Page 125 of Why Cheese?
“Miss Reely?”
“I’m sorry Mister Walker, but I’m not selling.”
“What? Miss Reely, I assure you…”
Roq takes my chin in his massive hand. Damn near growling, he brushes the tip of his finger over my lip. Just as I’m about to giggle, he kisses me. The phone falls from my hand, rebounding off of the open house sign. A tiny realtor screams at me for ruining his dreams while four men strip and devour me before the sun rises.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Epilogue
THEY SAY MOST businesses fail within the first year.
Unforgiving, November winds blow up my skirt. I shiver in my thin sweater and stomp my feet. Putting on tights would have been smart after all.
Headlights flash by, nearly blinding me as I stare up at the red brick edifice. There’s still a sunspot from where the old sign used to hang. It was a hard day tearing it down. In many ways, that day served as a funeral for not onlyGoudafellasbut my Uncle Mateo as well.
“How’s that?”
I place a hand above my eyes and crane my head back. “A little to the left, I think.”
“Like this?” Cheddy yanks the banner to the right.
“No, your other left.”
“Um…?” He pulls it even farther right until he’s standing with one foot on the ladder.
I wave my hand to try to direct him away from the bright neon sign. Thunder rolls and a fat raindrop strikes my hand. “That’s perfect,” I shout at him.
Beaming, he ties off the banner advertising the hours for this new, all-night cheese shop. After testing to make sure it’s secure, he slides down the ladder. Cheddy peers up at his hard work. He doesn’t even flinch as rain pelts his cheeks and tumbles through his hair.
When a fat drop strikes my forehead, I yelp and dash under the cover of the awning. “We should get inside,” I call to him. A second clash of thunder strikes and the heavens open.
The rain drenches Cheddy’s thin, white tee to his shoulders, pecs, and the swerving terrain of his back. He shakes out his hair already plastering to his head like he’s in a shampoo commercial. “Are you cold?” he asks as his body steams in the autumn night air.
“A…a little.” I’ve stuffed my hands under my arms and keep trying to rub my legs together for warmth.
Sweet Cheddy wraps his wet arms around my body. “You should get inside.”
“You too,” I say. “You don’t want to be late.”
He smiles wide. Somehow, the exuberance in his green-flecked eyes ramps up another notch. Like a puppy eager for a walk, Cheddy runs for the door, stops, and looks back at me. He pushes open the shop door and bows his head.
I take my time trying to wipe off my shoes on the black rug while Cheddy keeps popping up on his toes to look around. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’ve got a few things to check on.”
“Really? Okay. Love you, Vi. Bye!” In a whirl, Cheddy vanishes into the hordes of people gathered near the windows. I catch a hint of his blond head bounding through the masses before he flits behind one of the new walls.
It wasn’t easy to come back from nothing, but the empty store also gave us opportunities for change. Instead of returning to the way they were, we made this place ours. It began small with soft cheeses in custom sampler boxes covered in art—Brie’s idea. With that, we were able to get enough money to make more stock to rebuild the store and, after two years, we have more than a place to sell cheese.
We have a home.
“This book is nothing but bodice-ripping, manhood-swelling smut,” Cam declares. He slaps the hardcover book closed and grins. “Which is the best kind of literature.” He sits on his vintage, wingback chair. The frame is mahogany and the upholstery a velveteen ivory, making it look more like a throne than a cozy armchair. It doesn’t help that he’s set it on the floor above the handful of steps that lead to the little book nook where the utility closet used to be.
A handful of regulars, coffee in hand, nearly sit at his feet as they discuss whatever book Cam’s found delicious for the night. “I shall read to the oarsman scene. Ahem. Chapter five, page fifty-three. ‘They thrust without purpose, muscles rippling as they stroked. Back and forth. My waters churned as the wood beneath my feet rocked. Back and forth. I…’” Cam looks up from the bent pages and beams his million-dollar smile at me. “Well, so on and so forth. Roger, you continue the reading.”
“Me?” a man maybe a few years out of high school squeaks.
“You have it, my good man.” Cam claps him on the shoulder. “Put all your emphasis on the knot-tying scene. Violette, my heart,” he calls to me, leaving poor Roger to stumble through the next few innuendo-drenched scenes.
