Beauty and the Baller

She chuckles.

I take her in over the rim of my glass. Her beauty is like a blow to a man’s chest. With her height and that face, she could have been a model. Somehow, I don’t think it’s something she ever aspired to be. Not with that serious glint in her eyes. She might be trouble, but there’s a deeper side to her than what’s on the surface.

“Order up for Morgan,” the server calls and sets a white bag on the counter.

Nova swipes the bag, then jumps off the stool. “See you later, Fancy Pants.”

And before I can think of anything else to keep her here, she’s waltzing out the front door, those boots accentuating her perfect ass.

Chapter 6

NOVA

With the windows rolled down, Sabine and I belt out “The Climb,” by Miley Cyrus, as we pull up to a bookstore. I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel while she moves her shoulders with the beat. Like me, she sings with heart. It’s a song about an uphill battle, about struggles and mountains in your life, but you don’t stop; you keep climbing.

I throw the Caddy in park and inhale a lungful of late Texas summer as I gaze at the new bookstore. On Main Street, and just a few blocks from our house, it’s inside an old barn.

We step inside to the cool air. Completely renovated, the inside is bright and spotless with white walls and big industrial lights that hover over the space. On the right side are red-and-black tables and booths, most of them packed. The left side features an order counter with a long bakery case. The back of the barn is lined with tall rustic-looking shelves.

Sabine’s face glows. “We’re studying the French Revolution in Coach Smith’s class. I want some books about France,” she tells me, her gaze already scanning the shelves.

“France? I always wanted to try the Alps. Do I need to buy skis?” I smile.

She squints at me. “You’d have a hard time finding ski equipment in Texas.”

“True, but I could get behind a trip to France. Eiffel Tower, museums, wine, cheese . . .”

She cranes her neck to look around me. “Right, we could do that, but beginners can’t ski Mont Blanc in France. You need mountaineering experience, and you’d have to be in top physical shape. You are not ready for that journey. You’ll need an intense cardiovascular exercise program, maybe some Pilates to stretch out your muscles. I suggest you start on the bunny slopes somewhere in the US, perhaps Colorado. There’s Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge—really I could go on and on . . .”

I do a thumbs-up. “Got it. I need to work out, or I will die skiing. Also, we’re on a budget. Look in the used section when you pick out your books,” I call out as she rushes off.

A tall young man in a bookstore uniform—white pants and a polo—pauses mopping, leaning on the stick as he watches the sway of her hips.

“You missed a spot,” I say tartly when he still hasn’t taken his gaze off her.

“Oh yeah.” Red colors his face as he gets back to work. See, I can guardian.

I mosey to the front counter, where there’s a blackboard menu behind a young girl in a red apron with DOG’S BOOK BARN scripted on the front. I order a regular coffee and a chocolate croissant. I need sugar. It’s been another two weeks of no job, and anxiousness hangs over me like a wet cloud.

As she hands my drink and wrapped pastry over, I lean in. “Are you guys hiring?”

She smiles at me, braces shining, sweet as the pie. “The owner mostly hires high school and college kids.” She gives a coffee to a customer who’s been waiting, then bounces back to me. “He says it’s to give us purpose. He’s, like, the best! The pay is better than Dairy Queen. Plus, the books are cool. Our prices are competitive with any online place.”

I take in the girl’s name tag. “That’s super great of him, Allie. I used to bartend. I think he’d be happy to have me. And I know my coffee.” It comes in beans, and you grind them. I can totally be a coffee barista. “Is the manager here?”

She pushes up white glasses. “I’m the weekend manager.”

Her attention goes to the entrance when the bell rings, indicating that someone new has entered. She flashes a bright smile at them, then focuses back on me. “Hang on one moment. Let me get you an application.” She darts into an office, then comes back.

“Great,” I say as she hands it over.

“I’d be happy to talk to you after you’ve filled it out. Please use a black pen, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Please. Interviewing with a perky teenager. What has my life come to?

I turn, trying to juggle the application with my drink and food, but collide with a hard body. Coffee drenches us as my croissant sails out of my hand and plops on the concrete floor, a gob of chocolate oozing out.