Page 17 of Chasing Wildflowers
Kam studies me, her brows tugging together. Yep. I was right, she sees right through me.
Before she has a chance to continue her interrogation, the bell over the door jingles, sparing me. I send up a little thank you to the powers that be, as Betsy bustles in, a bright smile tugging at her painted lips; still rocking that 90’s Avon lipstick in the shadeModel Magenta.
“Have you girls seen that new man in town? Jameson, I think his name is. Lord have mercy, I’d let him take me for a ride on his motorcycle any day,” she declares, dramatically fanning herself.
Motorcycle? My pulse jumps as I picture him astride one. Wind tearing through his hair, leather hugging his shoulders, and my stomach knots again.
Kam looks in my direction, a cheeky smirk on her lips. “Guess that answers our question.”
I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt and busy myself making sure the trays of food are just right. “Your question, not mine. I don’t care if he leaves town or not.”
Betsy’s ears perk up, like a hound on a scent. She’s in her late fifties and takes two things very seriously: her dog and gossip. Once she knows, so does everyone else in town.
Her face lights up like a kid on Christmas and she pushes a brown, tightly permed, curl out of her face. “So you have met him?”
Kam shoots me another grin. “Ohhh. We’ve met him, haven’t we Lane?”
I shoot her a ‘what in the actual fuck?’ look in return.
“Can we please get this book club started? I am very excited to talk about this book.” I scurry to my seat, desperate for a break from the Jameson talk.
“I’m sure you are,” Kam calls from behind me, both she and Betsy dissolving into a fit of giggles.
Jameson already owns too much of my headspace. His face slips into the roles of every male lead I read. Worse, when I’m alone at night, it’s his voice whispering filthy things against my ear. My hands become his hands in my fantasies, leaving me trembling in the dark.
Monica clears her throat and adjusts her glasses, the chain on them glinting under the light. “What did everyone think about this week's book?” Her voice carries that calm, librarian authority that makes everyone pause.
She looks the part still; tight bun, cardigan, neatly pressed slacks.
Beside me, Betsy uses her hand to fan herself again. “Can we skip right to talking about the MMC?”
Cassie, a first-grade teacher at the local elementary, leans forward to grin at her, the overhead lights gleaming off her shoulder length blonde hair. “Did he remind you of that new guy in town, too? He just might be the hottest man I’ve ever seen.”
I inwardly groan.
Fuck my life.
The room fills with chatter, voices overlapping in laughter and speculation. Jameson becomes the maincharacter, the book forgotten entirely. By the time it wraps up, I’m mentally begging for wine.
Outside, the warm July air brushes against my skin. I inhale deep, filling my lungs with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, mixed with the faint tang of impending rain. It should calm me. It doesn’t.
All anyone wants to talk about is Jameson. The girls at book club, the customers at the bar, the cashier at the grocery store.
He’s only been here a week and has become unavoidable.
I don’t want to talk about Jameson because there is nothing to talk about. He’s a customer who comes into my place of employment. So what if he flirts with me and gives me that sexy grin of his that makes my knees weak? It means absolutely nothing.
I yank open the door to theWine & Spiritsstore, the cool, recycled air slapping against my overheated skin. Goosebumps race up my arms as I stalk through the store on the hunt for my favorite wine,Cupcake Moscato.
So what if I’ve dreamed of him pinning me against the pool table after closing. His mouth on my throat, his hands everywhere. Dreams that leave me trembling and panting into the dark, clutching my vibrator like a lifeline.
It’s just physical. That’s all.
It means nothing. It’s—
My thoughts are cut off when I round the corner and crash into what can only be described as a brick wall.
“Whoa. You okay, Wildflower?”
