Page 3 of Single Girl in the City
Aware of Owen peeking right over her shoulder, she stealthily took her ID from her wallet and held it out to Patrice, who studied it.
“Abilene Josephine Marie.” She looked up. “And that’s just your first name.”
“I thought you only needed to scan it.” Abi snatched it back.
“Abilene, huh?” Owen asked, the humor thick in his tone.
She ignored him. “I really need to go.”
“Is the party leaving the station?”
“Yes, and before you ask, it’s a private party.”
He rested a casual hip against the counter and leaned in close. A breathe-too-deeply-and-you’ll-brush-his-chest kind of close that made her sweat in uncomfortable places. “My favorite kind,” he whispered.
Not touching that with a ten-foot pole, she paid for her things and, ignoring theDo Not Entersign, the drizzle, and the amused chuckle behind her, she raced out of the store and headed toward her bike. Not a motorbike, not even a ten-speed.
Nope, the closest Abi came to transportation these days was Jenny’s old lemon-yellow beach cruiser, with a kitty seat cover, and white basket on the handlebars.
She was almost in the clear when her phone buzzed. Her nerves said to keep moving but her guilt told her to check the text to make sure it wasn’t an emergency. She glanced at the screen and sighed. It was her sister.
Dotti:it’s an emergency.
Everything in Dotti’s world was an emergency. Abi shifted her bags to one hand, wincing when the weight of the wine bottles grazed the still-healing sore spot on her wrist from the accident, then quickly swiped off a return text.
Abi: Are we talking zombies or the Four Horsemen kind of emergency?
Dotti: Hank had to leave for work early and they’ve outnumbered me.
Bythey, Dotti meant her Irish twin toddlers, Lemon-Marie and Koi, who might just be the biggest emotional vampires this side of the Mississippi. Their objective was world domination, their weapon of choice, temper tantrums.
Abi: You ran emergency dispatch for a decade, surely you can handle your children. Which you planned and begged the universe for, BTW. Remember all the times you said, “All I want to be is a mom”? Well, guess what? You got your wish so suck it up.
Dotti: They found your stash of doughnuts. There’s enough powdered sugar on the floor to make snow angels and mutiny is on the horizon.
Abi winced. She’d hidden her stash on the top shelf in the coat closet, shoved all the way to the back and stuffed in a Skechers box. Who knew two travel-sized tots could scale a coat rack? Regardless, it left her with two options: leave Dotti to fend for herself or be late for work. Reminding herself that her new lease on life was about doing the right thing, even when it was the hard thing, she texted:
Abi: Hide the permanent markers and finger paints. I’ll be home as soon as I can.
Abi began to pocket her phone when she heard footsteps behind her. “You need help with those bags?”
“You need a bell,” she mumbled, and she could have sworn he grinned. She glanced up and nearly rolled her eyes. He stood there easily balancing two bags on one arm, his bicep flexing her way.
Whatever bad juju she’d accumulated throughout her life was coming at her with a vengeance.
“Can I give you a ride?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
She unlocked her Huffy from the bike rack. Still pretending like he was nothing more than a figment of her ridiculously vivid imagination, she loaded up her bike, the balloons floating from her handlebars, the champagne bottles taking up the entire basket. No matter how many times she rearranged her items they didn’t fit—the story of her life.
“Why do I have the feeling that’s your mantra,” he said as she stepped onto her bike. “Where are you going?”
Holding the lighter bag, Abi put one foot on the pedal. “The opposite direction of wherever you’re going.”
“Funny, your bike’s pointed in the exact direction of my work and therefore your work, which happens to be next door to my bar.”
She looked down at her clown shoes and lifted a brow. “Does it look like I’m headed into work?”
