Page 17
I cock my head, trying to figure out whether she’s messing with me or whether she really did get here before me. And if she did, all the grumbling I did under my breath about her being late only makes me the asshole. “I was outside.”
“Silly. Why would you stay outside when there’s all this cool stuff to look at in here?”She leans toward me and partially extends her arms, but when I don’t move, she freezes. I realize she was going in for a hug, so I step closer and wrap my arms around her in a loose, partial hug. She lightly claps me on the back with her hands, just as awkward a move as my reluctant hug. “Anyway, hi.”
“Hi.”
We stand a few paces apart, observing each other like we’re sizing up the competition before a duel.
“Nice hat,” I say, unsure whether she wore it here or found it among the crap in this store.
She twirls so I can properly admire it. “You like it? I was thinking it could be festive for a summer barbecue.”
“It’s…definitely festive.”
“Too much?” She takes off the hat and studies it as if it were a real debate. Then she reaches up and pops it on top of my head. A smile spreads across her face. “Oh. Well. Now I can’t buy it because it was clearly made for you. It has Grumpy Horse Guy written all over it.”
She holds her phone up and slides in front of me with a cheeky grin before snapping the picture. “There. Our first relationship photo from ‘that day we stopped in the vintage store, and you insisted on modeling hats.’”
I roll my eyes and start to remove the hat, but she shoots me a warning look. “Hey, hey, not so fast. At least consider it while we look around some more.” She turns and moves down the aisle, her tight ass swaying in those shorts.
And apparently, we’re looking around some more. It’s hard to stifle my impatience with browsing junk when I have a mile-long list of responsibilities at the ranch, but I follow her around the end of the aisle and down a new row of shelves, equally laden with old, dusty junk. Based on her squeals of delight, there are some gems in here, but I’d be hard-pressed to identify them.
“So, um, why’d you want to meet here?” I ask, looking at shelves filled with boxes of bent baseball cards, chipped mugs, vinyl records, and diner memorabilia, all of which could just as easily be yard sale crap on a different day in a different location.
“I’m decorating our ranch, and I want it to have an authentic feel with lots of vintage Americana.”
She studies a ceramic milk jug and crosses her arms, which pushes her full breasts up and emphasizes the cleavage at the scooped neck of her top.
“Eyes up here,” I tell myself. Yeah, not possible.
The corner of her mouth hitches up when she catches me gawking. She rolls her shoulders back, which only emphasizes her cleavage. Her wide blue eyes are so disarming, it’s impossible to decide whether she’s doing this on purpose.
Fuck.
I turn abruptly to a shelf and pick up the nearest item. “What do you think of this?” It’s not until I see her confused expression that I look down and notice I’m holding a plastic chicken with an oversized nut sack. I toss it aside and grab a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, which makes as much sense as anything else in this hodgepodge. “I meant this.”
She takes a step closer and leans down to inspect the can, which I’m holding in a shaky grip. “Hang on,” she says, fishing around in her purse. She pulls out a pair of pink sunglasses studded with rhinestones and settles them on the bridge of her nose while she pretends to inspect the can from all sides.
“Very high quality. Excellent color. I think it might be an original. Very valuable.” She takes it from me, her fingers brushing against mine as she grasps the can, and I stifle a shudder at the spark of attraction I don’t want to feel. “Wander, shall we?”
“If I’d known this is what you’re into, I could’ve sent you to a dozen yard sales around town over the weekend.”
“I’ll take you up on that one of these weekends, but you need to come with me.”
I grunt something that passes for reluctant agreement and make a mental note never to bring up bad ideas again unless I want to be a part of them.
Marching around the shop, she takes in everything on the shelves, scanning high and low as though she might find something of value. Every so often, she gestures to the store owner, who nods.
“Do you two have some sort of telepathy going?” I ask.
“He’s delivering all the stuff I’m picking out. We have an understanding.” She makes a gesture with two fingers from her eyes to his and laughs. He does the same. I feel strangely protective in a Neanderthal sort of way.
“He knows you’re my fiancée?”
“Ha. Sure, yeah, that was the first thing I told him when I came in.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and then her expression sobers. “Oh, you were being serious. Oh, okay. Shoot. I’m sorry.” She takes my hand and drags me over to the cash register. “Jacob, will you take a pic of me with my fiancé? I promise to tag the store when I post.”
She puts her face next to my cheek, and he snaps the photo, and I feel the tingling heat of the spot where her lips grazed my skin for the next minute as Callie takes my hand and drags me down another aisle.
I numbly follow her, expecting my patience to snap like a Jimi Hendrix guitar string after a ten-minute riff. I don’t take valuable time out of my day to look at troll dolls from a century ago and cream-and-sugar sets shaped like animals.
