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I might imagine it, but I think I hear a low chuckle from her as the bed springs squeak. “Like they’ve been singed with the devil’s scepter,” she says.
I laugh and shake my head. “Want that foot rub?”
“Does an owl hoot? Do pigs snort? Does a kitten meow?”
“Well then. It’s imperative that I come and remedy the situation,” I say. “I’ll slay the devil and break his scepter in two.” I feel dumb, with my all-over-the-place British accent.
“You’d better. I’ll come unlock the bakeshop door.”
I don’t know why I’m doing this, playing this dangerous game. And it’s only dangerous not because Aria is . . . whatever. It’s dangerous because I’m so gone for her, and I’m not sure how she feels about me.
And I can’t forget about returning Weatherby’s call. Reminding myself of Weatherby might be a handy thing if I start getting too caught up in Aria.
I hurry back downstairs out the door, and to the bakeshop. When she opens the door, I see she’s in sweats and a T-shirt. “Hey,” she says, the shadow of a not-quite-there smile on her lips.
“How are you?”
“I was getting ready to wash my face.”
“Glad you got a chance to get into some comfortable clothes. I’m still in this.” I open up one side of the unbuttoned suit coat.
“You look nice in that suit.”
“Well, thanks.” Usually, in the past, when a woman would give me a compliment, I’d soak it all in, use it to bolster my strength, and then boast some more or fish for compliments.
But with Aria, it’s different. I’m not going to use anything she says to me as a cheap façade to puff myself up.
“Come in,” she says. “I’ll show you my new wall hangings.”
I follow her as she walks through the bakeshop front of house, the kitchen, and down the hall to the staircase in the back.
“Wall hangings? I barely have anything up at my place and I’ve lived there ever since I graduated from law school, over three years.”
“I’ve been at my parents’ house for so long that I was excited for a place I could do my own thing with.”
After she points out a series of square landscape and still-life canvases edged in liquid gold, we settle in beneath them on her sofa. “Tell me about your parents,” I say.
She shrugs, picking off a piece of lint from her sweatpants. “I won’t sugar coat it. Individually, they’re great. But they might be the most unhappy happily-married couple I know.”
“Oh, no.”
“I get the impression they’d like to make an Olympic sport out of complaining to one another about all the stuff that annoys them.” She smiles broadly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And my grandparents divorced a long time ago. My dad’s parents were only together long enough to have my dad and then they split up. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
“To not fall in love.” She laughs, but there’s pain behind her eyes.
“But were you in love? With Rob?”
Her gaze darts to her lap, her bottom jaw moving back and forth. “This again?” She gives a hollow laugh. “I think Rob was an unwitting shield to protect me from falling in love. Sadly.”
“How so?”
She waves me away. “Can we talk about something else right now? Our plan to save the festival?”
I nod. “You start. I’ll take care of your feet.”
“You want to give me a foot rub for real?”
