“No, he’sniceto everyone. Hewatchesyou.”
The pleasure that rises like a first proof is embarrassing. “He does not.”
“At the crochet club last week? He totally did. Until you kicked him like an eight-week-old puppy.”
“I’ve never kicked a puppy!”
“Where ya going?” she asks in a singsong voice.
“The new Mexican place.”
She gasps and claps her hands. “Like a real date!”
“I haven’t been on a real date in years,” I whisper.
“Then go.” She shoos me. “Go get ready.”
I start for the stairs, but stop. “Can you come back tonight and help me make tomorrow’s specials?”
It was a long weekend and fatigue would bowl me over if my adrenaline wasn’t pumping about the date.
“Yes, and you’re going to tell me all about it. Now go. Wear something cute that shows your legs.”
I start up the stairs and stop. “Don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
She scrunches her face up. “What is it about you keeping your life a secret?”
“It’s not a secret. It’s just not something to be proud of.”
“I see,” she says quietly. “Seems like that’s the stuff you should be able to talk to someone about. I know you’re worried about Mom?—”
“Exactly. If she thought I was in therapy, she would blame herself just like she did with the accident. Besides, I don’t have time.” I give her a small smile and rush up the rest of the stairs.
My small studio apartment above the bakery has sloped ceilings and wood floors that echo through the whole place.
I frown at my dresser. It’s covered with loose pants, sweats, and oversized shirts. When I moved home, I swung in the opposite direction from the style I’d been wearing.
Should I show off my legs? I’d rather wear something that’s halfway flattering, and perhaps I’ll catch Cruz looking at them again.
I pick a snug white shirt with a lace bottom. Rifling deeper in my closet, I find a pink pair of high-waisted jeans that should cover what my top doesn’t. It’s too hot for nice shoes, so I grab some strappy sandals.
Once I’m dressed, I stare at the hummingbirds tattooed across the top of each foot. Tattoos aren’t exactly scandalous, but no one’s seen mine. I haven’t wanted to field any questions about my time away from Montana, and since my ink is tied to a litany of bad decisions, I just keep them covered.
Maybe it was the busy weekend, or the anxiety of the date and what it means—if it means anything—but I’m tired. So exhausted trying to create a clean slate, only for my past to muddy it up again. Clem is right. It’s been hard not to talk to someone about everything that went down.
I twist my hair into a clip and take stock of the reflection in the mirror. A woman who looks like the Elodie Palmer from long ago gazes back, and dammit, it’s good to see her again.
I rush down the stairs, and as soon as my feet hit the bottom, there’s a knock. I almost sprint right back up. Before I can think too hard, I fling the door open. There’s no going upstairs to change now.
Cruz, dressed in his normal jeans, boots, and a tight green T-shirt, smiles. “Hey.” His gaze lazily runs down my body and heat blooms stronger in his eyes. “Goddamn, sugar. You’re looking downright lickable.”
Shock hits me just as I want to preen at his compliments.
“Aw, Elodie.” He surprises me even more and drops to a squat. He runs a rough fingertip over the top of my foot. “I’m trying hard to be a gentleman, but this is like a peek at my birthday present.”
A nervous laugh leaves me. “They’re just tattoos.”
“That’s more skin than you’ve flashed me since I’ve known you.” He rises, and the smile on his face is nothing like the teasing one he throws at everyone else. It’s full of promise. He cocks an elbow. “May I take you out?”
