Miller was the exact opposite. She loved people-their quirks, habits, facial features, and conversations. She studied them like a scientist would a bug under a microscope. She asked them questions and wanted to know everything about them, and she was genuinely interested in their answers. She said it was all research, and Tess guessed she could get away with that excuse because Miller was a romance novelist. Which was ironic, because Miller was pretty much the most unromantic person Tess had ever met. She was logical and straightforward, but Miller liked to say that it was cutting through people's bullshit that made her write such great characters.
When she'd hit thirty, Miller had had one of those freak-out moments where she was afraid her body would immediately start going south and that her chances of marriage were all but in the toilet. And like with most things, she took it to the extreme. So now Miller was one of those CrossFit junkies who showed up at six-in-the-morning workout like it was church and posted the WOD-or the Workout of the Day to non-CrossFit folk-on Facebook every day. The only reason Tess knew about WODs was because one time Miller had dragged her to one of those god-awful classes at the crack of dawn. Tess hadn't been able to sit for three days afterward because her body hadn't bent in the places it was supposed to. CrossFit hurt. Which was why she did yoga.
Miller was what the guys liked to call "packed." The transformation in her body since she'd started working out only made Tess a little jealous. She'd kill for those arms and shoulders. And probably her ass too. And she was really envious that Miller could go out in the sunlight without burning to a crisp and come away nice and bronzed. Tess had freckles for a reason.
Tess consoled herself by remembering that women's bodies were all built differently-blah, blah, blah-and that one day she was going to be grateful for her willowy figure and the fact that she had no boobs to worry about sagging. She never had to count calories or forgo cheesecake. Or burnt cookies. And Deacon had seemed more than pleased with her body. Either that, or it really had been his hammer pressing into her stomach the night before. Either way, it was an impressive hammer.
Miller put the binoculars on the table and then went to get the wine from the little fridge under the island and two wineglasses from the cabinet.
"What do you think?" she asked. "Are the cookies salvageable?"
Tess paused mid-chew. "Yeah, the middle tastes fine. I think there's something wrong with the oven. There's no reason for the oven to smoke like that."
"I hate to be the bearer of truth, but I'm pretty sure it's you and not the oven. Something always goes wrong when you cook. Like when those kabobs caught on fire."
"I didn't know you were supposed to wet the sticks first," Tess protested, using a spatula to put the rest of the cookies on a plate. She set the plate in the middle of the table and waited for Miller to uncork the wine. "Why don't they ever tell you stuff like that in the recipe books? It's amazing anyone ever learns how to cook."
"People have different gifts. Cooking just isn't yours."
"Oh, yeah? Then what's my gift?"
"You're really great at embalming people."
"That's my job," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm supposed to be great at it. I mean what am I great at other than my job? I feel like I'm in this perpetual rut. I don't know what to do with myself."
"Is this one of those midlife crisis moments?" Miller asked. "You should go shopping. It always makes me feel better."
"That requires putting on clothes and going out in public."
"No way. I do all my shopping online now. I think the UPS man thinks I'm trying to seduce him, because he literally delivers packages to my door every day. He keeps looking at me expectantly, and I don't have the heart to tell him I'm just excited because he's delivering my new waxing kit."
"Waxing kit?"
"I'm part Arabic. I wax everything," she said. "Now, stop trying to change the subject. You're amazing. You're good at lots of stuff that has nothing to do with your job. Except cooking. You're terrible at that. And you could use some wardrobe help, but that's only because you hate your body."
"I don't hate my body," she said, surprised. She replayed the scene from the night before when Deacon had told her she was hiding behind the ugly jacket. "It's just a body. Clothes are used for covering it. Because it's illegal to be naked."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm just saying no one in Last Stop is going to stone you because you're not wearing an oversized man's shirt. You're not your mother."