My heart does that flip-flop thing, and I blink rapidly at the effect of Ronan Smith being nice. “Over and done, then. We have no need to talk about it anymore.”
“We still have unfinished business, Nova,” he says, his voice lowering. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
Behind him, the entrance to the barn opens, and two women sweep inside. Melinda Tyler and Paisley Lennox Carlisle. My hands curl. Paisley is one of two people in Blue Belle I don’t want to ever see. Still as willowy as ever, she looks like a million bucks in dark skinny jeans and a red silky blouse with strappy heels. A designer purse is slung over her shoulders. Her makeup is perfection, her brown hair up in a chignon, golden highlights framing her oval face. I want to spit.
Following my eyes, Ronan stiffens and groans. “Jesus! I can’t get away from Melinda. She’s at work. She’s at the games. She’s here.” He mutters under his breath, then says, “She showed up at my house last night.”
He motions for me to follow him as he walks to the end of the bakery case. They haven’t seen us, but we’re still partially visible, and they’ll be coming up to order. Sweat pops out on my forehead. I do not want to see Paisley. Not when I’m in frayed shorts and an old Aerosmith shirt from high school with coffee stains! It’s too much!
He gives me a pained look. “You won’t believe what she did . . .”
“Who?” I say distractedly, eyeing the women.
“Melinda . . . aren’t you listening? I wish someone would. No one understands that she’s driving me crazy. This town is driving me crazy.”
I ease closer to him. He’s big. I can hide behind him. “Of course I’m listening. You’re rambling about your stalker while I’m trying to avoid being seen . . .”
Ronan is still muttering, and I’ve missed part of it. “She came to my door and was wearing this shiny black trench coat—”
“In this heat? Why?”
“With lacy lingerie underneath. She dropped her coat right in my foyer and threw herself at me.”
My eyes flare, and I give him my full attention. “Ballsy. Was it pretty? The lingerie?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Who cares?”
I frown. “Wait, let me get this straight. She came to your house to have sex, and you said no. Just clarifying.” Melinda is beautiful, and he is a man . . .
There are several beats of silence as his gaze lowers, skating over me. “I don’t want to have sex with Melinda. She’s not my type.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Blonde.”
“Just blonde? Pathetic.”
“No, smart-ass. I need a connection to someone. A spark. I don’t have sex with just anyone.”
“Curious. Again. How old was Jenny?”
He huffs. “Old enough!”
“Uh-huh. Forget that. I’m worried about me. I know that woman with Melinda, and I look like something the cat dragged in. Dang it. I forgot the Tylers are related to the Lennox family. That explains why they’re together. Ugh.”
He glances over at them, tugging his hat lower. “Let’s hide, then. Seems to be your go-to to avoid people.”
“Me? Didn’t you hide from Melinda on my porch?”
“That was different. She’s insane.”
I smile. “You know, you just might be back in my good graces with the hiding idea. And I take those nighttime walks to think, so don’t be all huffy that I hid from you. I can’t think with you around—now get us out of here.”
He pauses, his lips quirking. “You can’t? Really?”
I wave at him. “Ronan. Where can we hide? This is your store. And who the heck is Dog?”
“My dog. His name is Dog.”
“Dumb. You have a giant Irish wolfhound, and you didn’t name him something cool like, I don’t know, Goliath or Hercules or Maximus—”
“You talk too much. Come on. Follow me.” He takes off to the back of the barn, where we slide into the slice of shadow created by two looming shelves. Thankfully, there isn’t anyone around us. He positions us so that he’s behind me and tells me to be the lookout since I’m smaller.
“They’re ordering,” I tell him over my shoulder.
“Did they see us?”
I pause to savor Ronan Smith depending on me, sounding all kinds of sweet. It’s a direct contrast to the in-control, überserious quarterback he portrayed for the media. “I don’t think so.” I peek around the corner and run envious eyes over Paisley’s ensemble. Damn her sense of style. Those red stilettos are gorgeous.
“Who are you running from?” he asks. “She looked familiar.”
I suck my cheeks in, then blow them out. “Paisley Lennox Carlisle. Also known as my best friend in high school until she stole my boyfriend, Andrew. And I’m not running, just preventing a social disaster.”
There’s a long pause. “Andrew Carlisle’s your ex? Our basketball coach?”
“Yes.” I turn to face him, starting when I realize how close we are. He’s wearing a blue workout shirt and shiny silver gym shorts with sneakers. The heat from him feels like a furnace, and he smells like man and sweat—with a little coffee. His well-defined forearm muscles ripple as he shifts around.