Chapter 2
TWO
LEXI
Kneeling on the ground, sweat drips from my face as I work it.
Hand fisted, grip strong, moving back and forth at a rapid pace, I don’t let up.
Ignoring the sharp pain in my knees on the hard ground, I stay focused on the job at hand, trying not to lose my rhythm, panting with every forceful jerk of my arm, determined to get the satisfying release.
I must be getting old, because I swear being on my knees like this never used to hurt this bad.
Hell, I used to drop to my knees a little too easily.
Maybe that’s where the creaking and cracking came from.
Too many blowjobs on the rough ground in my younger days.
I should’ve focused more on sixty-nining in beds, or at least the bed of a truck.
Something a little softer than fields of wheat or corn at bonfire parties.
Am I really facing a future where spontaneous blowies are out of the question because of my joints? Just kill me. What’s even the point of life without good dick? Not like I’ve had much of that lately anyway.
I feel the release I’ve been waiting for, dirt spraying as the trowel breaks through a root, and an accomplished sigh blows out of my mouth.
Rocking back to sit on my heels, I finally let myself wipe the sweat from my brow, face flushed under the unusually intense May sun here on the northern block of Main Street.
“Alexis.”
The kind voice pulls my eyes up to the sidewalk where I find one of the town’s matriarchs, an old friend of my mom’s, Dahlia, whose daughter I grew up with. “Those flowers are looking scrumptious.”
“You think these look delicious, wait till the restaurant is open.” I tilt my head to the plate glass window in front of me, the brand new Heights Bites logo loud and proud in the center. “Samuel’s fried chicken is going to be back and it’s even better than you remember.”
Dahlia clucks her tongue at me, long face quirked up in a bittersweet smile.
“You girls sure are doing your mother proud.”
Did I slip with the trowel? Feels like it went straight to the gut. Somehow I find the strength to smile, like I appreciate the compliment as she intended, and it isn’t slicing something vital open inside me, where I’m bleeding out in a place no one can see.
A noise gets strangled in my throat, but it’s the best I can do for her. Luckily, she seems to get it, kind eyes softening on me with her smile.
“I’ll be here on opening day,” she promises, not making me say more than I’m capable of.
“Thank you for your support,” I manage in earnest. “We’re looking forward to serving you.”
She graces me with one more familiar, warm, maternal look as she heads back down Main, crossing over to the next block.
The bells on the door of the coffee shop tinkle as she disappears inside, and I lose myself in the soil, where I tunnel the sharp sting of grief into the planter and pray it doesn’t come back out to find me again.
When the first tray is done, I groan, dropping the trowel to the ground next to me and flexing my hand, stretching my fingers.
How did I used to give so many hand jobs? Is this carpal tunnel from all of those too?
Not even forty yet, and I’ve got bad knees from too many blowies, bad wrists and fingers from too many handies. I hope insurance has codes for this shit when I need joint replacements at forty-five because I was an unapologetic ho back in the day.
Hell, I’d still be one if there was a dick worth dropping to my knees for in this town.
Unfortunately for me, it’s a lot of been there, done that, now he’s married and I didn’t want his chode anyway.
Major downfall of a town this small—even if it is Pinterest-level cute lately—is the lack of options.
These days, it’s more likely that if I’ve got wrist pain, it’s from rubbing myself out, not some hottie whose stomach I could ride like a Slip ’N Slide.
It’s been a really long time since anyone else has joined me in bed, unless we’re counting my extensive vibrator collection.
Years.
I’m not someone you’d call an optimist. Or even an optimistic pessimist like my newest bestie, Amelia. Okay, fine. I’d probably fight someone for insinuating I have cheer in me of any type.
But I can still hold out hope, right?
If someone can show up in this town for our resident bachelors, Wyatt Grady and his brother Weston, maybe someone will show up in town for me too?
Sure, one of those women was my sister Rory, back from New York after more than a decade gone, but Amelia showing up was a totally random act of fate, and maybe I’ll get that lucky too.
Maybe the universe will just drop some outsider off at our exit by the main road and we’ll develop some bone-deep magnetic attraction at first sight, like Weston and Amelia did.
Looking down, I spot the dirt covering my overalls that end above the knees, the shirt beneath it soaked through with my sweat, and on second thought, maybe I won’t be able to pull someone as hot as the Grady brothers.
Breathless and red-faced, elbow-deep in potting soil and fertilizer is how the next passerby finds me, and of course she stops to make small talk instead of taking the hint when I try to stay focused on what I’m doing.
Grunting in response to her greeting instead of giving her an opening to keep talking would be enough of a clue for most people, but not this one.
She’s got me feeling thankful the planning committee didn’t put a bench in front of my restaurant, because knowing her, she’d plop right down on it and make passive aggressive comments to me the entire morning.
Not really in the mood today, Karen.
Yeah, that’s actually her name.
“Looks like a mess in there. How soon until the restaurant opens?” she asks, voice falsely high, like it makes her sound like less of an asshole that way.
“We open on the first,” I say dryly, wondering if she ignored the sign saying as much on the door right next to her, or if she just wanted to quiz me.
She hums a noise of disbelief, like we’ll never make it in time. I love when people try to shit on your goals instead of helping you meet them. It’s the kind of energy that makes me think we should try unplugging Earth and plugging it back in again.
I wouldn’t want to play charades with Karen, because apparently she can’t take a fucking hint, and she keeps asking dumb questions. “How’s the search for a chef going?”
Blowing out an exasperated breath—and some loose curls that are stuck to my sweaty face—I glance up at her, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “Really great, Karen. We hired four this week. Got ’em lined up around the block to start.”
I work to channel my frustrations into the flower box, but I’m probably severing the roots the way I’m using this little spade like a weapon right now.
Sorry, flowers. I’d swap with you if I could. Snap my neck and bury me beneath the dirt, and you talk to Karen. You’ve got the better end of the deal down there, really.
“I was just asking.” One hand on her diamond necklace, her eyes seem to zoom in on the mess I am in front of her.
She pats at her hair with her other hand, like the two cans of hairspray she probably used on it this morning could allow for a rogue strand, probably scared that my disaster is contagious.
“How about you, dear? What’s new with the eldest Weiss daughter? Still single?”
Oh, that’s it.
I drop the trowel with a clatter to the pavement and sit back on my heels, facing her and giving her all of my attention now.
“We’re overdue for a catch up,” I say, resting my hands on my overall-clad thighs. “How’s your husband? Did he get to see the neurologist yet?”
She blinks rapidly, snapping her head back. “What do you mean? He didn’t have an appointment with a neurologist.”
“No? I thought he was getting his balance checked out. He seems to trip and fall into other people’s beds an awful lot.”
Even fifty-plus years of Southern manners isn’t enough to keep the rage from clouding over her eyes, darkening her features. “Excuse me!” Karen manages to sound indignant, like I strolled up to her and started poking at her most tender insecurities, not the other way around.
I shrug, keeping my tone helpful when I add, “While he’s there, maybe they can refer him to an optometrist and he can get that wandering eye checked out too. If only there was a doctor that could help with his vile personality, you’d be set.”
Karen bristles, holding her purse closer to her middle and looking over my shoulder, planning her escape route. “Where have your manners gone, young lady?” she chastises me. “You are downright uncouth. Your mother would be ashamed.”
Oh, hell no.
I crack my knuckles and my neck before I respond. “I’m almost forty years old. My mother finished raising me a long time ago. And one of the things she taught me was not to put up with other people’s horse shit.”
“I was just making small talk, Alexis. No need to verbally assault me over it.”
Giving her a sugar-drenched, venomous smile, I say, “This is barely a warmup, my gal. Call this a three out of ten. But, hey, while we’re on the subject of manners, I’ve got a suggestion there.
Maybe don’t dump your crusty misogynistic expectations on me or chalk up my worth to whether or not I have a partner. ”
In the beat of silence that hangs in the humid air, I blink at her in quick flutters, and she shudders.
I take that as a sign to go on. “I’d rather be single forever than with someone who doesn’t both respect me and make my life better with him than it was without him. Let’s bet your next therapy bill that I’m happier on my own than you are in your marriage, what d'ya say?”
Pulling herself as tall as she can manage, quivering chin tilted high, Karen says, “I’ll be telling everyone how rude the new restaurant staff are.”
“Please do. While you’re at it, in the name of honesty, maybe tell them since your husband can’t do the job, you get off by making others feel like shit, and we don’t put up with that here.”