Then I spent a minute or two wallowing in a big, fat bout of self-pity.
But, finally, I gave myself a mental smack on the forehead, because I am just not a wallower.
I'm more of a 'get your butt in gear and bake something or clean something' person when I feel low or stressed. Since I was at work, baking was out, at least until this evening, but I could always clean.
Glancing around, however, reminded me that my little shop was already shining. Business had been slow for a few days, but I knew the Swamp Cabbage Festival shoppers would be coming in soon, so I'd spent my spare time getting Dead End Pawn into tiptop shape.
Being bored and lonely equaled shiny, shiny floors, evidently.
Ack. Now I was even boringmyself.
Wait. Swamp Cabbage Festival shoppers… I hadn't put up my decorations yet! I usually jumped on that the first of September, but why not do it a little early?
"Mood, shmood," I sang out to Fluffy, who, as usual, didn't answer. "It's time to put out the autumn decorations!"
In the course of the next ten minutes, I pulled the boxes of decorations out from the back, cranked the music up to high, and climbed my not-lonely-at-all self up on the stepladder, hanging pinecone wreaths, putting out pumpkin spice candles, and getting in the Swamp Cabbage Festival mood. I was singing loudly along to KeshaWe R Who We Rwhen the bells over the door chimed, signaling a customer.
"I'll be right with you," I called out, concentrating on trying to thread a bit of glittery gold ribbon through a rather plain-looking wreath.
"No rush," a very familiar voice drawled. "I'm just glad to discover that the noise was you singing and not the terrible shrieks of tortured tourists."
That was just mean. Accurate, maybe, but mean.
I focused—really hard—on not falling off my stepladder.
Jack was back.
I refused to turn around to look at him until I knew I could keep the emotion off my face. "Gone all this time, and the first thing you do when you get back is criticize my singing?"
I heard two fast footsteps, and then his hands were on my waist, and he plucked me off the ladder and pulled me to him in a long, tight hug.
"I thought I'd start with the 'I'm so glad to see you' kiss, but I figured you'd punch me in the face," he said, when he finally let me go.
"Good call," I said, narrowing my eyes.
And then I punched him in the stomach.
2
"Ow!" I winced and shook out my hand. Punching a tiger shifter in the hard-muscled abs is like punching a tree. Not recommended and far more likely to hurt thepuncherthan thepunchee.
His jade-green eyes sparkled down at me. "Um, ouch?"
"Jerk." I backed away from him. "So, how have you been?Wherehave you been? Why didn't you—"
I clamped my mouth shut. No way was I going to ask why he hadn't called me more often. It felt pathetic, and I wasn't.
I was a little bit hurt, though.
Okay, maybe a lot.
"Now that the punching is over, can we get to the kissing? I really missed kissing you," he said, his green eyes flashing with sparks of amber fire.
Well, what would it hurt? After all, I'd really missed kissing him too, and… I caught myself leaning forward and wanted to punchmyselfin the face.
"Not a chance, my friend. You don't get to take off with almost no word, making me—us—worry about you, and then take up where you left off."
I forced myself to back away from him, in spite of my traitorous hormones.
