Page 38 of Always Meant for You
Holy shit, she’s back.
Chapter Eight
CAL
Mabel’s legs are crossed, long and smooth, and impossible to ignore. She’s wearing a giant white hat with the widest brim I’ve ever seen. She’s sitting sideways on the edge of the booth, angled like she’s ready to make a run for it. And she’s wearing those pink heels.
Sweet Christ, the universe is messing with me.
In my sleep, where I can’t control a damn thing, I picture her in one of her designer skirts. I peel it off and trace the curve of her ass with my tongue.
And it never stops there.
Not in my head.
In my fantasies, I strip her bare, but I always make her wear those pink heels. They drive me wild. And God, help me, the things I’ve dreamed of doing to her while she’s teetering on those shoes are downright?—
“Cal? Are you okay, honey?” Margaret’s voice cuts through my filthy thoughts.
“What is she doing here?” I manage to get out.
I damn near pinch myself to make sure I’m awake.
Margaret glances over her shoulder. “She must have snuck in while Sally, Betty, and I were in the back.”
I go rigid. My pulse hammers, but I keep my expression neutral.
I lower my voice. “You think she came in on the bus?”
“Mm-hmm,” Betty answers.
Margaret exchanges a look with her sisters, then zeros in on me. “You don’t know why she’s here, Cal? We were hoping you could tell us.”
I stare at those heels. “How would I know?”
Dammit! My grandparents did not raise me to run my mouth like that.
I shake my head. “I apologize, ma’am. What I meant to ask is, didn’t she tell you? Haven’t you talked to her since she came inside?”
I straighten for a better view. A black top hugs her frame, and a white skirt clings high on her waist before breaking free at mid-thigh. The hat swallows half her face. But she’s not putting on a show. She’s curled in on herself, folded small, trying to vanish.
“My guess is that she’s going for incognito. When Sally went to take her order,” Margaret continues, “she wouldn’t even make eye contact. She’s hiding under that hat.”
Something prickly and sharp coils in my chest. “She knows you. She worked here for years. You all showed her nothing but kindness. Why wouldn’t she say hello?”
Sally taps my arm and leans in. “You should’ve seen it, Cal. First, she tried to order something lavender-infused with matches.”
“Matches?” I repeat.
“That’s what it sounded like. Then, from under that hat, she said no, she didn’t want a matches drink and asked for a glass of water.”
Sally stares at Mabel and purses her lips. “I’m not sure what that hat’s supposed to do. You could try gardening in it, but it’sso floppy, you probably can’t see a thing. Someone wearing that hat could walk straight off a bridge.”
The woman’s not wrong. It’s one hell of a hat.
It’s made from felt or wool. I’m not close enough to tell. It’s soft enough to sag in places, probably on purpose. It’s most likely vintage. That’s what she loved—maybe still loves. It could be one of those brands she’d tell Jamie about. Chloé. Dior. Maybe Chanel. And there was another I recall. Something that sounded like landmine. Lanvin, that’s it.
Yeah, I remember.
