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What the heck?
“The ladies of the church,” Marcus announces, I swear the hint of a smirk appears on his face. “They consider it a good Christian’s work to come and say hi.”
Of course, they do. This is what Ella meant yesterday. I’m news around this little town. And they came with lots of stuff for me. Fresh fruit in bowls, food to feed an army, and a big heavy-duty beverage cooler with—their words—the best lemonade I’d ever taste.
There is no chance in hell I am capable of eating all this shit. My crew will have a feast as soon as they leave.
The group is noisier than a hen coop. Asking all kinds of questions. Trying to get into the middle of my business. They want to know how long I’ll be around. If I plan to come again for Christmas. What my plans are for Thanksgiving.
“Are you taken, Mr. Posada?” One of them asks, a middle-aged lady with a head full of red hair and a rack you can’t ignore. The woman is making a point by showcasing it to the entire world. She taps her manicured fingers over my arm. Shit. I cringe.
“I am,” I give her my answer and pull back. Putting more space between us two. She’s not the one allowed to touch me. The damn lady has the gall to step back into my space. This is plain annoying. I can tell when someone is flirting with me. I’m not interested in the slightest, and she notices it. No woman likes being rejected, let alone having an audience. “I’m a taken man. The woman I want has my heart and my loyalty.”
The woman pouts, in a gesture that seems too juvenile, if you ask me.
“She’s not here, right?” her seductive tone is like nails over a chalkboard. “You can have fun while you’re here, can’t you?”
Just when I grab her hand to take it away from my arm, I lift my gaze to find Ella’s eyes following what the woman is doing. A blonde behind her comes closer and whispers something in her ear, causing her eyes to spark with hurt and fury.
Fuck my luck.
Chapter Seven
Melanie
“Ella, you need to do something about this,” my sister whispers. A note of sarcasm drips from her tongue.
“I’m not going there to start a catfight with Ruthie Stevens,” I reply between my clenched teeth.
My vision is all red, as red as the fiery hair of one of thepillarsof this community. The woman claims she owns the greenest lawn, makes the fluffiest cornbread, and creates the sweetest ginger cookies. A jewel, if you ask her. My version isslightlydifferent. When my pregnancy was too evident to hide, she was the first to point her finger at me. There’s no need to say – we aren’t best friends.
“I didn’t say you should,” Melissa defends herself, then scoffs. “The man is beyond gorgeous, Ella. Like never seen in this town before.”
She’s not lying. Davidisbeyond gorgeous. He’s wearing jeans and a muscle shirt, with his flannel rumpled in his hand. I bet the women didn’t give him a chance to put it on again. This is a sight to behold. The muscles on his arms are on full display. He’s smiling at Ruthie, and even though it doesn’t reach his eyes, it’s panty-melting.
As he takes Ruthie’s hand from his arm, my eyes narrow. My legs are moving before I can stop them, and Melissa swears as she speedwalks behind me.
“Maybe you should give him a taste of his own medicine,” she suggests. “Just say yes. Derik, John’s coworker, is still interested. Call him. And for God’s sake, keep your eyes open and your legs closed.”
I’m feeling stabby. And certain redhead is the cause. Why in the ever-living hell am I feeling this way?
“Be cool,” she says just when we reach the group. Or better told, David and his newly acquired fan club.
“Melanie,” David greets me. Something in his eyes tells me he’s happy to see me, but guarded so. He’s waiting for me to act. Or react.
“We brought him lunch,” Ruthie informs me with so much pride and a dose of spite. “We must take care of the man rebuilding our beloved church.”
Yeah, of course. She’s doing God’s work… I force my eyes not to roll back into my head. Yeah, no hidden agendas or anything. Ri-i-ight.
“I’m sure the entire crew will be thankful. This looks amazing, Ms…” David tells Ruthie, but his dark eyes are focused on mine.
“MissAnderson,” Ruthie replies defensively, and someone from her entourage scoffs. I think it was Mindy Thompson. That woman is hilarious. The entire town loves her.
What is she doing here? Well, that’s a mystery.
“Well,MissAnders–”
“You should call me Ruthie.”
