it on Saturday, making the four hour drive to celebrate it with my parents. But today is her actual birthday and on her birthday of all days, I didn't want to drop her off at school and let her fend for herself. So what if I'm a little overprotective? It's my fault that she's a pariah in her class. It was my decision to move here from Chicago, and it's my job to be protective of her.
“I’m sure,” I say, my voice firm. “It’s Chloe's birthday. She only turns seven years old once.”
I feel a pang of guilt at the prospect of leaving Opal to manage the store by herself. Rachel, the front counter girl, quit this morning. Any day but today, I'd have been glad to get rid of her, since her work ethic was less than stellar. But her drama this morning left me behind schedule with baking. Opal said it was good riddance because the girl was more trouble than she was worth anyway.
In twenty minutes, I need to be at Deerfield Elementary School armed with cupcakes and juice boxes because I want to be there in case those bitchy little first graders give my daughter any grief.
I dart over to the general store, not even making an attempt at polite conversation with Connie C., which is just fine. Connie C. decided when I arrived in town that she didn’t like me on sight. I usually avoid coming into her store, but desperate times call for it. I grab two packages of juice boxes and stuff one under each arm. I'm glancing around, trying to decide if there’s anything else I've forgotten when I get hit by a brick wall.
A brick wall that spills icy-cold liquid all over my shirt.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I squeal as the juice boxes fall to the floor with a thud. I look down at my white t-shirt, now covered in brown liquid that is rapidly spreading across my breasts. Of course I wore a white t-shirt today. That’s just fantastic.
“Damn it, woman. Watch where you're going.” The brick wall has a voice. A voice that calls me woman like we’re in the nineteen-fifties. A baritone voice that sends a tingle through me or maybe that’s just the freezing-cold liquid that is making my nipples hard.
It also smells like whiskey.
That's stellar. Now I can head to the elementary school reeking like I've been hitting the bottle all morning.
“What the hell? Did you just call me woman?" I look up.
Holy shit.
He looks at me with dark eyes, his expression unreadable. The second I meet his gaze, I swear electricity runs through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, a jolt of arousal that's completely unexpected.
He’s bearded and rough-looking, not the kind of guy who works at a desk. He’s the kind of guy who works with his hands. My eyes drift lower as if they have a mind of their own, landing right on his hands, tough and weathered from working in the sun. If I touched his palms, I know they'd be rough and calloused. The thought of what he could do with those hands makes me shiver.
I should be embarrassed by the way my eyes follow the tattoos that wrap around his forearms and snake up to his biceps before disappearing under the sleeve of his t-shirt. I should definitely be embarrassed by the way my eyes linger on the expanse of his broad chest.
Then I come to my senses and stop gawking at the man because he’s the jerk who just spilled booze on me right before I have to be at the elementary school.
And he’s the one who just addressed me as woman.
"You saying you're not a woman?"
The way he said the word a minute ago is hardly like the way it rolls off his tongue now. Now he says the word low and seductive, his voice gravelly.
Or is the seductive part just in my head? Seduction is something that should be nowhere near my brain right now.
“I’m clear on my gender, thanks."
He's so close that I can smell him – soap and aftershave and the outdoors. When I say gender his eyes drop lower and he makes no attempt to hide the fact that he’s looking at my boobs.