“Why are you asking? You know that’s pretty much how it is.”
This debacle would probably sound crazy to anyone who didn’t live in a tiny town. But here, where everyone knew everybody and their business, Jayla’s reminder was irrefutable.
Bristol sighed. “I’ll deal with it. Thanks for the warning.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for not shooting the messenger.”
When the call ended, Bristol tried to decide exactly how to plead or bribe Jamie into coming to dinner on Tuesday night. Since it sounded as if he was between jobs, hopefully it wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, that would bother her since she preferred to date guys who were gainfully employed. But she wasn’t planning a long-term relationship with Jamie, just hot sex.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. He still sat about twenty feet off her back bumper as they headed east on Highway 82. Maybe she could sweet-talk the man or feed him incredible desserts to make him stay through Tuesday. Or tie him to her bed. That had appeal. Though she’d like it better if he tied her down.
And if the townsfolk found out she fantasized about that, they’d absolutely come after her with pitchforks.
Still, she imagined what she and Jamie might do together, her autopilot keeping her compact on the highway. When she looked up again, they were cruising into Lewisville. Along the town’s main drag, on the corner, she saw her shop and pulled into the parking lot behind the building just as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Lewisville looked its best this time of day. Even then, it still appeared older, sometimes a bit neglected. Most children raised here left the moment they could. Bristol wondered why she’d stayed. Concern for her mother and sister? Memories of Daddy? Or being too afraid to leave everything she’d ever known?
Shaking off the thought, she stepped out of her car, purse on her shoulder, as Jamie climbed off his bike.
“Cute little town,” he said.
“Small.”
“Quaint,” he corrected.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” She gestured to her place. “Want a tour of the bakery?”
“Sure.”
She let them both in the back door. She mostly kept supplies here, along with a small office in the corner. Flipping on lights, she led him into her kitchen, which sparkled—just as it did every day after the close of business. Her industrial oven and mixer gleamed. Pristine stainless countertops covered the length of two walls, waiting for her to create the next yummy treat. The town bank had refused to loan money to a “kid,” so she’d driven to Texarkana and secured the funds herself. No co-signer. No handouts. She’d built this place from scratch, and she was damn proud of it.
“So this is where the dough happens?” He winked.
“Yeah. And up front here…” Bristol directed him through the next door and into the front of the shop with its display cases and bistro tables. “This is the customer area. I can only seat twenty since the building is a converted brownstone and this room is the former parlor. But I’m proud of it.”
Jamie looked around, seeming to take in every nuance. His eyes gleamed with appreciation. “It’s got a lot of charm. Most places I go have none.”
She frowned. “What has you traveling so much?”
“Gotta make a buck.” He shrugged. “Do you live somewhere near your shop?”
She wondered what he did for a living but got the feeling he didn’t want to talk about it. And did she really need to know if they were simply going to have a fling? “Upstairs.”
Maybe it wasn’t smart to take a stranger home, but she didn’t think Jamie was dangerous. He hadn’t once pushed or tried to manipulate her. He’d let her set the pace all evening. That mattered. Besides, her family and friends knew who she’d gone home with. No doubt, Jayla would check on her.
Bristol took Jamie’s hand and guided him to the staircase she and Jayla had restored to its original gleaming wood, just like the floors. Together, they charged up to her apartment, and she unlocked the door.
As it creaked open, the last golden rays of the day illuminated her rustic chic space—the cozy white sofa, the glass table built on whiskey barrels, the braided rug under her grandmother’s dining room table.
He glanced around, then cocked his head in thought. “It’s you.”
She smiled and shut the door behind them, flipping on the overhead lights. “Yeah?”
“Comfortable, happy, unvarnished. I like it.”
“Thanks.” He seemed to get her, and that did Bristol’s heart a world of good. Hayden had hated this place. He liked things grander and more formal, not an eclectic grouping of her favorite things. He called antiques “recycled junk.” “But you didn’t come all the way to Lewisville to comment on my decor, right?”
“No.” He turned to her, his hands suddenly engulfing her hips, his stare drilling down into her eyes. “I did not.”
“So what did you come to do?” she challenged.
