“I hate it when you say true things.” I huff out a deep breath. “It’s so annoying.”
Maisie laughs hysterically at this, which makes me laugh too. The back-porch door clangs to and Mr. Chips leaps into action to save us from whatever invader dares to set foot in his domain.
“What are ya’ll laughin’ so hard at?” Dodger calls from the kitchen as he pulls open the refrigerator and deposits a case of beer for them and a six-pack of hard cider for me inside.
“Gretchen thinks it’s annoyin’ when I’m right.” Maisie stands, casting an eye over her shoulder at me as she walks into the kitchen.
“I think it’s annoyin’ too.” Dodger agrees and she hip checks him playfully as they gather up the bags of food and bring them into the living room.
I sit down on the floor, across the coffee table from the sofa because it’s closer to the food, and because it feels more stable than the sofa which seems to be moving for some reason.
I grab an egg roll and dip into the sweet and sour sauce before taking a bite.
“This is so delicious. You’re my favorite person, Dodger. You brought me food and saved my life.” I smile at him and he chuckles.
“How long ya’ll been drinkin’?” He asks Maisie.
“She’s only had three. She’s a lightweight.” Maisie winks at him.
“What’s got you drownin’ your sorrows in hard cider and cashew chicken tonight, Gretch?”
Maisie brings him up to speed on the recent arrival of a certain Hollywood asshole into town.
“Sounds like you might oughtta hear him out. You been harboring a grudge about how he left things for years. This might be your chance to get him outta your system. Maybe then you can move on. Find somebody you like and start datin’ serious.” Dodger waves a chopstick in my direction making a circle in the air. “Take care of this whole virginity thing you’re so worried about once and for all.”
They might be right. I can’t think about that anymore right now, though. Right now, there are pork dumplings to be eaten, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Chips just stole a crab Rangoon off my plate.
I have absolutely no idea how I got into bed last night. What I do know is that my head is pounding like the bass track on a dance song, and my mouth is drier than a chalkboard eraser from Mrs. Johnson’s homeroom class.
I slowly crack open one eye and look over at the side of the bed. As the clock comes into focus, I quickly realize I’m later than I should be getting up.
I blink, and when my vision focuses a little more, I see a bottle of Gatorade on the bedside table. Propped up against it is a note.
We turned off your first alarm. Drink the Gatorade–it’ll help your head. We’ll open the diner and we’ll see you when we see you. —Dodger & Maisie
Okay, maybe my friends are pretty amazing after all.
I sit up and drink down several sips from the bottle, then make my way into the bathroom for a couple of aspirin and a hot shower.
I throw my hair up into a messy bun, put on my diner dress and a pair of Chucks. I pour water and kibble into Mr. Chips’ bowls, and just as I’m about to walk out the door, I stop and head back to the bathroom. I slide on a layer of my fancy new lip gloss and drop the container into the pocket of my apron before heading over to the diner.
The back door of the prep kitchen creaks and slams against the frame as I walk through it.
“Mornin’.” I call to Dodger over the order window.
“Mornin’. You made it up and out earlier than I expected based on your condition last night.” Dodger leans a forearm above him on the window frame and smirks.
“Yeah, thanks to the Gatorade my friends left me. Well, that and a couple of aspirin.” I shrug. “Speakin’ of, how did I get into bed?”
Dodger grins and holds his fists up showing off his muscles.
He really is kinda cute. I have to wonder why he hasn’t found anybody special yet.
“Thanks, Dodger. You too, Maisie.” I look over my shoulder at her as she passes by.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re great, you’re welcome.” She cocks a thumb over her shoulder. “Don’t look now but your celebrity stalker is back.”
I blow out a breath and roll my eyes.
“He wants a coffee refill. You better go this time.” She stops as she’s looking at me and cocks her head to the side. “Is that…is that lip gloss?”
My palm flies up to cover my mouth. “I forgot! I put it on, on a whim. Should I take it off?”
“No way. It looks hot. Just go.” She nods in the direction of the newspaper being held up in booth two—the one that I can’t help but notice is being held aloft by two big, strong hands I know far too well.
The sight of those long fingers curled around the edges of the paper makes the muscles between my legs squirm and ache.
I grab the coffeepot and head over to the booth. There sits Tucker in a navy t-shirt that hugs every rippling muscle. He doesn’t have a hat on today, so I can see how perfectly tousled his hair is and I have to hold my fingers back from traipsing through it of their own accord. He turns to me as I approach the table, my sneakers padding across the ancient turquoise tile of the diner floor. A smirk pulls at his sexy lips and I have to wonder how that stubble would feel against my cheek, against my neck…or against my thighs.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the tingle between my legs as I approach his table.
“Hello, Gretchen.” He turns, resting a thick, muscular forearm against the top of the booth behind him as his eyes wander up and down my body. “You look a little tired this mornin’. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just…overindulged a little last night is all.” I force a nervous smile. “And by the way, it’s not very complimentary to tell a woman she looks tired, ya know.”
“I was just concerned is all. Forgive me?” He raises his brows at me as he reaches over and wraps his fingers around my wrist. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not sure whether he’s really apologizing for the indelicate question, or if he’s trying to apologize for something more.
My eyes fix on the spot where his hand touches my arm. My arm burns every place his skin is touching mine.
“It’s no big deal.”
“Sit with me for a minute.” His eyes are still locked on mine. “Please, Gretchen.”
I heave a deep sigh. “Okay. Be right back.”
I walk over and set the coffeepot back on the eye. “If I’m not back in five minutes, come get me and keep me from doin’ anything stupid, okay?”
Maisie looks over her shoulder in Tuckers’ direction then leans in close. “Stupid, like what?”
“I don’t know. Like crawling across the table and makin’ out with him. Or chokin’ the life out of him. Stupid like anything that would send me to prison…” I look over my shoulder to see Tucker’s eyes locked on me. “Or get me pregnant.”
Maisie gives me a salute. “Go on.” She bumps me with her hip, and I walk back over and slide into the booth across from Tucker.
“Okay, I’m here.” I fold my hands and prop them up on the table.
He folds the paper and slides it aside, resting his forearms on the table and leaning toward me. “So how’ve you been, darlin’? I heard your Mama moved and handed this place over to you. Looks like business is good.”
“Yeah, she went on a cruise with Aunt Helen and met a man named John. They got married a couple of years ago, now, and moved to his place out near Denver.” I shrug. “She’s happy; Almost like a new woman.”
“And how about you? You happy?”
“Happy enough. I mean, I’m not some rich, Hollywood star.” I cross my arms across my chest and sit up straight. “I don’t frolic on yachts off the coast of Catalina or whatever the fuck ya’ll rich people do.” I shrug and look him squarely in the eye.
“So you been keeping tabs on me, huh?”
I want to wipe the smirk off his face.
With my mouth.
“No! I mean, I can’t help it if your
stupid face is always on the entertainment shows. Yours and your girlfriend’s.”
He looks over his shoulder and around the diner, then leans in closer. “Marissa’s not my girlfriend. That’s just for publicity.”
My heart thumps in my chest. He’s leaning even closer, and I can smell the soap or shampoo or whatever that clean, woodsy scent is that’s wafting off of him. It’s making it hard to concentrate.
“How about you, Gretchen? Seein’ anybody special?”
I shake my head back and forth.
“How’s that possible? You’re strong, smart, funny…not to mention you’re the prettiest girl in town. Always were.”
I feel my cheeks burn as I slink down a little further into the booth.
“You like it out there? California, I mean?”
“The coast is beautiful. The city’s got anything you could want as far as places to go and things to do, but it’s a little crowded for my taste. If I’m being truthful about it, I miss home more and more these days.”
“Hmpf! Yeah, right. I’m sure when you’re off flying around the world you miss this place.” I roll my eyes.
“I do. In L.A., everybody wants a piece of you. Everybody has their own agenda. Not like here. Here people are just people.”
A look passes across his face and there’s a touch of sadness in his eyes. In this moment, he looks like the sweet boy I fell in love with when we were kids. I have the urge to reach out—to comfort him somehow. The wall I’ve built around my heart where he’s concerned crumbles, just a little more. Suddenly, I’m eighteen, and giving in to him all over again.
“You still like to draw?”
“Yeah. I started doing some watercolor prints. Just for fun, ya know?” I smile thinking of my latest piece, then remind myself that the man sitting across from me is the one who has ruined my mascara more than once. “How about you? Looks like you work out a lot.”
He cocks up an eyebrow. “Thanks for noticing.” He smirks and my cheeks burn. “I have to stay in top shape for work. I usually work out two or three hours a day when I’m filming. Other than stuff for work, I’m kinda a homebody. I like to read. I’ve been writing a little, too.”
He pauses, looking at me intensely for a moment, then leans back, resting his arm across the back of his side of the booth. “It’s good talking with you like this, Gretchen—catching up. I’m glad to see you doin’ so well.”
“Thanks. You too, I guess.” I agree reluctantly.
“I’ve got a few more days until the film crew gets into town. Why don’t you go to dinner with me? We can talk some more.”
I shake my head back and forth and put my palms flat on the table and stand. “That’s a real bad idea. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re too…dangerous.”
“What the hell does that mean? I’m the same old Tucker you always knew.”
That’s the trouble, though. I didn’t really know him at all. I just thought I did.
“Just that we might oughtta leave the past where it is. It was good catchin’ up, like you say, but I think we’re done, Tucker.”
I walk back to the kitchen, open the walk-in refrigerator door, and step inside. A moment later, Dodger opens the door and nearly drops the tray of chicken in his hand when he sees me.
“Shit, Gretchen. You scared me. You okay?”
“Yeah.” I rub the outside of my arms with my palms and nod. “Yeah.”
“Should I go get Maisie?”
I nod, and he puts the chicken on a shelf and steps out. A moment later, Maisie walks in. “You okay, hon?”
“I am. I’m okay. I talked to him.”
“Did you talk about what happened back then?”
“No. Just catching up. He wanted me to go out with him and I said that was a bad idea.”
“Well, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”
“Why would you say that?”
“He left me a ninety-three-dollar tip and said he’d see me tomorrow. So, if you could keep dragging this out a while, me and my bank account would both appreciate it.” She pats me on the back and takes me by the hand, leading me out of the walk-in so I don’t get frostbite.
Fifteen
I leave Maisie and Dodger to close up, go home to check on Mr. Chips. I change into jeans, and head over to the community center to get ready for the auction.
The Women’s Auxiliary in town hosts several big charitable events each year. One of the most popular is the Scouts’ auction. The event starts at seven o’clock in the evening, and I have to bake a dozen pies to auction off.
Luckily for me, Mrs. Kane is coming by to help out. She’s the event chair, and for some reason, she likes me. I like her too, and we get along great. The secret to our relationship is never, ever talking about her son, the devil, and how he smashed my heart into a jillion pieces.
I pull my hair up into a high pony and crank up a playlist on my phone as I get the ingredients together. I’m bent down under the counter, pulling out mixing bowls and pans when I hear a deep voice call out.
“Hello? I’m supposed to be helping for the auction.”
It can’t be.
I stand and spin on my heels to find myself face-to-face with Tucker.
“Why are you here?”
“Now is that any way to treat a volunteer?” He smirks. “Mama sent me over here to help.”
“I thought she was coming. She sent you instead?”
“She just said she signed me up to help, so here I am.”
I put the bowls and pans down on the prep table and narrow my eyes at him. “Do you have any experience?”
He has no clue how ironic my question is.
“As a professional? No. I’ve dabbled on my own a little, though. I’m sure that I can be of some use.” He steps closer and that amazing scent is wafting off of him again, intoxicating me. “I promise to put myself in your capable hands. Use me however you need me.” His eyes glisten with a spark of heat.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Grab those bags of flour and sugar and bring them over here.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” He winks and I hate that it turns my insides to mush.
After gathering up the measuring cups and mixer, I instruct Tucker on how to measure each ingredient and he begins on the pie crust dough while I mix enough cherry filling for half a dozen pies.
He adds the dry ingredients to the oversized mixing bowl on the stand and flips the switch. The stand mixer whirs to life, sending flour and sugar flinging out from the top of the bowl in every direction thanks to the breakneck speed at which he set it.
“Whoa! What the…?” He puts his hands up trying to contain the powdery cloud. “How do I make it stop?”
I laugh and stretch forward to flip the switch to the off position with the tip of my finger. White powder dots his shirt in long streaks. The same snowy dust is in his hair, and spattered across his cheek, too. He swipes a broad palm down his torso, trying to dislodge the mess, but the move only spreads it around.
I can’t help but smirk with satisfaction.
He tries patting his chest, which sends some dust flying, but is still overwhelmingly ineffective.
“Well, fuck.” He rolls his head from side to side, then grabs the hem of his polo and pulls it off over his head.
My mouth falls open as my eyes travel down from broad, muscular shoulders to defined pecs. Shirtless, I can see how low his jeans are, slung across his hips and providing an exquisite view of his abs and that defined V that I happen to know points to one spectacular specimen of manhood.
I mean, I’ve seen him shirtless on TV and in the movies, of course, but this? Up close and personal like this? This is more than any woman in her right mind could resist. When we dated, he was big, strong, and muscular. He still had a little layer of flesh over his muscles, like young guys often do. Now, though, he’s next level. He’s Hollywood ripped. He’s Tucker two-point-oh and oh is right.
He tosses the w
added-up shirt over onto the counter closest to the sink, then walks over and turns on the tap. He cups his palms under the water and splashes his face, then runs his wet palms through his hair. Wetting his hands, he slides them down his chest and torso, dislodging the errant flour.
He turns off the faucet and turns to me, dragging a damp hand down his face.
“You wanna toss me that towel, or you just gonna stand there and stare?”
He winks, and I’m pretty sure my panties just disintegrated.
“Oh, sorry. Here.” I toss him the towel and walk back over to the mixing bowl, pressing my palms to the prep table to ground myself.
He shakes out his shirt and pulls it back over his head. “You wanna come show me how to do this before we both end up wet and sticky?” He quirks up a brow.
Damn him for knowing how sexy that is and damn my body for betraying me. Every nerve is lit up, and the place between my thighs tingles, warm and ready for something that’s definitely not going to happen.
“Fine.” I grab a clean dish towel and walk over to the mixer. “First, just flick it on and off a couple of times to mix the dry ingredients. Like this.” I flip the switch back and forth and the paddle makes a couple of slow turns through the flour and sugar.
“Now, you have to add the milk slow. Like this…”
“Hold up, let me see what you’re doin’.”
He steps behind me, putting a palm flat on the counter to the right of the mixer as he peers over my shoulder. He’s not touching me at all, but still, he’s far too close for comfort.
“Let me see where you’re pouring that.”
He leans forward and his words tickle my ear. I freeze mid-pour.
“H-ere.” My words hitch. “Near the edge like this.” I swallow hard and turn to the side to look back at him.
His eyes meet mine and my heart thunders in my chest. They’re dark and fixed on me, and I know he can see it all; everything I’m wanting…everything I’m feeling.
I turn back to the mixer, still holding the measuring cup as I flip the switch to turn it on. “Slow, like this, see?”
The Last Virgin in Texas Page 8