Chapter 3 #2
One: The person who knocked into me is none other than Riley Rowland in another flimsy fucking sundress.
Two: For such a tiny woman, she sure can make an impact.
And three: The lid of my plastic cup wasn’t twisted on properly.
Cold liquid splashes my chest, some of it seeping into my shirt and some sticking to my bare collarbone. It’s a shock to the system, but not as much as what comes next.
Riley’s jaw drops with a dramatic gasp, then she scurries into motion, shoving her phone and the books she was holding onto the edge of a shelf. As she turns back to me, she reaches out and start dabbing ineffectually at my wet shirt. At my chest.
“Um,” I say.
Realizing what she’s doing, she gasps again and steps back, holding her hands up in the surrender position. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! That was—I mean, I didn’t see—I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t walk around with your face in your phone.”
That comes out a bit harsher than I intended, and she looks thoroughly mollified. In my defense, though, I’ve just taken an iced coffee bath. I’m still dripping onto the bookstore’s carpet, and my pulse is racing from the unexpected—and unwanted, definitely unwanted—groping.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “It was an email from my publicist, wanting me to approve a statement, and I... I didn’t even want to read it, but I knew I couldn’t ignore it.
Even though I came here hoping to ignore everything.
But this was a reminder that the rest of the world is still out there, and they haven’t magically forgotten about the photos or any of it, and—”
“Breathe,” I instruct, cutting her off.
She immediately sucks in a sharp breath, and then we’re both left here staring at each other.
That’s when Mr. Landry bustles over and asks, “What’s the commotion about? Is everyone all right?”
“Sorry, we had a bit of an accident,” I explain. “Do you have some paper towels so I can clean it up?”
“Oh no! Of course, let me get something.”
As he rushes off, I turn back to the country star. She looks like she might want to crawl into a hole and die.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Accidents happen. Kind of my fault for bringing a drink into a bookstore. That’s asking for trouble.”
I carefully set my books on the same shelf where she’s put hers.
Thankfully, it looks like they avoided any damage.
My eyes flit to the two books she selected.
The bright colors of the spines suggest romance, and glancing at the cover of the top one, I notice an illustration of two women standing beside each other.
She must see what I’m looking at, because she grabs the bottom book and switches it to cover this one. Then she places her phone on top of the pile.
And that’s... interesting. You certainly don’t need to be queer to read queer romance, and I probably wouldn’t have given the book choice a second thought if it weren’t for the fact that she tried to hide it.
Before I can say anything—not that I have any clue what to say—Mr. Landry reappears with a pile of white rags in his arms. He hands me one, and I use it first to wipe down the outside of my cup before screwing the lid on tightly this time and setting the cup on the floor.
Then I begin trying to wring out my shirt into the rag.
Mr. Landry bends down with the other rags in his hand, and I’m about to offer to get the carpet myself, when Riley says, “No, wait, let me do it!” and drops down to her knees on the floor.
“I got it, dear, no worries,” he insists, crouching in front of her.
But she doesn’t listen. She takes one of the rags from him and presses it to the wet spot on the carpet.
The Landrys will probably need to use some carpet cleaner to truly remove the stain, but I’m surprised at how much the celebrity is trying to clean up her own mess.
And it isn’t even hers. Technically, I think it’s mine.
After the two of them have done all they can, I reach for Mr. Landry’s arm to help him stand. Riley stands too, picking up my cup and handing it to me. My fingers graze hers when I take it, and it feels like I got zapped with a bolt of lightning. I almost drop the damn cup again.
It’s time for me to leave.
We both apologize once more to Mr. Landry as we grab our books and follow him to the front of the store.
I motion for Riley to cash out first, and she murmurs a thanks.
I’m not sure if it’s still a result of the situation we were in, or because of what she’s buying, but I swear there’s a flush on her cheeks while Mr. Landry rings her up.
Once he hands her the books in a small paper bag, she scurries quickly out of the store without another glance at me. Which is fine. Great. Because I just want to go on with my day and forget this incident ever happened.
It’s not like I expected her to say goodbye to me or anything. We’re not friends. I barely know the woman, and I have no reason to want to get to know her. She’ll eventually be leaving to go back to her celebrity lifestyle, and I’ll never see her again.
Yes, I’ve started making smoothies for her even though they’re not on the inn’s restaurant menu. And yes, that’s how Brenden picked up on the fact that I find her attractive, and he’s given me plenty of shit about it. But really, I’m only making the smoothies because I’m good at my job.
It has nothing to do with Riley Rowland herself. And my good sense of hospitality doesn’t mean I want to see this woman on my day off from work.
I step up to the counter and slide my books across to Mr. Landry. As he scans them, he says, “Edie’s dying for you to make that chicken piccata dish again. We came in and had it last month, and she’s still talking about how good it was.”
Buzzing with unexpected pride, I promise him, “I’ll add it to the menu for next week. Thursday night?”
He grins at me. “We’ll be there.”
I never thought I’d go from impressing actual food critics in Chicago to impressing small town locals in Mayweather.
But it’s strange how I’m not even upset about what some might consider this career downgrade.
It’s a nice feeling, getting to know some of the people who are enjoying my food.
To know I’m making them happy, even if it’s in a small way.
I wish Mr. Landry a good day before leaving the store. I’m ready to get back home, fix myself another iced latte since my first one was wasted, and do some reading on the couch with Freddie curled up beside me.
Except my plan is instantly derailed by the sight of the Riley standing outside.
It’s obvious she was waiting for me. She’s shifting her weight from foot to foot, and the nervous expression on her face makes me want to comfort her, but I shake that off.
She’s a grown woman. She’s fine. And I have a couch and AC I’m trying to get to.
“Please let me buy you another coffee,” she says, her eyes going from the empty cup in my hand, to my shirt, and not quite making it up to my face. “I can run over to get one at Reed’s.”
I make a face at the suggestion, my skin already feeling sticky with sweat from standing outside in the sun for less than a minute. “Travis doesn’t serve iced, and it’s way too scorching out to be walking around with a hot cup of coffee.”
She frowns, looking up at me now with piercing blue eyes. “I’m not sure there’s anywhere in town I can get an iced one.”
She’s right about that. Again, I wish for this town to get a real coffee shop. It doesn’t have to be a Starbucks.
“It’s really not a big deal,” I tell her.
“But I want to make it up to you. I was careless, and I don’t like that.”
I hold her eye contact for a moment. She looks so earnest, like the idea of me being upset with her actually hurts her. It’s probably only because she’s used to maintaining her public image as the country sweetheart.
Despite the flare of annoyance I feel at that thought, though, and despite the plans I have, I open my stupid mouth and say, “Then how about we go over to Roddy’s, and you can buy me a drink?”
Her eyes widen, and what looks like apprehension flashes across her face. I’m about to assure her that I’m not hitting on her. Because that would be ridiculous.
But then she says, “All right.”