Page 2 of The Jilted Lovers Club
If I were paying attention, I’d probably have laughed, correcting her about her ideas of my success. Then I would have told her about this shitty smelling car I’m in. But I’m distracted,realizing I’ve reached my destination. The Till stands tall on the corner of the street, a majestic building that, with its pillars and arched windows, resembles the classic details of structures in the Italian Renaissance. Its beauty and grandeur takes my breath away.
And so does the crowd picketing outside.
“Hey, I need to go,” I say to Nina, then hang up before she can say anything else.
How I missed the protest just across the street is beyond me, but now the sounds of shouting ring through my closed windows.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, then open the car door. I’m immediately met by a warm blast of shit.
No, not literal shit. The smell of shit. And it’s everywhere.
The smell I’d noticed before, it wasn’t coming from the floorboards. No, this is definitely not a car issue. It’s a town issue.
“Oh, my god.” I start to close the door, getting ready to drive off again. But I can’t. Despite the smell, and despite the modest crowd marching with signs outside of it, I have to get inside that building. This has little to do with my job, and everything to do with needing to see if the inside of that building is as gorgeous as the outside.
Covering my nose, I get out of the car. But my stilettos are not meant for the cobblestone road. I frantically grasp for the car door, but catch air as I pitch forward. That is, until two strong hands grip me under my arms, then hoist me to standing before I can catch my breath.
“Easy there,” a deep voice says, and I turn to see my rescuer, all while still covering my nose.
“Thank you.” My voice is muffled under my hand. But when I look up, what I really mean is,thank you, Universe. Does the Universe even make men this beautiful? Because the manstanding in front of me is easily the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, there’s a Neo-Renaissance building across the street—dripping with history, secrets, and who knows what other treasures—and yet this man, with skin the color of burnished bronze, eyes like dark espresso, and a smile so disarming I forget how to speak …he’sthe architectural masterpiece. Not to mention that I can see the shape of his chiseled chest through his flannel shirt, the thickness of his thighs under his faded blue jeans, and that worn out baseball cap on his head, the brim curved over his brow. The whole look seems to be the standard uniform of well-built cowboys, not to mention my absolute kryptonite. Fuck, I’m a sucker for this look, as much as I hate to admit it. I’d escaped to New York to immerse myself in high fashion and culture. But goddamn, those men in fitted suits have nothing on this country boy.
“I see you’ve discovered Lahoma Aroma,” he says, nodding at me with an amused look on his face as he guides me toward the sidewalk, his hand at my back.
“Lahoma … what?” I grimace. I’m having a hard time looking at him. He’s that attractive.
With my hand covering my nose, I’m aware that I look like a fool. Not that it matters, I’m here on business only, not to meet someone—even guys like this one.
“Lahoma Aroma,” he repeats, then gestures all around us. “The fields were recently fertilized, and it can get pretty fragrant around here.”
I pull my hand away, then wrinkle my nose. “Fragrant? More like rancid. How do you stand it? Your town smells like a giant bathroom.”
His smile widens, catching the corners of my heart with it. “When you live in a farming community, you get used to it.”
I look him over, partly to get another look, but also as I realize he is probably one of those farmers. “I take it you live on one of the farms here?”
He nods. “Just on the cusp of city limits, all two hundred acres of it blessed with the holy juice to prepare it for the next planting season.”
I nod, though I can’t hide my disgust. My face has always been a billboard for my thoughts, and judging by the way his eyes dance as he looks me over, he is reading me loud and clear.
“You must be new around here. Or maybe visiting? I’m Ashton.” He holds out his hand, and I instinctively take it, then do what I can to hide my reaction at the warmth of his calloused palm curving over my much smaller hand. But I can’t keep my mouth from betraying me, breaking into a smile before I can stop it by biting my lower lip. Damn, I like my hand in his. It’s like an invitation to see what else fit against him, around him, all over him. There is something about him that feels like home to me, which is so weird and cliché I can’t stand it. I’ve never had this reaction to any guy. I didn’t even feel this way about Brayden. But here I am, ogling this familiar stranger
“I’m Jordy, Jordy Gallo. And yeah, I guess you can say that I’m new.” I slip my hand from his and nod at the building across the street. “Winslow & Associates, the owners of that building over there, hired me to work on the interior design, but I didn’t realize there would be a protest today. Do you know when it will be over so I can go inside?”
Ashton’s smile evaporates, and the warmth in his eyes cool to an icy, narrow focus. But then it’s gone, and he shakes his head.
“They’re there every day,” he says, then shrugs. “I imagine when they see progress being made on whatever’s going in that spot, the protest will get worse.”
“Seriously?”
I look over at the protest, but this time I note the signs they’re holding.
“GO HOME BIG BUSINESS.”
“KEEP LAHOMA SMALL.”
“THIS IS OUR TOWN.”
And the funniest one of all: “OUR TOWN SMELLS LIKE POO, BUT YOU STINK MORE.”
