Page 35 of Kandie Shoppe

“What kind of southern gentleman would I be if I let a lady drink alone?” Shaking his head, he gives me a stern look. “Y’all young ladies these days need to expect more from these boys. You make them take you out, not park out back, Sheriff or not.”

“Oh my jeeze, not you too,” I grumble. I need to talk to Mrs. Lopez. I know she thinks she’s somebody now that she’s finally getting the tea before me and it being about me is a real get. She almost rivals my cousin, Joi, on her hot to the presses news drops. At least Joi gets paid and turned the failing local newspaper,TheShelby-LoveChronical, around with their gossip blog. I don’t know how I feel about Mrs. Lopez telling my business.

“He was just doing a welfare check because someone dropped a bottle of wine on my sidewalk and the potted plant got knocked off the rooftop deck out back.”

“Uh-huh. She said the truck looked like it had been there all night.” Swirling the deep plum colored wine in the clear cup, he eyes me with skepticism. “I don’t know about you taking up with a Shelby.” Him being a Carrington, the other prominent Black family in these parts, makes him also not think too kindly of the Shelbys.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” I say, taking a sip, letting the bouquet settle on my tongue, the flavor washing over my taste buds in a heady mix of caramel and berry.

“Wow.” I look at him with wide eyes. “It’s better than the berry wine they make.”

“I know.” He drags out the last word, topping us both off. “I believe this is good enough for your cousin’s restaurant.”

“Absolutely. I’ll tell her to order it through you,” I tell him, savoring the flavor of the wine he’s so kindly decided to share.

“Well, I appreciate that, Kandie. What dessert would you pair this with?” He asks, all serious.

“Oh, anything rich like German chocolate. It may even go with something light and delicate, like a chiffon cake. Pies — pecan, chocolate mousse for sure,” I tell him, finishing the drink.

“How much?” I ask, already feeling mellow.

“Forty-eight,” I pay, tapping my card on the reader and waving as I leave. “Take care, Mr. Bobby-Lee.”

“You too Kandie-girl, and if you do take up with Ulysses again, he ain’t bad as far as Shelbys go.” He toasts me giving me a mischievous wink.

“Jeeze-Louise, where are y’all getting this taking up with Ulysses again, thing?” The door chimes as I push it open hurrying to get away from his knowing gaze.

“You know better than anybody how news travels in this town,” he calls after me.

“Gosh darn it.”I look at my flattened tire. Sitting the bottle down, I unhook my patch kit from the inner rail of my bike.

Maneuvering the bike around, I turn it upside down into a stable position. “What the?” I whisper as I find the hole is not a hole but rather a slash. I look around on the ground from where I came. A hole this large and long should leave evidence. My tires are pretty durable. Fingering the gash I look around seeing if anyone is about. People are coming and going about their business. A few “hey there’s” and waves like normal. Still, this feels deliberate.

Busy looking at the damage I must miss the low hum of the vehicle pulling alongside me.

“You need help with that?” I jerk my head around at the posh British accent to look at a sinewy arm hanging out of a black G-Wagon. I swallow, following the length of the arm up to the equally impressive face of Marcus Sommerland. From headline grabbing, jet-setting aristocrat to university professor, Marcus has settled into our community like an old friend. A very fine ass old friend.

Introduced to me by Nikki over a year ago, I couldn’t quibble. He’s done nothing but be helpful and kind to my sister.

“Yes. It seems like I have a flat that requires more than a patch job.” Embarrassed to need help, I realize my trauma when I see it, so instead of braving the two blocks pushing my bike, I step back and let him load my only legal source of transport in the back of his truck after he steps out to look at the damage.

“Thanks.” Giving him my best smile I tilt my head resting it on my hand with my arm propped on the window.

“No problem, after all the free confections you’ve given me, it’s the least I can do.” Casting a wink my way, he pulls off the curb into the street. His truck is not small, but he makes it feel small with his long legs. I can’t help but admire the way his thighs flex as he maneuvers the vehicle.

Pulling my gaze away, I see when he catches me checking him out. Blushing, I turn back to the view of our small town. I can’t help it. He is like I said — fine as hell. Tall like I like them, his blond sleek, slightly windblown, posh in one of those devil may care style rich boys like, his eyes are more silver than grey. Gorgeous through and through. I bet he never tosses people’s wine into the street, I muse, wondering why that doesn’t have more impact on me than it does. I guess I like mean motherfuckers who do shit like that.

It takes us a few minutes to reach the back of my business.

Getting out, I watch as he effortlessly takes the bike out of the back and sits it in front of me.

We stand there with the bike between us like a very thin prophylactic. I mean this guy. A slow smile spreads across his face, it’s almost vicious and a little thrill tingles up my spine.

“I can bring the bike up for you, Kandie.” His voice holds the promise of so much more. It’s almost as if he’s saying and then I will blow your back out, and feast on you for the rest of the night.

“Maybe next time.” The words are barely out of my mouth when the low rumble of a truck all too familiar pulls up right beside me.

“This is not a parking space.” Both Marcus and I turn to see Ulysses leaning out of his truck. How come I notice how his arms are just a tad bit brawnier, his tan darker, his fingers longer, broader? Why then do I remember how they felt on my body, how he thrust them inside me? Made me suck them clean.

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