Chapter 5
FELIX
I pull out my phone to call India on Monday after work.
I’m not really the kind of person who procrastinates or puts things off. I figure if you have to do something, you might as well get it over with. No point in delaying the inevitable; just do it and then move on.
But I actually find myself hesitating as my finger hovers over India’s newly saved number in my phone—listed as Sunshine, of course. I know this is a good move, and Herb, editor-in-chief and my boss, looked thrilled earlier when I told him I was making headway on my research.
Of course, that was before he started hinting at something big coming up for us, an opportunity he was trying to lock down. He looked excited enough that I’m not sure how much attention he was actually paying to me or my plans. Still, he did seem to be giving me the green light to move forward with India.
There’s just a little voice in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Cyrus, pointing out that India is a part of my life for good, so I’d better not screw anything up.
I take a deep breath, tell that voice to be quiet because of course I’m not going to screw anything up, and then hit Call.
“Sunshine,” I say when she picks up.
“Felicia,” she says in a flat voice, and a wide smile splits across my face.
I make my way across the parking lot, phone pressed to my ear with one hand as I dig for my keys with the other. “Should we pick a date?” I say. “We can do the first round of sightseeing and then I can chauffeur you all over town for your mysterious project.”
“It’s not mysterious,” she says. “It’s just hard to explain. I have some random things I want to accomplish, that’s all.”
I nod slowly, intrigued in spite of myself. “All right. We can do my sightseeing, and then we can start transforming you into the most accomplished lady on this side of the Rockies.”
“If we’re going to do this, I want to be the most accomplished lady on all sides of the Rockies,” she says. “Go big or go home. And also,” she adds, “stop trying to sound friendly and charming. You’re holding me against my will.”
“When I hold a woman, it’s never against her will,” I say with a grin.
India groans. “ No , Felix. That was horrible. Tell me honestly—do you sit and think of these lines, or do they come naturally?”
My grin just widens. “I am blessed to have a mind that generates such beauties on the spot.”
“And you give them as unstudied an air as possible, I suppose,” she mutters.
I blink. “What?” Then I shake my head. “ The point is, ” I say loudly when she begins to interrupt, “I’m not holding you hostage. I’m just motivating you to work with me, that’s all.”
“Blackmail,” she says. “You’re a blackmailer. How did you even find out about the Pageant Incident?”
“That’s for me to know and you not to know,” I say, unlocking my SUV with a little click. “Now let’s figure out a time to meet up. When and where are good for you?”
“Depends on what you have in mind,” she says, her voice grudging now. “I don’t have a ton of extra time to drive all over Colorado. I have errands to run and work to do. I’m more free on the weekends, I guess.”
“That’s fair. What do you need to do this evening?” I ask her. “Want to meet up and go together, and I can pick your brain on some local hotspots? Then maybe this weekend we could check a few of them out?”
“You’re in that SUV, right? That would be perfect, actually,” she says. “I need to drop Betsy off at the shop. Is your back empty?”
I rack my brain, trying to figure out who Betsy is—do they have a pet they’re getting rid of?—but then India speaks again, clearly taking pity on my confusion.
“My bike,” she says. “Betsy is my motorcycle.”
“Oh, that makes more sense.” I glance in the mirror. “My back seat and trunk are clear, but I don’t know if a motorcycle will fit.”
“If we loosen the mirrors, I think we’ll be fine,” India says, and I shrug, turning my attention to the road and heading out of the parking lot.
“We can try,” I say. “I’m leaving work right now, but once I get home I’m free any time. I need groceries too, if you want to do that after the bike.” The words pop out before I can stop them, but I don’t want India to think it’s a weird suggestion. Getting groceries together is a strangely intimate thing to do, which I’m only just realizing. “Sorry,” I add. “Never?—”
“That would be great,” she cuts me off, and my brows jump in surprise. But she just goes on, “Juliet depleted a lot of our stores yesterday.”
Huh. I guess we might become the type of friends who get groceries together. I didn’t expect that level of comfort from India, but I do like it. Having someone who’s willing to do the tedious, mundane things with you is refreshing. Those are the best relationships—the ones free of pretense or the need for entertainment.
Interesting. Very interesting.
“Let’s do that, then,” I say with a nod. “I’ll be ready soon.”
“That’s fine,” she says, sounding unconcerned. “Swing by and pick me up when you get back, or after whatever you need to do. Freshen up and whatnot.”
“The need to freshen up implies that I am not fresh, which doesn’t happen.”
“Of course. You’re a perfect human specimen who never sweats or gets gross or uncomfortable in office clothes.”
I glance down at my khaki pants and button-up shirt. “I’ll change before I head over.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says in a knowing way. “Text me when you’re here.” There’s a little click, and then she’s gone, without saying goodbye.
A snort of laughter escapes me, but it dies quickly, and I sigh.
I should probably tell Cyrus I’m doing this with his beloved little sister. As soon as I reach my place, I text him instead of calling—because I’m a coward, but also because his work day is longer than mine.
Me
Heads up—doing this article research with your sister. You can beat me up if I somehow break her heart.
The only response I receive is a middle finger emoji, which is frankly better than I expected, so I don’t respond. Best not to poke that bear.
It’s nearing six o’clock when I pull into my parking spot. There aren’t a lot of apartment complexes in Lucky, which initially made it hard to find a place to live. I don’t know if I’m settling here for the long haul, and I’m not too stressed about nailing down that part of my future, but I do know I’m not ready for a house. I could probably swing it, financially speaking, but it’s more trouble than I want, and if I might move again in ten years, it doesn’t seem worth it to me.
So I’m grateful for the rental I found—not an apartment or a house but a townhome. It’s a duplex, and my neighbor is an old woman named Shirley who has three cats and keeps her flowerbed meticulously beautiful at all times. This little two-bedroom is my sanctuary, my safe space, free from worries or cares. I don’t have people over, not even my friends, and definitely no women. This is where I exist without worrying about what anyone else will think—that’s sacred to me, something to be protected from outside influences.
I change quickly out of my office clothes, because India was right; casual is much more comfortable. Then I grab the spiral notebook I’ve been using to keep notes about this project. I take a couple minutes and jot down a few ideas, paying only minimal attention.
Because the rest of my brain is trying to figure out what India meant when she said she had a list of things she wants to accomplish. Somehow it didn’t seem like she was talking about chores or errands. Is she referring to life goals or something like that?
I call her after popping three pieces of leftover pizza in the microwave—a true gourmet dinner.
“You here?” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’ll head over in a minute. I just want to know if you’re going to tell me about this project of yours. It’s bugging me that I don’t know more.”
“In the words of a conniving, blackmailing cad I recently spoke to,” she says, her voice dry, “‘that’s for me to know and you not to know.’”
I do not let myself laugh.
“Come get me soon,” she says. “It might take a bit to get Betsy in your car, and the repair place closes at eight.”
Then she hangs up.
“That’s about right,” I mutter under my breath. I pull my pizza out of the microwave and almost drop it because the plate is so hot. I wolf down the mouth-scalding food and then return to the car.
India stares into the back of my SUV for a solid two minutes before saying anything.
“All right,” she says finally, nodding. “With your seats folded down, I think this will work.”
I follow her up the driveway, watching as she goes.
“This her?” I say when we come to a stop in front of a small silver-and-black motorcycle. It’s a good size for India, shorter than most bikes I’ve seen, but it’s got a few dings. “What happened?”
“Ah.” She turns away from the motorcycle and grimaces. “I…crashed,” she says, her freckled nose wrinkling, her voice tentative. “Kind of. I had to swerve out of the way of a car, so I hit the pavement instead.”
I can’t tell if she sounds casual or if she’s just trying to sound casual. My eyes dart over her exposed arms and legs, but I don’t see any scrapes or cuts.
“I’m fine,” she says, probably noticing my perusal. “I was dressed well. Just some bruising that’s already going down.” She lifts her shirt slightly and tugs at the hem of her jean shorts, revealing a greenish-yellowish hip bone that I have no business looking at.
“Cover that up,” I say, grinning to hide my surprise—and my concern. That’s quite the bruise; it would have hurt. Is she really okay?
But I don’t know how to pry, so I toss in a joke instead. “It’s too early for you to be seducing me. Wait until we’ve visited some of Lucky’s most romantic spots.”
She lets her shirt drop as she snorts derisively. “You’re not my type, Felicia,” she says, shooting me a look that’s half-amused. “And I’m not yours. Remember?”
“I remember,” I say, my grin widening as it begins to feel more natural. “But you walk around flashing bruised hip bones like that, and I might crumble. A man can only take so much.”
She laughs outright at this, a sound that’s quickly gobbled up in the damp clutter of the garage. It lingers in her eyes, though, as she looks at me. “Come on,” she says, gesturing to Betsy the Motorcycle. “I think we’d better remove the mirrors and lower the handlebars to be safe.”
I nod. “Got a tool box around here somewhere?”
She jerks her chin at a dingy metal shelf over to one side of the garage, on which I spot a clunky black box. I hoist it off and bring it to India, settling it as gently as possible on the ground by the motorcycle.
And I don’t know what I’m expecting. It’s stupid that I’m surprised. But when she crouches down, flips the lid of the tool box open, and begins riffling through with practiced fingers, all I can do is stare. She pulls out a wrench, muttering a little Ah-ha! under her breath and setting to work on the mirrors—like she’s done this a million times.
Her hair seems to be bothering her, though, hanging in mesmerizing sheets around her face and down her back; with a noise of frustration, she lets the wrench clatter to the ground and turns back to the tool box, digging around for a second until she pulls out a pencil. She twists her hair into some sort of knot on top of her head and jabs the pencil through before turning her attention back to her bike.
“Are you just going to stand there?” she says without looking at me, and I jump, startled.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “No. I’ll do the handlebars.”
We make quick work of the handlebars and mirror, and with every passing moment, I grow more and more disconcerted. The feeling is unexpected, and I don’t like it one bit.
My biggest TV crush in high school was this woman from a denim commercial. She rode a motorcycle down this winding path in the mountains, dressed in a black leather jacket and a tight pair of jeans, her long hair blowing behind her. My mom always muttered about how she should’ve been wearing a helmet, but as a high school kid, I thought that motorcycle woman was about the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
These days I happen to agree with my mother that anyone riding through the mountains should be wearing a helmet, but I also can’t deny that that teenage version of myself is still somewhere inside me, buried very deep down but present nonetheless.
And seeing India with a motorcycle? It’s throwing me off a bit.
She’s been nothing more or less than my best friend’s sister the entire time we’ve known each other, since she was a teenager in high school. I can mentally keep her in that baby sibling box, right?
Of course. She’s Cyrus’s sister, I remind myself. His younger sister. When you were in college, she was sixteen.
It’s a good point. A very good point.
The only problem is…she’s not sixteen anymore.
I pat my cheeks sharply a few times, taking a deep breath of the Colorado air to clear my mind. I’m being ridiculous.
We wheel the bike down the driveway and to the street, where I’m parked. India is stronger than I expect; we lift the bike in the back of my car with a bit of maneuvering but no trouble otherwise.
“Perfect,” she says, slightly out of breath as she checks to make sure the trunk will close properly. “I think we’re good.”
“Let’s go,” I say with a nod. “We can discuss some good romance hot spots in the car.”
“You know people are going to think we’re looking for places to make out uninterrupted or something, right?” she says.
Normally I’d have a joking or flirtatious response to her words, but right now, my brain doesn’t seem to be working properly. “Of course they won’t,” I say.
“Sure they will. Look at us.” She gestures back and forth between us. Then she starts to head around the car.
I grab hold of her elbow. “Wait,” I say before I can stop myself.
She turns back to me with a little frown and a quirk of her eyebrows. “Why?” she says, nudging her arm out of my grasp.
“Because,” I say. “You said to look at us, didn’t you? I just—want to check something.”
“Um, no,” she says, and there’s that wrinkled nose again. “It was a rhetorical suggestion. Now that you said that, I want to cover up.”
“Your hair is pretty,” I admit. “And your face…” I let my gaze flit briefly over her features. Wide, expressive eyes; pert nose; near-perfect lips, I notice for the first time, probably nice to kiss?—
Whoa, I think as the realization swirls in my head. Redirect. I return my gaze to her hair and step closer, reaching my hand out. Then I freeze. “Sorry. Can I touch?”
Her brown eyes flick up to mine, clearly surprised, but then she shrugs. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I hesitate only briefly before grasping the pencil still speared through the knot on top of her head. It slides out easily when I pull, and like a waterfall, her hair cascades down her back.
Gorgeous.
I let my fingers whisper over the red and gold and light brown, finally finding a few locks that hang around her face and touching them. I nod; then I move forward and lean my head down, inhaling deeply.
She’s a good height; not that there are bad heights, really, but I could tuck her right under my chin, and she’d fit perfectly.
“Your hair is soft,” I say. “And you smell good. Like...” My brow furrows as I try to place the scent; it’s sweet, floral, maybe a little spicy too. I lean away again, looking down at her.
“My perfume,” she says faintly. “You’re being so weird right now.”
“You called me hot the other day,” I point out. “If I’m being weird right now, you were weird then.”
She narrows her eyes at me and then reaches up, her fingers poised to flick me in the forehead. I grab her hand before she can make contact.
“Now, now, Sunshine,” I say as she struggles to pull her hand free. “Violence is not the answer.” Despite my words, I can’t stop my smile.
And she might not fit in the little sister box after all. She’s too cute, too much fun. That’s fine; I can reassign her as a friend instead. This is the precise reason for my current perusal, anyhow—to make sure I’m not taken aback by any realizations or surprises. I want to know going into this project exactly what I can expect from India Marigold—exactly how she’ll make me feel, exactly what I’ll probably like and what I won’t. If I’m going to be especially attracted to her, I need to know now.
Self-preparation leads to self-preservation.
“Violence might be the answer sometimes,” she murmurs, her eyes flashing defiantly as she redirects her energy into breaking my grip. “When dealing with someone like you.”
“So…someone charming?” I say, still smirking down at her. “Someone handsome, funny, intelligent?” I lower her arm until it’s hanging by her side once more, and then I let go.
Her chin tilts up as she turns her face further toward me. “Someone insufferable,” she says.
I gasp. “Me? Insufferable? ”
She just snorts. “Yes. Insufferable. And you’re still weird, too,” she mutters, her gaze darting away from mine.
I laugh and move back, giving her space. “I know,” I say, ruffling the hair on top of her head. “Hop in, Sunshine. Let’s rock and roll.”