“But I’ll text him for you, Glory. And I’ll tell him you’re amazing and a good fit for their music and that you’ll do The Baby Owls’ proud. I’ll let you know what he says.”
She exhaled at length. And where misery had deflated her, relief did the opposite. She felt aloft and as illuminated with hope as that billboard of the The Baby Owls out on the highway.
“Thanks, Glenn. I really appreciate it. I know I probably don’t deserve it.”
“Glory Hallelujah, life doesn’t always portion things out according to what you deserve. It’s not a tit-for-tat situation. A lot of times it’s just dumb luck and timing.”
And with that uplifting bit of philosophy, he got up from the chair. “See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
Chapter8
Kismet.
The word popped into Eli’s head again as he steered his cruiser past the big wooden sign shaped like a big hand facing palm out hanging from chains on Main Street.
Yeah, hereallywasn’t crazy about that word. It belonged between the pages of the kinds of books Greta sold at the New Age Store. She read palms (hence the big sign) and tarot cards behind a velvet curtain in the back of the shop, and the carpets and walls of the place were permeated with sweet, exotic incense smoke funk. She held monthly lectures on things like “feng shui” or “chakras” or other topics that to him sounded like the names of Brazilian percussion instruments. She did a pretty booming business, though, and he liked her. She was more pragmatic than airy and she adhered to her convictions, however loopy, which he admired.
Thing was,Kismetimplied that there was some sort of larger, ultimate plan and he was at the mercy of it. He’d never much liked being at the mercy of anything. He did not like ambiguity.
It was hard to deny, however, that he was at the mercy of a number of things at the moment.
Because maybe Kismet was in play when he and Glory were interrupted at that party just when he’d had his hands down her pants and she’d had hers up his shirt.
And maybe the reason they were interrupted was because Franco Francone was about to roll into town.
And maybe that was why Glory had stayed in Hellcat Canyon. Because of Kismet.
Because he still didn’t know what the hell she was still doing here. He did, however, now clearly understand that his instinctive, irrational dislike of Francone had been a premonition of what it would be like to see him standing next to Glory. Like they were members of the same species. They both had that sort of charisma that went beyond just being exceptionally good-looking. The kind of charisma that had a whiff of destiny about it and all but lit them up like sun through stained glass.
Eli knew he could raise a blush, not to mention nipples, by just standing close to a woman and letting his eyes imply how he could make her body feel. His height, his quiet, innate sensuality and authority, all of that suggested great reservoirs of secret hotness, or so he’d been told. He liked to think it was true.
And he’d felt Glory’s body melt into his, and he’d had the minutest hint of how explosively good it would be with her. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Everything on his body tightened then. His grip tightened on his steering wheel lest he drive off the road.
But he’d always wondered whether he might be too sort of earthbound for her. Always.
And he’d never anticipated he might have to actuallywitnessa guy like Francone take her away when the time came. A guy who actually felt like competition, which, if he was being honest, he’d known that that idiot Mick Macklemore patently never was.
At least... she was still angry at him. Which seemed an odd thing to be optimistic about, but where there was anger, there was often both hurt... and heat. And where there was hurt and heat, there was hope.
Maybe.
His male ego was pretty sure that if he could get her into bed, he’d win hands down. Hold her in a lust thrall. Because they had that kind of chemistry.
But... dammit all anyway... he would never do that to her. Or, frankly, if he was being truthful... to himself.
Fuck the need to do everything the right way.
It was honestly the only way he knew how to do things.
The only way he knew how to live with himself.
He hooked a left down Jamboree Street, where Allegro Music was—and where he’d tackled a drunk naked Boomer Clark—and waved at Dion Espinoza, who was out culling old tattered flyers from the bulletin board in front of his store.
Bethany hadn’t seemed to notice that she was present at The World’s Most Uncomfortable Lunch. On the contrary: the fact that he was indirectly the reason she got to sit with Franco Francone (oh, wait, he thought sardonically,theFranco Francone) was apparently a point in his favor, and she’d glowed all through the meal, even if Francone had frostily retreated into his phone halfway through lunch as Sherrie took over the table and had departed before they did.
Francone was clearly rationing whatever charm he possessed and he wasn’t going to waste it on either of them.
