The look I give her isn’t friendly. She doesn’t care. She laughs and continues filling out the form in front of her. “The mascara and lip gloss, while not quite makeup-makeup, were quite a shock this morning.”
“Huh.” I know where she’s going with this and I knew she’d head that direction. As I added a third layer of black-brown to my eyelashes, I could hear Violet chiding me.
I don’t wear makeup. A lip balm to keep me from biting my lips, sometimes a colored one if it tastes like cherries or strawberries, is the beginning and end of my regular cosmetic routine. So what if I added a little gloss and mascara? Does it matter?
When I look at Violet, she’s grinning. “Hoping for a certain someone to drop by today?”
“Hoping for it? No. Preparing for it in case of the super small percentage that it actually happens? Yes.”
“The makeup bit coupled with the tight black shirt and the strategically ripped jeans—don’t worry. He’ll definitely forgive you for being incorrigible yesterday.”
“I don’t want his forgiveness,” I huff. “I hope he forgets I exist and I never see him again.”
So she doesn’t call me out on that, I stand and begin to make my way into the front.
“You lie. You lie and you’re terrible at it.” Violet’s voice follows me as I turn the corner.
The front of the store is still a mess, and although I’ve put off sorting through the contents for days, it’s better than listening to Violet. Organizing physical things typically helps me sort my mind when it’s also a mess, so I hope it’s a two-for-one kind of day.
Four tall boxes are emptied, their content scattered around me, when Violet appears. She lets me know she has to run to the bank and offers to pick up a blueberry muffin from the bakery next door. It’s her way of offering a peace treaty.
I work easily through the inventory, picking through the items and putting them into boxes in combinations that make sense. Lifting a stack of scarves handmade in Peru, one of them catches my eye. I slip it out and place it on top.
It’s a turquoise sea with a golden sun hanging high in the sky. The water almost shimmers, luring you into the scene.
When the chimes ring, alerting me that Violet’s already back, I don’t bother to look up. “I’m not mad at you,” I tell her. “Just go do what you have to do and bring me back carbs.”
“Good to know.”
The scarf drops out of my hands and falls to the floor.
Ford’s grin is stretched ear-to-ear. One hand is stuck in the pocket of dark denim jeans and a black button-up shirt hangs untucked off his frame. He’s carrying a cup of coffee.
It takes me a bit longer than I care to admit to find my voice.
“Oh, it’s you.” Looking up from my spot on the floor, I try not to let him notice how shaky my breathing has just become.
“So, French Toast or chocolate chip pancakes?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said you wanted carbs. If we hurry, we can get to Hillary’s House before they switch to lunch.”
“You are unbelievable,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I brought you a vanilla latte from Frank’s.”
It’s impossible not to smile that he remembered my drink of choice. It’s also hopeless to pretend that the boyish grin he’s flipping me doesn’t melt away some of the ice around my heart.
Still, I don’t want to play nice.
“I already had coffee today. But thank you,” I say politely.
“No offense, but you are kind of irritable this morning. Maybe you could use another shot of caffeine.”
“You think I’m irritable now? Keep it up.”
“You never were a morning person,” he laughs. “Some things never change.”