Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Elodie
“It’s only Bootleg,” I mutter as I fuss with my hair.
I’ve gone too many years just throwing it up and getting only a trim here and there.
Now I’m at a loss for how to style it. I meant to tackle my date prep alone, but I texted Clem about how to do my hair because I had no idea. She was here within ten minutes.
She reclines on my bed, her feet dangling off the end. A sandal hangs off the toes of a jiggling foot. “It’s your debut. Do a blowout.”
Frowning, I flutter my fingers at my scalp. “It’s dry.”
“Do, um . . . barrel curls? Flat iron? I’m so not the one to ask.”
“You do all the cute hairstyles.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fun ones. Quirky. Bootleg is the wrong vibe for that.” She says that with a wrinkled nose. “I’m a librarian. People expect it.”
“What about the cozy mystery writer? What hairstyle for that?”
“Usually unwashed and unbrushed.”
“And the spicy writer?”
Her smile turns devilish. “Unwashed, unbrushed, and unbothered.”
“Unless someone finds out who you are, Cutie Hancock.”
Her eyes flare like I announced her secret pen name with a bullhorn in the middle of the street. “You stop that.”
“I’d never betray your secret, but you need to tell me how to do my hair.” I want to wow Cruz, but I’m not comfortable sexing it up like I used to. Will I ever be again? I don’t know. Cruz was after me in the baggiest of clothing, but this is an official, public date. Our lunch out was less formal.
She purses her lips and studies my hair. “Down and curled. So he can fist it.”
This time I’m the one rolling my eyes. “It’s just a drink.”
“It’s a third date.”
“I ran out on the second, so it doesn’t count.” Not even with that panty-incinerating kiss.
“Still counts.”
My belly clenches and a little moan leaves me. He had me twisted in knots and then unwinding until I nearly floated away. I can still feel the steel band of his arms around me. Picture the way he licked his finger clean. The guy hardly touched me and I came so hard I couldn’t see straight.
She whips around, her feet hitting the floor, her back straight. Excitement gleams in her eyes. “Something happened.”
“What? No.”
She bounces on my bed like she’s a kid and not approaching thirty. “It did. This is so fun. You’ve blocked me out of everything else, so you have to tell me this.”
Her words hit home. She said them lightly, but it’s a serious topic. I drop my hands from my hair and look at her through the mirror. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”
She turns solemn.
“Dwayne wasn’t a good guy,” I finally admit.
“I know.” When I give her a questioning look, she shrugs. “I’m an observer. I watch things, and I know you. You might not think I do, but you’re older, of course I’ve been in your business. When you got that job in Austin, you changed.”
Austin. Tulsa. Denver. I moved wherever Dwayne had the urge to go. “I knew I was in too deep and didn’t want to drag any of you down.”
“What happened?”
Her concern is genuine, and her curiosity has to be eating her alive.
Still, I can’t bring myself to list my litany of bad deeds.
Not only did I nearly cut her off for years after I finished chef school, but I did it for a good-for-nothing man.
And that guy is still trying to cause problems I can’t solve.
“Lots of things. Now help me with my hair.”
Disappointment flits across her face. “One day, you’re going to realize that you don’t have to coddle me. Or Mom and Dad.”
“It’s not that.”
She gives me a flat look.
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I’m ashamed and embarrassed. I walked right into an oven, past a hundred signs that said ‘hot.’ You remember how Mom was after our accident? I was driving and she blamed herself. I can’t put her through that. Or put Dad through Mom going through all that.”
“She would’ve duct-taped you in bubble wrap until graduation if she could’ve.”
“She would blame herself for being too strict after that and claim it’s why I got reckless.” I flip the end of my hair. “I’m not proud of any of it. Don’t take it personally.”
She chews the inside of her cheek and nods. “Fine. I’ll give you a pass. But I’m here when you’re ready.”
Forty-five minutes later, I vow to chop six inches off as soon as I can carve out a window of time and brush up on some how-to videos.
Clem gives me an air kiss. Her hair is now styled like mine—shiny with huge curls and pulled back into a clip. We could pass for twins if someone didn’t look too closely. Her eyes are a deep emerald green and her mouth forms a cute little bow while mine stretches wider.
“Going with the glasses?” she asks.
“Yes.” I might be done up, but it’s a tasteful version of how I used to dress. I’m not showing a ton of skin, my hair is down, but my glasses stay on. It’s a happy medium. I can be a good-looking Clark Kent and not a sexpot Superman.
“Good. They’re cute.” She punches me in the shoulder. “This was fun. We need to do it again. You need to take more time off so we can.”
“Ow.” I rub my arm, but it doesn’t hurt. “Says the one working, like, three jobs.”
“Writing’s for fun. I can write my dream man that’s never going to step foot in Huckleberry Springs.”
“And then kill him off?”
“Oh no.” She fans herself with her fresh bubble-gum-pink nails she painted while I got dressed.
“The thrillers are because I listen to too many murder podcasts and get too many ideas. The smut is for the lady who wants the perfectly imperfect man who can give her endless orgasms. It’s me. I’m the lady.”
“What’s this perfectly imperfect man like?” Does he have stylishly long dark hair, dancing blue eyes, a lopsided grin, and a tongue that can make me forget my name?
She smiles dreamily. “He’s got to have a rough voice to go with his rough hands. He’ll be grumpy but so soft, yet hard everywhere that it matters.”
“Where’s that?” I tease.
“I dunno. Where’s Cruz hard?”
I swat at her, but she dances away, laughing. “Like I said, we need to do this more.” She looks me up and down. “The town is going to collectively lose its shit when they see you.”
I’m only interested in one man’s reaction. She gives me a fierce hug before she leaves.
When she’s gone, I inspect myself one last time in the mirror.
I kept it modest, but my midnight-blue shirt clings to my torso, and the flirty wrap skirt falls past midthigh.
Behind my lenses, my eyes are luminous, almost innocent looking.
Without glasses, they used to be a siren for lonely men hoping to get laid.
I almost reach up and muss up my hair. The long strands cascade over my shoulders, and the whole ensemble, paired with my platform espadrilles, propels me back in time.
Different faces leering at me, hoping to get under my skirt for nothing but a burger.
My practiced flirting and the guilt afterward for milking mostly decent guys for easy money. The pressure to do it again and again.
I should change.
The doorbell rings, and I jump. He’s here.
I press my hands against my stomach. I shouldn’t have told him I’d go out with him. My quiet, hardworking life was fine without a man. It had routine. I got a lot done. I didn’t go out for a drink. There are cupcakes to decorate.
He’s waiting.
My excitement to see him wins out. I want to witness his reaction when he sees this version of me. I rush downstairs and open the door before he thinks I stood him up.
His mouth freezes in a half smile. “Day-um. You’re one fine confection.”
I laugh, fighting the urge to do a little curtsy. “Thank you. You look good too. You always do.”
He’s in a pearl-buttoned, short-sleeved, gray-striped shirt with his hair pushed off his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. He cocks an elbow out. “Ma’am.”
I almost swoon. “A cowboy and a gentleman?”
“On my best days.”
I’m a lucky girl, one who might get lucky tonight.
Cruz
I take the smallest sip of my Foster House whiskey.
Elodie’s having a beer, and she just finished her first. Silas, the owner of Bootleg and an old rodeo bull rider, is irritated that I’m not chugging more, but he’s doting on Elodie.
I’ve picked my tongue off the floor a few times since she first opened the door, so I understand his infatuation.
She’s not hiding under her mass of hair or swaddled in baggy clothing, and she radiates an energy that draws the eye. A guy can get lost in her big hazel eyes.
“Can I get you another, Elodie?” Silas asks nicer than I’ve ever heard him take an order.
“Sure. A short, please.” She smiles at him, and the man straightens.
“My pleasure.”
I gawk at him. I’ve only lived in Huckleberry Springs for five years, and I don’t come here a lot, but he’s been nothing but gruff each time.
The glass sloshes a little when he limps over with it. “Sorry ’bout that. Did I ever tell you about how I mangled my leg?”
“I believe so.” She gives him a winning smile, probably to soften the way she’s letting him down from telling it again. “But you got him for eight seconds.”
Silas beams, his ruddy face flushing more. “Sure did.” He knocks on the counter as he heads to another guy who just sat at the end of the bar. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Where were we?” She taps her fingers on her glass. “You being a delinquent. I have a really hard time believing it.”
“You’ll never know how much of a compliment that is.”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“There was a time no one could imagine me as the man I am today.” I frown into my whiskey.
How much do I tell her? All of it would be the right answer, but now that I’m faced with saying it, the truth burns my throat like a strong bourbon.
“Lane and I didn’t get new clothes before school each year.
Our lunch accounts weren’t often in the positive, and we were left home alone a lot. ”
“How old were you when that happened?”