Page 20 of Buckle Up, Buttercup

I unfurl them and tuck them back behind me, surprise rushing through me at how strong my protective instinct was in that moment. No heartbeat pounds in my chest, but it might as well for the tension in my muscles.

“Photographers,” I grit out. “Taking photos of us. I just assumed you wouldn’t want that, sorry. I’m used to it, but I’m sure you’re not.”

Her mouth drops open, and she looks at the porch, then back at me. Lifting a hand, she places it on my chest. “It didn’t bother me, but thank you for thinking it might have. Do you deal with that a lot?”

I nod. “It’s near constant, but it’s one of the things I love about PG. Nobody there really cares all that much. I’ve never seen a photographer around with the exception of the Gulch Gossip gals. They’re pretty harmless, though.”

She looks back toward the porch. “I was going to ask if you wanted to grab breakfast, but maybe we’d better not if that makes you uncomfortable.”

I laugh. “It doesn’t bother me, but imagine if the Tuckers see us splashed all over some newspaper somewhere having breakfast.”

She rolls her eyes. “Good point. I don’t have the energy to deal with a Tucker inquisition right now. I got enough nonsense going on.”

Her comment about the Tucker inquisition is spot on. They’re a nosy bunch. That doesn’t bother me. But the comment about nonsense pings my instinct.

“What’s going on; what do you mean?” I slide my hands into my pockets to resist touching her.

She sighs, taking another sip of coffee before she answers. “The Bodice is messy. She’s mad at being sold, and even though I’ve known her my whole life, she’s not interested in our new partnership. It’s going to be a rough transition, I fear.”

“But we live upstairs,” I manage, thinking about how she seems perfectly peaceful in the apartment across the hall from mine.

“And that seems fine,” she says with an exasperated look and a shrug. “But she won’t let me fix or organize anything, and she makes all sorts of awful noises. I’m sure it’ll work out in the end, but we’re not off to a strong start.”

I take a sip of my coffee, letting its temperature burn all the way down my throat. “If anyone can fix it, Bluebell, it’s you.”

I mean it as a vote of confidence, but some of the light seems to die in her eyes when I say it. It occurs to me that maybe that’s because Bluebell fixes so fucking much, for not just herself, but the entire Tucker clan.

And maybe…just maybe…she doesn’t like it that way.

Bluebell

Lemon’s gasp of surprise has me turning to where she stands just outside one of the Bodice’s two small dressing rooms. She steps onto a small platform and twirls in front of the half circle of mirrors, eyeing the black cowboy boots on her tiny feet. I’ve been home a few days and managed to unpack most of what I bought in Santa Alaya.

“That turquoise buckle is a game changer, Bluebell,” she says, voice full of awe. “It’s subtle but still so damn gorgeous.”

Above us, the Bodice shimmies her ceiling beams—the first happy noise I’ve heard her make.

“You gotta get ‘em,” Oz states before crunching into a crisp red apple. He munches loudly as Lemon and I share a smile. At his feet, Ginger shuffles and puts her head on top of his foot.

Oz looks over, swallowing the bite. “You get the Bodice a gift while you were in Santa Alaya?”

The building goes silent again, and discomfort prickles up my spine. Black magic sings through my fingers, anxious to be of use. It’s almost painful to hold it back and not help.

“Yeah.” I wave at Lemon’s shoes. “These and a bunch of other options arrived early this morning, and there’s a stunning metal display cactus in the back. I’m planning to use it in the front window to hang belts on.”

Oz looks up at the building. “And…you love it or what, sister?”

The Bodice remains silent, and he and I share a warning look.

“Just channel me.” Lemon spins in place, admiring the boots. “Rest easy knowing your exuberance wears everyone down eventually.”

The Bodice lets out a warning shimmy, and the walls tremble. A few of the western prints fall off and slide to the ground.

“Not sure she agrees,” I say with a frown. “But one thing we can agree on is that those boots suit you, Lem.”

“Give me the same ones in purple,” Oz says, rising and flaring his wings only to retuck them. He cocks his head to the side, his long horns flexing and straightening. “Tell me you got gargoyle purple to match my eyes.” Reaching up, he nudges his brand new slutty little glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Those are darling,” Lemon says with a little clap. “I know you don’t need them but you look so studious, Oz my sweet.”