She shifts, swinging one leg over mine, and then she's in my lap, straddling me, her knees pressed against my hips and her hands sliding up into my hair. The beer bottle goes oversomewhere by my foot while my hands move to her waist, under the hem of her T-shirt. She shivers when I trace her back.
"I want you," she breathes against my mouth, and I kiss her harder.
I feel her smile against my lips — pleased, a little disbelieving, like she can't quite grasp what's happening. I can't believe it either. Last month I wanted this woman gone. Now she's in my lap and I'm so turned on the porch could catch fire and I wouldn't ask her to stop.
She pulls back just far enough to look at me, both hands framing my face, her thumbs at my cheekbones. Her pupils are blown wide and her mouth is swollen as she opens it to say something —
And then I hear tires on gravel.
"Get up," I say.
"What —"
"Get up, get up there's a car coming."
Sloane is off my lap and on her feet faster than I've ever seen her move. I'm up too, yanking my T-shirt straight, dragging a hand through my hair where hers just was, and Sloane has gone the color of a tomato and is staring at me with her hand pressed to her mouth.
The car that rolls up is Ruthie's old Buick, and when the door opens she climbs out in her diner apron. Great. First a helicopter, now Ruthie's Buick. The universe clearly doesn't want me kissing Sloane Archer.
"Maggie, honey, sorry to drop by unannounced but I tried to call you."
I pat my pocket and find it empty. "Sorry, Ruthie. I left my phone charging in the kitchen."
Ruthie fans herself as she walks up to the porch. "The wholesaler's delivery guy called — flat tire somewhere, says he won't make it tonight, which means I've got a breakfast rushtomorrow and not enough eggs. I was wondering if you could spare me some more." She stops at the bottom of the steps and spots Sloane, scarlet and flustered.
"Sloane! Well, there you are. We missed you at church on Sunday, honey." She climbs the steps. "Though I hear you had your reasons — it's all over the internet that you were out in LA, at one of those fancy clubs. Living it up, by the sound of it." She pauses for breath, which is the only thing that ever stops Ruthie. "And who was that fella you threw your drink at? My niece showed me the video. Your ex, was it? Tyler something? Oh, he had a face like a smacked —" She stops herself. "Well. He deserved it, I'm sure. I said as much to Doris — I said, our Sloane wouldn't throw a drink at a man without good reason. Not a girl who reads her Bible in the diner."
"Yes," Sloane manages. "He — yes. He deserved it." Her cheeks are still flaming, and she's gripping the back of the bench like she might fall over without it.
She needs rescuing, so I step in.
"I'm not sure how many eggs I've got left, to be honest, Ruthie. Sloane's father took a few home this morning." I glance at Sloane. "But there's a couple of dozen in the fridge. Sloane, would you go and check the chicken coop for me in case there are more?"
"Of course," Sloane says, with desperate gratitude. "Yes. Eggs. I'll go find some more eggs."
When Sloane heads off, I turn to Ruthie. "Can I get you a drink, Ruthie? You look warm." I'm hoping she'll say no but I don't want to be rude.
"Oh, I'd love a glass of ice water." Ruthie lowers herself onto the bench with a contented sigh — onto the exact spot where Sloane was sitting in my lap ninety seconds ago. "Larry's holding the fort while I'm out, so I'm in no rush at all."
"Good. Make yourself comfortable." I force a smile. Ruthie isn't going anywhere.
43
SLOANE
Itake the long way back, around the side of the house because I need some time to pull myself together. As I turn the corner, I hear Ruthie.
"…and the car had the tinted windows and everything," she's saying. "Doris said it looked like something out of a music video. So that was her daddy, huh?" A pause, the sound of ice shifting in a glass. "Well. I bet he's fancy. Is he fancy?"
"He's — yes. He's fairly fancy," Maggie says.
"I knew it. You can always tell from the windows."
I clear my throat to announce my arrival before joining them, giving Ruthie time to stop gossiping.
"I could only find ten," I say, holding out the box. "Sorry."
"Ten's better than none, honey." Ruthie takes it. "Plus the two dozen from your fridge, that'll get me through the first wave at least. The Hendersons always come in early and they always do the big breakfast, all three of them. And then there’s Earl, who wants his eggs over easy and he sends them back if the yolk so much as wobbles wrong." She tucks the egg boxes beside her.
