Page 8 of Love, Lacey Donovan
I fixed Thatcher’s coffee the way he liked it and then grabbed a beer from his private stash in the fridge for myself.
I usually went for a sugary decaf at book club, but tonight I needed something stronger. My mind had been busy all day, replaying my encounter with Pressly’s brother.
Thatcher raised an eyebrow when he spied my beverage selection. “Rough day?”
I flipped off the bottle cap and tossed it in the trash, wishing I could be rid of thoughts of Pressly’s brother with as little effort. I took a sip of the rich, stout beer. “I need to take the edge off.”
Thatcher laughed. “Those tattoos are the only thing edgy about you.”
I glared at him. “Careful.”
But it was true; I was a total creampuff. It was why I loved romance novels so much. They made it okay to embrace all those fluffy feelings of hope and love—the ones that rarely happened in real life.
“What do you have for me this month?” I asked, eyeing the box full of books Thatcher carried under his arm.
“You’ll have to wait until everyone gets here.” He set the box on the low-slung table in the reading nook.
Anticipation burned inside me. My favorite author, Miranda Lockhart, had a new release hitting retailers next month. My copy could be in that box.
“Come on. Just a peek.” I dropped onto the sofa and crossed my arms over my chest to keep from reaching for the box. “The suspense is killing me.”
“You’ll survive another five minutes.” Thatcher took his coffee and backed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
I shot him another glare before settling back against the cushions. In an attempt to distract myself from wondering what was in the box, my mind strayed to my new favorite subject—Pressly’s brother.
I was lost in thought, rehashing our encounter over and over like a brilliant passage in a novel I wanted to memorize, when Gabi plopped down onto the sofa next to me. She smelled like sweaty socks and menthol rub. Her stench instantly pulled my mind from tight abs and broad shoulders.
“How’s my girl?” she asked.
“Ugh,” I said. “You stink.”
“Sorry.” Hopping up from the sofa, she peeled off her nylon jacket and tossed it aside. She sniffed her armpit and grimaced.
“Did you run here?” I asked, eying her tights and T-shirt.
Gabi nodded. “I had to. Shane just finished a game. This was the only time I had in my schedule.”
Shane was Gabi’s fourteen-year-old son. A gifted athlete, Shane was the only freshman on the varsity football and basketball teams. Between all of Shane’s games and her job as principal of the elementary school, Gabi barely had time for herself. She was used to squeezing in a run between work, single-mom duties, and book club.
I worried she pushed herself too hard. She and Thatcher, neither ever stopped moving.
Gabi grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted open the cap. “I was sweating my ass off at Shane’s game because the new smart HVAC system they spent so much money on isn’t as smart as advertised.” She slapped the water bottle on the counter and righted her ponytail, which had the audacity to look sleek and beautiful after bobbing behind her head for miles. “I have smarter kindergartners!”
“Did you eat?”
She guzzled more water. “I ate at the game.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Vending machine?”
Gabi shrugged. “Best peanut butter crackers in town.” She pointed her water bottle at me, pinning me with her laser-sharp stare. “What’s up with you? You were in outer space just now. You didn’t even hear me come in.” She looked at the books on the coffee table and grinned. “Thinking about the new Miranda Lockhart release, huh?” she asked and took a swig of water.
Heat crept up my chest to stain my cheeks.Not exactly. “Busted,” I said. Gabi’s eyes narrowed skeptically, but before she could comment I turned the tables on her. “How’s the sexy Spanish teacher?” I asked, in an effort to take the attention off me and my new obsession with Tall, Dark, and Brooding. The Spanish teacher at the elementary school was always a good topic to distract Gabi. She hadn’t stopped talking about him since she’d hired him last fall.
Gabi sighed dramatically, rubbing the cold bottle of water across her forehead. “I swear, God put Latin men, especially Mr. Morales, on this earth to torture women everywhere.”
I laughed. “You’re just a sucker for a sexy accent.” I couldn’t help but think of Pressly’s brother’s distinct accent. Southern charm laced with New York confidence.
“Who isn’t?” Gabi asked.
