Page 32 of The Jellybean Dilemma

I wasn’t hungry yet, but probably would be by then. We pulled into the D & R Party Store, where Greg parked as close to the entrance as he could. I opened my door, slipping on an iced over puddle, and clinging to the door for dear life.

Greg rushed to my side, wrapping a steadying arm around my waist. “What did I tell you about waiting for me?”

Once I’d transferred my grip from the door to him, I parroted, “Yeah, yeah. ‘If you insist on wearing ridiculous shoes, at least have the sense to stay put till I get over there.’”

His admonishing stare drilled into me as we shuffled across the parking lot, and I knew he was waiting for me to admit he was right.

“Fine. I won’t get out until you’re here. Happy?”

“I’d be happier if you wore something with decent traction,” he growled before opening the door.

“But then you’d miss looking at my delicate ankles and stellar calves,” I teased as I sauntered inside. “And wouldn’t that be a pity?”

He didn’t follow immediately.

I turned to find his attention locked on my lower half. Amusement crept in as I asked, “Coming?”

He startled at my voice, ducking his head as he hurried to catch up. How cute. From the store front, I’d expected a small space with a limited selection. The front door led down a narrow hallway which opened into a massive warehouse with rows and rows of invitations, decorations, fake flowers and all sorts of odds and ends.

“Wow.” My voice echoed in the large space.

“Surprising, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

A stranger’s voice boomed from the register. “How in the world are ya stayin’ warm in an outfit like that? You let your woman walk around in those shoes in the middle of winter? What are you thinkin’, eh?” The guy behind the counter had frizzy silver hair, pulled back into a long ponytail despite being bald on top. A toothpick dangled from one corner of his mouth, an untrimmed beard bushed from his chin in every direction and his flannel shirt was buttoned wrong.

My expression turned menacing as I sized him up. I’d eaten lesser men for breakfast. My heels sounded steadily on the cement floor, beating out his death knoll.

“Hello. I assume you were talking to me since we’re the only two in here, and I assure you I am more than capable of speaking for myself. Just as I am more than capable of dressing myself. I’m Rhonda Elgin, and I believe you have an order for Erin Dougherty. She was supposed to let you know I’d be picking it up.” I delivered each word with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel and just as sharply.

The man gawked before stuttering out, “Oh, I’ll just check on that for you.” And he disappeared.

Greg barely contained his laughter until the guy was out of earshot. “Wow, that was harsh.”

I turned my icy glare on him. “He directed every comment to you, implying you were in charge of me. You didn’t have a problem with that?”

With his hands held up in surrender, he took a few steps back. “No, you’re right. He got exactly what he deserved.”

“Thank you.”

We both hid our smiles. I drummed my nails against the counter, running through my to-do list once more in my head while I waited. A gentle brush against my neck made me shiver, and I whirled around.

Greg’s hand hovered over my shoulder. “Your tag is sticking out.” He searched my face, as if asking for permission.

I relaxed, turning my back to him once more. His fingers grazed my skin, but their heat seared me as if I’d collided with a branding iron. I shivered again, this time from the delicious warmth rushing through me.

“There.” His breath was hot on my cheek.

I sensed his nearness, knew if I leaned back even an inch, I’d be flush against his firm body. Somehow having that space between us was more erotic than if we’d been touching. We were in a dangerous dance, him and I, orbiting each other like planets around the sun. We kept coming close, our paths bringing us nearer and nearer, but never quite crossing. I felt him shift behind me, and I held my breath in anticipation.

A door slammed, making me jump. When Greg stepped away, the space between us once again felt as big as a canyon. Footsteps sounded—the guy’s balding head barely visible over the two boxes he carried. Greg rushed to help.

Once the boxes landed on the counter, I peered inside, matching the contents with the list on my phone. Almost everything was there. “And the favor bags?”

The man frowned, taking the box from me. He shoved a few things aside, then pulled out a flimsy bag. “There you go.”

The bag tipped over, as if it were too ashamed to even try to stand on its own. I peered inside, confirming my suspicions. Erin had ordered thirty pre-filled, favor bags for the shower guests. I’d admit it was a neat service, but their idea of a favor bag differed greatly from mine.

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