Chapter 1 #2
“Right. The classes…” His tone might have revealed that he knew about her dwindling enrollment.
There had only been two kids last weekend.
Given how much Felicity loathed teaching kids, she wouldn’t have minded giving them up, but her aunt had brought in significant cash from those classes before her health declined.
She was in no position to abandon an income stream before winter if it would help her business stay afloat. “So are the classes—”
“Speaking of the general busyness of the store, I need to get ready to open up. I’m gonna skedaddle.”
Oh god. She’d said the word skedaddle aloud.
Fuck.
Nic’s scruffy cheek twitched like he was struggling to keep his expression neutral. “Before you—erm—skedaddle away…” The word skedaddle sounded even stupider in a gruff Texas drawl. He cleared his throat like he regretted repeating it and held out a sticky note. “Do you have these?”
While very conscious of where her dirty fingernails scraped across Nic’s immaculately clean kitchen calluses, she took the list and skimmed it.
His handwriting was almost robotically neat.
She could have guessed that he would have this type of handwriting, despite his affectation of effortless ruggedness.
Close up, she was 93 percent sure the man ironed his jeans.
“Yep. Still a good amount of these. Glad I could help.” Felicity twitched her head toward the herb garden, gesturing to the colorful signs she had made to label the plants as a teenager.
He raised a not-at-all sexy eyebrow. “Okay … but can you show me—”
“Extra cutting shears are in the potting shed. I have to go shower before I open.” She dropped the last of her tools back in the bucket like a mic drop.
“Wouldn’t want anything about my shop or me to be too sloppy for the St. Clare Circle patrons.
” She turned away to hide her flinch. Her mouth needed to stop moving faster than her brain.
Her apartment was on the back of the old church building, and she could get to the metal fire escape steps leading up to it in less than five seconds if she sprinted.
The postage-stamp-sized place had once been used as a backup rectory for visiting clergy, and it might be haunted.
But it was home and her easiest avenue of escape from this conversation.
Still unwilling to look at Nic, Felicity hauled her stuff to the shed on the far side of the garden.
She put away her tools in their correct spots and set her favorite bucket on the potting bench.
After going through her mental checklist of equipment, she moved to leave, but a large shadow behind her nearly made her leap into her aunt’s rake collection. “Frack.”
“Whoa.”
“Jesus Christ. Wear a fucking bell next time. Don’t sneak up on people.” She righted herself.
His forehead furrowed with confusing concern for several seconds before smoothing. In a blink, his usual air of arrogant unconcern returned. “I thought we were having a conversation. I’ll try to move louder.”
“I really think a permanent collar with cowbell might be the safest option. Marshall Greene loves a good theme. Gotta keep up appearances while you’re running things for him…”
“Now, while I acknowledge that I could rock a cowbell … I mean … obviously…” He gestured to his physique.
Felicity grunted. Infuriatingly, she couldn’t find anything about that statement with which to quibble.
Nic would look good in a cowbell. He would definitely look good in only a cowbell.
During the past months, all of her hiding from him had provided ample time to take in every single—well—ample aspect of his physical person.
His ass. His hair. His shoulders and neck. The forearms. God, those fucking forearms. She’d never known that wrists could be sexy before. And now she knew he had those treacherous green eyes. The kind of eyes that were practically a cliché in fantasy novels.
Samantha Powell—typically called Sam by most around here—owned Menagerie Books, the nearby indie bookstore.
Every week or sometimes more often, Sam left a book for Felicity to find.
These gifted books were piled on top of one of the fifteen still-packed boxes in her apartment’s tiny galley kitchen, their spines uncracked despite the promise of the morally gray heroes and heroines within their pages.
Felicity wasn’t in the mood for reading.
Or for having this conversation.
Or for thinking about Nic wearing only a cowbell.
But imagine the way it would look framed by his pecs.
She licked her lips.
“What’re you thinking about, Felicity?”
“Um.” She hadn’t even heard the rest of what he’d said. “I was thinking about root vegetables. Parsnips. Carrots. You know.”
Why did I start with the most phallic of them?
One more point to the pretentious pasta man.
She snapped the shed shut so hard the roof rattled.
“Well, starches are a staple of any diet.” He nodded solemnly. “Speaking of which—”
“Yeah, I zone out when I’m bored. Sorry about that. Guess I’ll see you later.” She gave a jazz hand wave and the worst imitation of a smile anyone had ever done in the history of humanity and took a step toward the wobbly wrought-iron stairs.
“Marshall said I wasn’t supposed to touch the garden without supervision—”