11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Betty
B reathe.
I scream internally, panic taking over as I hyperventilate.
Don’t look up.
My eyes remain locked on the hardcover book prison gripped in my hand. I’m standing next to Ricco; his Q you can pay at the register on your way out.” My weak deflection is ignored.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me when I’ll see you again.” Laredo looks at me like a vision in a dream from a year ago: him back in front of me, that irresistibly sexy look of longing in his eyes, his finger reaching toward me, unable to bear another second in my presence without some part of him touching me.
It would be so easy to lean forward and brush against him. To step into his private space and let him inhale my scent. To bat my eyes and tease him like I did last summer.
But it’s not last summer. My mouth refuses to open, so all I can do is shake my head in response.
“Is everything good here?” Ricco steps next to me, a protective tap of his hand on the back of my shoulder, but his glare is pinned to Laredo.
It has zero effect on him. “Yeah.” The word comes out as smart-alecky as intended. “Betty and I were just catching up. She was letting me know when and where to report to help with the food pantry collection.”
Ricco’s body relaxes next to me. Another person charmed by Laredo. “I have the perfect assignment for you tonight.”
Wait, what? Did he just say tonight? My mind scans the schedule. There are only three collection events, and none of them are tonight. “Tonight?” I turn to face Ricco. “There isn’t one on the schedule… Did Miss Irene change the schedule?”
Ricco chuckles with a carefree laugh that mirrors Laredo’s. “You know Miss Irene doesn’t make a move without you.”
He jokes about my relationship with the chief administrator for the Seaside Food Pantry. I’ve volunteered at the food bank since I was a teenager. When Miss Irene realized I wasn’t there to bolster my college application and had a true passion for fighting hunger, she gave me more and more responsibilities. I run all the food collection drives these days and am familiar with nearly every aspect of the operation of the pantry.
“I just received a tip that Everett Macon will be doing a surprise drop-in set at Driftwood. I’ve known that kid since the moment he took his first breath. And now he’s on the charts and playing the festival for the first time. No way am I going to miss this.” Ricco’s eyes glaze over with joy.
Everett is uber-popular, and his music is racing up the charts. Once he takes the stage at Driftwood, people will flood the bar.
“No way I don’t check out the kid,” Ricco continues. “And since we have such an enthusiastic volunteer right here”—he points at Laredo— “why not take advantage of him and set up a collection bin.”
Laredo presses his chest against the back of my shoulder, the warmth of his body causing a reaction I should be embarrassed to feel in front of Ricco. He whispers, loud enough for Ricco to hear, “You hear that, Betty? Ricco says you should take advantage of me.”
My head screams for me to shout a courtroom-worthy objection, but my body pauses with a let’s give it a minute to see where this is going whisper.
“Perfect. Nineish?” Laredo signs the contract with Ricco before I can speak.
“If by nineish, you’re thinking eleven, then yes.” Ricco slaps a hand on Laredo’s shoulder, and the two of them laugh like long-lost buddies.
“At the Driftwood?” I mumble. Ricco has been a regular at Driftwood whenever he is in town. He’s familiar with the schedule. Headline artists take the stage at midnight. My old party hour. These days, I’m three sheets to the wind on my third dream at that hour. I’ve been avoiding my old haunt for the last few months for this exact reason. Too many memories. There has to be a way for me to get out of this. “We’ve done no prep work. How would people even know to bring food for the pantry when they show up tonight?”
Ricco strokes his chin, but it’s Laredo who speaks. “Easy. I’ll meet you, Betty, on the boardwalk at nine. We can pass out flyers and maybe grab a quick bite together before meeting up with Ricco.”
Grabbing a bite sounds too much like a dinner invitation, which sounds too much like a date. Before I can speak, Ricco does. “Solid plan, you work out the details. I’ll see you both tonight at the Driftwood.”
My gaze follows Ricco as he disappears down the bookstore aisle. I take a deep breath and prepare. “Please tell me you’re going to wear those cutoff denim shorts tonight.” With anyone else, his comment would be inappropriate, but with me, it tracks. I don’t take offense. In fact, it’s the opposite.
He’s told me on more than a dozen occasions how much he loves how I look in my favorite pair of shorts. I do too—hence the reason they are my favorite. A smile pulls on the corner of my mouth at the two dozen times he’s squeezed, smacked, or laid his hand on my rear. His spontaneous joy of everything me had me falling hard and fast. That he still desires this, desires me, must mean something.
“I’m not sure I know where they are,” I mumble. This librarian look I now possess is still relatively new, but when I decided I needed a change in my life, it included my entire wardrobe. I did a complete overhaul. I stuffed three black contractor garbage bags full of clothes that had defined my style for years. Tight tops, short, flirty skirts, party dresses that showed more skin than they covered. Holding each outfit was like opening an old photo album, each possessing a happy memory and an unforgettable story.
I was too chickenshit to follow through and drop the bags in the donation bin at the gas station. The bags still reside deep in the back of my closet, taunting me every time I reach for a long-sleeved pink sweater approved by the women’s group at church.
“Meet me at eight, and I’ll take you shopping on one condition.” The twinkle in his eye gives away his intent. “I get to watch you model every outfit.”
My head shake is my only defense. “That won’t be necessary. I can pick out my own outfit. I’ll meet you at nine with a stack of flyers.”
It’s his turn to provide the head shake. “Nope. Eight o’clock it is. And I’m definitely going to see those legs.” His eyes perform an inappropriate perusal of me, not stopping until his gaze rests on my flats. He lifts his hands to his mouth and performs a chef’s kiss. “See you tonight, Betty Belle.”
He slips away, leaving nothing behind but me with a what the hell just happened expression plastered across my face. And just like that, my calendar is filled with a modeling appointment, a surprise music pop-up concert, and a dinner date with the man I swore to avoid.
Just peachy.