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“No problem.”
For a moment, I look the girl over. She can’t be more than twenty-six and is cute. Not stunning or ever likely to grace the pages of high fashion magazines. But she definitely falls into the ‘pretty’ category. She’s bright in the face and seems sweet enough, apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault. Her accent also says she’s local. I glance at her hand. No wedding ring.
Settling my hands on the counter for a second, I try to record her face to memory.
Why not her?I tell myself. Why not just stand here and fall for this woman instead? When it comes to the important things, you probably know her about as well as you do Lizzie. Why not fall for this girl? Take her out for dinner, have an actual relationship, and then live happily ever after. Without having to worry that she’ll disappear on you one morning, craving the big city?
Why not take impossible blondes entirely out of the equation and save myself all this damn turmoil. I’m tired of being up in my own feelings morning, noon, and night.
“Sir?” the girl asks, glancing around nervously.
I realize I’ve been staring at her like a lunatic, then quickly stand up straight and clear my thoughts.
“Sorry,” I growl. “I, er, thought you might be someone I know.” Or could get to know.
“Oh!” Her smile is all the brighter for its momentary absence, spreading across her face and causing a dimple in her left cheek. “I get that a lot. I guess I just have one of those faces. Here’s your receipt and your books.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the books and hurrying away before I can make an even bigger ass of myself.
With the books pre-paid for, I hadn’t planned to linger in the store, but a fresh display of mystery novels catches my eye and I pause.
I haven’t yet received any emergency calls for work today and Lizzie is going to be busy for however long with her “friend.” I’m going to be distraction-less the moment I’m back in town.
I’ve run out of wood to chop and my house never takes long to clean. Perhaps a book would help keep my thoughts directed away from a certain New Yorker?
As I pick up one of the paperbacks on sale, a giggle draws my attention.
At the end of the aisle a couple is chatting, hand in hand and eyes only half on the shelves. The rest of their attention is firmly secured on one another.
The woman, to my horror, is lean, beautiful, and blonde. She moves with the same confidence that Lizzie does. Her partner has the same charisma. Tall, broad-shouldered, and classically handsome, he could douse himself with the bottle of water he’s holding and call it a fragrance commercial. All square jawed and carefully trimmed facial hair.
I can’t remember the last time I ever tried to make a fine line with my morning shadow. Damn stuff always grows too fast, anyway.
Still, the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Out-of-Town (no local had hiking boots that new) has me feeling decidedly rural. Big, clumsy, and unfinished. No polish.
Not even my shirt is tucked in, I realize.
For a moment, I put the book back in its place on the shelf and go to tuck my shirt in. Halfway through the job, I register what I’m doing and deliberately un-tuck it again with a curse.
What the blazes am I doing?
With a start, I notice that the couple is staring at me. And who could blame them? There’s a crazy man in the mystery aisle, with his hand halfway down his pants and a historical romance under his arm.
Fuck me, I’m a mess.
Since when did I start caring what people think of me?
As if the crazy train hadn’t already fully left the station, I blink and the couple’s faces change in my mind’s eye. Instead of the girl’s hazel eyes, Lizzie’s blue gaze is now staring back at me. The man’s cheekbones shift higher and his brows darken until it’s David frowning at me.
I rub my face, turn on my heel, and head for the exit.
Clearly, my distraction tactics are now failing fast. Getting back to Yellow Fields seems like my only course of action.
By the time I reach my truck, I’m already constructing a plan in my head.
I’ll give mom her books and focus on her for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll ask her about the novels she must have recently finished and what Mrs. Catchpole down in room 34 is up to these days. Worst case scenario I’ll watch Dancing with the Stars for the thousandth time.
Anything to stop me from losing my mind over a woman I’m not destined to have.
Of course, no one let my mother in on that plan.
The second I enter her room back at Yellow Fields, she looks up from her chair and glances over my shoulder to see if I’ve arrived with anyone. She’s clearly forgotten my presence this morning because I’m greeted with the exact same question I was five hours ago.
“Oh! No Lizzie today?
