“Why would I?”
“Just making sure.” I cleared it with Haven, and he gave me the look Lane is probably wearing now. Why would we mind helping another business owner, one we like, when we know she’s in a bind? “Talk to you later,” I say before hanging up.
I’m asking because she may do everything in her power to keep me from lending her a hand. I don’t know what I did, but every time I get a glimpse into Elodie Palmer, she slams the window shades down like I’m a Peeping Tom.
Yet the woman still intrigues me. The way her laughter takes her by surprise, her abandon when she finally lets go. Her eyes light up and joy dances across her face. Elodie is one reserved woman, but she doesn’t want to be that way. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
I try to call the bakery, but it goes to voicemail. Her brusque but chipper voice drifts over the line. It’s Tuesday, and after being closed Monday, she’s probably busy.
A message pops up on my screen.
Haven: Bootleg at 7?
Durban must be working the tasting room tonight.
The bakery closes at four. I could stop by and talk to Elodie before I jaunt over to Bootleg. Yeah, it’s an excuse to see her again. I should quit trying to get a key to those gates she’s put up, but I can’t. Besides, I’m just helping with her car. Lane and I have been stranded with no way to get anywhere often enough in our lives, I know how it feels.
Cruz: I’m in.
I check the time before tucking my phone away. It’s not quite four. I have time to run through the shower, grab a bite to eat, and stop in to talk to Elodie before meeting Haven.
A few hours later, I don’t stink like exhaust and grease, and I’m pulling up by the back door of Dee’s Sweets. My hair’s still damp, but I push it off my head and hop out of the pickup.
I’m almost to the door when it whips open. I have to step aside before I’m run over by an angry baker.
“I heard you the first time.” Elodie’s livid voice rings out and the screen bashes open. “How long do you think I can sustain this? Oh, you don’t care? What about when the well runs dry? Huh? What about that?” Her flashing gaze collides with mine and goes wide. “I’ve gotta go.” Fury passes through her eyes before she spins to put her back to me. “Guess what? I don’t care.”
She stuffs the phone in the pocket of her loose linen shorts, her oversized shirt getting in the way. I take a step back to admire strong legs that could crush me and make me ask for more. She locks the door so roughly it’s amazing the key doesn’t snap.
“Didn’t mean to intrude.” But I’m glad I did. Irate Elodie is a sight to behold. Who the hell is upsetting her? Before she faces me, I yank my gaze off her legs.
She shakes her head to get some hair out of her eyes. “It’s nothing.”
That sounded like something. “I was headed to Bootleg and wanted to stop and update you on the car.”
Her face falls and the stress swelling in her eyes guts me. “How bad?”
She doesn’t play games, so I’m blunt. “New engine. Sorry.”
She drops her head back, the slender column of her throat elongating in despair. The picture is wrong. It should only dothat to let someone in, to make room for a man to lick from her clavicle to her sweet cherry lips.
“Lane’s going to do some checking, see how much everything costs and when it’ll all come in. Once he has the parts, it won’t take him long.” I don’t tell her he won’t charge for labor. Seems like that kind of thing won’t go over well right now.
She blows out a breath and looks down the path that leads out of the makeshift alley behind her shop. When she brings her attention back to me, it’s on my chest, stroking over my shoulders and down my arms. My skin tingles like a feather is stroking ever so softly over it. That invisible touch travels to other places, like my nosy dick that always stirs when I’m thinking about the curves Elodie hides inside her baggy clothing.
“Right.” She nods like she’s reconciling something with herself. “I know you gifted the Butter Barrel, but I need the invoice for the spirits you gave me for the fair recipes.”
“Those are for a joint promotion.” She displays our logo and spirit information with each recipe and we do the same for Dee’s Sweets, featuring her baked goods in front of each spirit.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m paying for what I use.”
“Should we charge you for our mash bill?” When she frowns, I want to smooth out the divot between her dark eyebrows. “It’d be weird, right? That’s why it’s a joint effort.”
“Okay. I just need to pay my own way,” she says in a small voice.
“I know the feeling.” I really do, and this small glimpse into her tells me a lot. She wants to make her own way because at one point, some asshole must’ve held it over her.
“Yeah?”
