Page 420 of One More Kiss

ETHAN

By the timethe sun sets, I’m absolutely fucking exhausted. Running a business—a successful one, at that—isn’t easy. Regardless if it’s my passion or not, I want nothing more than to go home, pour a glass of scotch, and sit in the garden. Usually, when I’m anxious or worked up, viewing the flowers and listening to the cicadas in the late afternoon help me relax.

As soon as I get home and walk in, I go straight to the kitchen, throw some ice cubes in a glass and pour a double of Johnny Walker Double Black. Wilma comes trotting down the stairs and rubs her body against my legs. Bending down, I pet her and place some treats on the floor before walking outside. She’s too busy eating to even notice me leave.

Finally, I let out a deep breath. I sit on a bench close to the fountain I had installed last summer and listen to the water trickle down the rocks. Just as I put the glass to my lips, Vada comes waltzing by, and I swear she’s purposely shaking her round ass. As soon as she turns around, I’m halfway through an eyeroll. I’m actually kind of getting used to her death glare.

“No hello or anything?” Her hands fall to her hips, and I have a feeling she’s used to addressing people this way.

This woman has no filter and calls it like she sees it. After only twenty-four hours, she calls my bullshit like she’s known me for years. Not many people point out my antics; most just look at me with sorrow in their eyes. I push those thoughts away as quickly as they came. Giving a smile that doesn’t affect her in the least way, I realize I may have met my match.

“Just sitting out here enjoying the peace and quiet.” The sarcasm isn’t lost on her, and she takes a few steps forward, closer to me, just as I take a sip of scotch.

“I was always told southern men were gentlemen. Going forward, I’m going to argue with anyone who believes that and let them know how entirely wrong they are.” She pauses for a moment, glaring at me. When I don’t respond, she continues. “So now who’s the one gawking?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her breasts.

I didn’t realize I was staring until she spoke, but I brush it off. “Just returning the favor from yesterday.”

She grinds her teeth. “Let me set the record straight. I wasn’t gawking at you. I was confused that you were shirtless and wet. Most people don’t answer the door like that. At least not where I’m from.” She takes a step closer.

“Really? Most people don’t shower where you’re from? Hmm. Thought it was a common practice, you know, around the world.”

I can tell she’s getting annoyed as she narrows her eyes at me.

To add fuel to the fire and to see how worked up I can really get her, I remind her of the deadline she’s been so worked up about since she arrived. “Don’t you have a book to write?”

She scoffs. “Well Casanova, I’m actually a little uninspired after going to this crappy pottery shop downtown today. It was absolutely awful in there. You must’ve heard of it, considering you have a few of their pieces. Paris Pottery & Studio?”

I don’t know if it’s the scotch that’s sending a burning sensation through me or her words, but somehow, I force out a smirk. One of those that make me look like a bigger asshole than I really am.

“Really? That’s a shame,” I say, completely unamused. She has to know I own the place and she’s trying to get under my skin, but she can’t play the player. Realizing she’s not getting to me, she continues on complaining about nonexisting issues.

“The walls were terrible. The art was sad. The lady working there was rude as hell…”

I lift my eyebrows, allowing her to finish, and that’s when I realize she’s carrying a bag with an Eiffel Tower logo and the Paris inscription. A devious smile touches my lips, and I nod my head and listen to her make a complete ass out of herself. Once she’s finished, I stand, set my glass down on the bench and yank the bag from her hand.

“What are you doing?” she squeals, finally realizing she’s been holding it the entire time.

“Just seeing which awful piece you decided to waste your hard-earned porn money on.”

Her mouth falls open, and I can tell she’s offended. “I do not write porn.”

Nodding my head, I peek inside and see two items wrapped in brown paper. Mugs. It’s the only thing she could have bought. “That’s not what Google says about you.”

“You did not Google me.”

My eyes meet hers for a brief moment as I carefully unwrap the brown paper from one of the items. She chose one of the most recent pieces I made one early morning a month or so ago. After looking out the tall windows that surround my office, I painted it the color of the sky just as the sun was rising. As she opens her mouth to say something else, I pretend to almost drop the mug, and she gasps trying to catch it.

“Just what I thought,” I tell her as I carefully wrap and place it back into the bag and hand it to her.

With puckered lips, she looks up at the sky as if she’s trying to pluck her words from the clouds. “Fine. You busted me. I know you’re the owner of Paris Pottery & Studio. Are you happy?”

“I bet that was painful to say.” I’m smiling—a genuine smile—as she stands there defeated that she didn’t win this round.

“So now you’re going to truthfully tell me your opinion about the shop, right?”

It’s almost as if she’s trying to force the words off her tongue. Her voice is so low that whatever she says is completely inaudible.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” I say, cupping a palm around my ear.

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