Priscilla celebrated the return of Elvis with a delighted pounce on her stuffed frog, followed by a wet squelching of the squeaker. Mr. Bozeman’s eyes glistened with the reflection of Columbo, and I felt the instant sting in my nose of happiness tears too. It had been a tragedy that I had been able to stop; I’d seen it happening from my apartment that morning. Big Ed came in his old jalopy and offered surely next to nothing for all Mr. Bozeman’s most prized possessions, in exchange for just enough to get by this month. And I hadn’t been willing to stand by and let it happen.
His joy was contagious, but I knew it was only a Band-Aid on a much bigger problem. If I was going to help Mr. Bozeman in any long-lasting way, it was going to take something much bigger than a two-carat princess cut. And yet, the Band-Aid helped quiet my worry, at least a little. For now. Until Mr. Bozeman went and got tangled up gambling on horses again.
“Next time you need money,” I said as I put Elvis back on the side table where he belonged, next to Mr. Bozeman’s prescription bottles and glass of water, “call me, OK? Not Big Ed.”
“But how ever did you manage to pay for it all?” he asked, as bright and cheery as a kid on Christmas morning, hugging his toaster and beaming. I plugged in the lamp and switched it on, which brightened up the small, dim room a lot. It was still a bit frowsy, but the light did help. I took the Stetson off the lamp and handed it to Mr. Bozeman. Instantly, he went from a frail and somewhat feeble old man to the young wrangler who’d probably once swaggered across Texas, leaving dozens of Lone Star belles swooning in his wake.
I put a hand on my hip and smiled at him. “Promise me, cowboy.” Priscilla jumped up on the couch next to Mr. Bozeman and gave him a lick on the cheek. Her pink ID tag jingled against the side of the toaster.
For an instant, there was defiant shimmer in Mr. Bozeman’s rheumy eyes. I could almost hear him telling me, I never asked for anybody’s help,
Stella, dear! But we’d danced this dance a dozen times, and though I did understand what he meant, it didn’t mean I wasn’t always going to help him. And so finally, he tipped his hat, bowed his head, grinned, and gave me a long, drawling, “Yeeeeeeesssss, maaaaaaaaaa’am.”
I rehung the cuckoo clock over the cuckoo clock–shaped outline on the wallpaper, and Mr. Bozeman turned up the volume on Columbo. I refilled Priscilla’s water bowl, which was a little something I found on clearance a while ago at Marshalls. On the side it said THE QUEEN DRINKS FROM THIS CHALICE. While Mr. Bozeman was distracted by his show, and after I had bustled around the kitchen for a while, making dinner for Priscilla and a sandwich for Mr. Bozeman, I carefully removed the cigar box where he hid his money from the drawer underneath the oven. He kept it between two glass pans, held together by two enormous rubber bands. I’d seen it once when he tried to pay me for some groceries I had gotten for him after he’d had hip surgery. The cigar box was made of tin, with a dusky flamenco dancer on the lid, lifting her frilled skirt and showing her leg. She was old-fashioned but still delightfully saucy. Inside I found a few hundred dollars, along with a handful of change. To that, I added the extra cash I’d gotten for the ring, then carefully, oh-so-carefully, put the glass pans together, rubber banded them closed, and placed the whole contraption in the oven storage drawer. Taking the drawer handle in both hands and lifting it to minimize the noise, I slid the drawer shut with painstaking care so as not to let the pans rattle and give me away.
I poured Mr. Bozeman a glass of apple juice, placed it on a doily next to Elvis, and headed back outside to contemplate how exactly I was going to get the oxygen compressor inside. I slid my seat forward and popped it off the rails so that the headrest leaned against the steering wheel. The machine sat lopsidedly in the back seat, and I gave it a shove to get a sense of what I was up against. The thing was as heavy and cumbersome as an old tube television set; I was strong, but I wasn’t that strong. For the first time in ages, I thought to myself, Now this is when I could really use a man . . .
Which was when my thinking was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Heavy, confident ones accompanied by a metallic clinking. To my right, lo and behold, there was a man. Swagger, ink, and boots.
Nick.
“Hey, sunshine,” he said, with a flick of his chin. He took off his sunglasses and ran his palm through his thick, dark hair.
My first thought was, How can a man be that good-looking? Followed immediately by, Uh-oh SpaghettiOs. Because there was no good reason whatsoever that he’d be here, unless . . . “Did you . . . follow me?”
My plan for tonight, to celebrate a job well done, had been to pop a huge bowl of popcorn and watch the new season of Twin Peaks in my pj’s. But if he’d followed me, it meant he knew something. And if he knew anything at all, it was goodbye Twin Peaks and hello Bad News Bears.
“You bet I followed you,” he said, and slipped his sunglasses into his jacket pocket.
He must have seen me steal the ring. In my head, I saw our local five-o’clock news anchor—too much hair spray, too much foundation, and totally stationary eyebrows. Next to her unmoving face was a picture they’d taken off my Facebook profile, probably me kissing Priscilla. Or worse still, a mug shot. “Today in Albuquerque, thirty-four-year-old dog sitter Stella Marie Peretti was arrested on charges of felony theft and pawning stolen property. She is currently being held without . . .”
“What are you up to?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.
Cue the da-dun scene change noise from Law & Order, because this was it. I was a goner. It was orange jumpsuits and tube socks for me from now on. Goodbye Bad News Bears and hello Orange Is the New Black. Maybe he was an undercover cop, and the swagger was hiding a gun and a badge. My heart took a tumble in my chest. I’d been so close to being done with all this jewel thievery, and now I was going to get carted off for saving Mr. Bozeman’s bacon.
But the train hadn’t officially gone off the rails, not yet. When in doubt, I’d always found being myself to be a safe bet. There’s no story like a true story. “I’m just the girl next door.” I pointed to my apartment building.
He scoffed at that, like he really wasn’t buying it. “Oh yeah?”
“Absolutely!” I blurted, about ten notches too loud. “American as Dunkin’ Donuts and second mortgages!”
Oh, Stella. No. Just, no.
He nodded and slipped his hand inside his jacket. My heart plummeted even further. I could almost hear the clatter of the handcuffs already. “Well, Girl Next Door . . .” he said.
I tried desperately to keep the grimace off my face. This was it.
Instead, he pulled out . . . my phone! I reached out for it with both hands like a child reaching for a cupcake. “How in the world!”
“It fell out of your purse.” He turned it over in his hand and ran his rugged thumb over the pink rhinestone star, then put it into my palm. “And I wanted you to get it back.”
I pressed my phone to my chest. It was warm from being in his pocket. No, not warm. Hot. Like him. Hotcha, hotcha, hotcha. “Thank you. So much.” Yet relieved though I was, it didn’t explain everything. Or actually anything, really. “So wait . . . you followed me . . . on errands?”
Nick tipped his head to the side, like he understood that wasn’t exactly logical. “I’d have stopped you at Big Ed’s, but I was having too much fun watching that guard chase you around the parking lot. So I followed you here instead.”
Though I was grateful, I was just a teensy bit annoyed. I didn’t need a hero—never had and never would. But then again, if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have had to go back to Albuquerque Jewelers, which was never going to happen. So I lowered my drawbridge, just an inch. “Thank you,” I said once more, still clutching my phone in both hands like it was the Holy Grail. “I really appreciate it.”
He waved it off and smiled. He ran his hand through his hair, then reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his keys. “My pleasure,” he said, spinning his keys on his key ring, meeting my stare.
He sto
pped spinning his keys. For a long moment, eyes locked, we both stood there frozen. I hadn’t felt so tongue-tied in twenty years. He moved his eyes down over my body very slowly; then he bit his lip and shook his head.
It was the very same way I reacted to a second piece of flourless chocolate cake. I shouldn’t. But I really, really want to.
Gulp.
He laughed a little to himself almost and inhaled long and slow. I knew that one too—the inevitable surrender. Except all those lusty glances, all that hesitation, all that desire and turmoil . . . wasn’t about cake. It was about me.
Heavens. The drawbridge I’d lowered an inch felt like it was about to come flying down.
“Listen,” he said softly, and stepped a little closer. “My plan was to give you your phone and hit the road. But that’s not what I’m gonna do.”
My knees felt wobbly like they did on those days when I forgot to eat breakfast and consumed nothing but iced tea, banana Laffy Taffy, and watermelon jelly beans, only to realize at three in the afternoon that I was about to pass out. He was so close now that I could smell his cologne. It was woodsy, musky, and perfect. Mayday! He stepped into me and pressed me against the side of my Jeep. “I want to ask you a question instead.”
My gulp was so loud it sounded like a hiccup, and my mouth actually dropped open when I looked into his eyes. The sun was shining into them—a light brown, marbled through with flecks of green and rimmed in a brown so rich it might’ve been black. “OK,” I whispered. Actually whispered!
“No hesitation,” he said, dark and deep. “Like word association. Don’t think, just answer.”
I almost blurted out, Take me. But somehow, I managed to restrain myself. I pressed my lips together and felt a little woozy, looking at the gritty texture of his stubble. He wasn’t merely yummy. He was downright dreamy. “All right.”
“You ready?”
“I think so.” My voice was breathy, and my whole body was buzzing. He was so close I could feel the heat of his body spilling into mine.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, raising his eyebrow. “You got it?”
Take me right now. A shiver ran from my tush to my fingertips. “Got it.”
He placed his hand on the roll bar of my Jeep, caging me in. He moved his eyes over my face, then down to my cleavage, before moving back up to my eyes again. The anticipation was literally killing me, and I planted my palm on the side mirror for support. “I’m ready.”
“Favorite food?”
“Indian,” I gasped, and sucked in a deep breath.
He beamed and let out a soft laugh, like he liked that answer a lot. “Let me take you out for tikka masala and a few beers.”
Be still my heart! It was banging so hard that I could feel it in my ears. It had nothing to do with tikka masala, either. Or beer. Being near him was like being on the downhill on a roller coaster. Whooooosh, and all the butterflies in my stomach took off at once.
I was just about to give him an enthusiastic Yes, please! when Mr. Bozeman’s voice came from inside the house, jolting me out of all this dinner-date flirtation. “Stella! That guy giving you trouble? Need a hand? Want my slingshot?”
“No trouble at all!” I called back to Mr. Bozeman, without looking away from Nick. Never in my life had a man looked at me with such unfiltered desire. But before we could saunter off to enjoy Indian food, there was still a little bit of work to be done. Of the heavy lifting variety. “He was just about to help me move the oxygen compressor,” I said loudly right in Nick’s face, so that Mr. Bozeman could hear me. Then I said more softly, “Weren’t you?”
For the first time, he really smiled. It was breathtaking—the most heart-stopping contrast to his tough exterior. It was a great big, warm, sincere, eye-crinkling grin. He stepped back, head slightly bent, long lashes brushing his cheeks. “Yep, I sure was.”
“Then we’re on for dinner,” I said, clutching my phone to my chest again and still steadying myself on my car. My drawbridge was down. He’d breached my walls. And I didn’t mind a bit. “Just don’t forget to lift with your knees.”
4
NICK
Lift with your knees isn’t just a goddamned expression. Somewhere between growling out a macho, “I’ve got this, Stella, I’ve got this,” and walking the compressor forward one wheel at a time over the shag carpet, my lower back said, You’re such an asshole. So now, as I slung my leg over my bike, a muscle on my left flank puckered and shivered, like a rubber band about to snap. From the inside of the house, Mr. Bozeman yelled, “Thanks, son!” He waved through the picture window. “Appreciate it!”
“Anytime,” I answered as I stuck my key in the ignition. Provided I’m out of traction by then.
Stella picked up Priscilla, and they kissed cheeks like two European women saying goodbye after having an espresso. She shut the front door carefully, making sure the latch caught. She smoothed her shirt and her hair; her tee was so thin, I could see the lacy texture of her bra. Somehow, I managed to swallow my groan. She headed down the gravel walkway and reached into her purse for her keys. But before she got to her car, I told her, “Hop on,” and handed her my helmet, keeping my abs super tight when I leaned forward. I was gonna need some of that Advil she’d offered me earlier, and I was gonna need it fast.
Her eyes widened, and her pretty pink lips parted. “No way.”
“Unless you want to get delivery,” I told her, sticking my hands into my leather gloves. “Because I’d totally be down with that.”
She clutched my helmet to her chest. It made her boobs spill out of her shirt enough to make me forget everything I was going to say. “You don’t waste any time.”
“Nope,” I said, and kicked her into gear, revving the engine. “So let’s go.”
Still, though, she held on to the helmet. I hadn’t seen her be tentative or unsure when she stole the ring or when I tracked her down. Now there was a shimmer of fear in those deep blue beauties. I killed the engine, and everything went quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re a motorcycle virgin.”
She nibbled the inside of her cheek and smiled at the ground. She seemed embarrassed, and I liked that too—putting her on her back foot. Knocking her off her guard. “Possibly.”
“Put the helmet on,” I told her. “Get on, and hang on to me with everything you’ve got. Think you can do that?”
She took a few hesitant steps toward me, eyeing my Ducati like it was some wild animal. Then her eyes fell to the ground and she wiggled her toes, making her sneakers lift off the gravel. “Shouldn’t I have boots?”
Her. In motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. “Last time I checked, the Crown Prince of India was four blocks away, and I swear to Jesus I won’t let you get hurt.”
She put the helmet over her head, and I flipped up the visor for her. The helmet was too big on her, but it’d have to do. Plus, she looked utterly cute as fuck. “Promise?” she said into the mouthpiece.
I straightened it on her head so she could see better. “Promise.”
Carefully she placed a hand on my shoulder. It was sweet and gentle, like she didn’t know what to do with me yet. But I sure as hell knew what I wanted to do with her, and gentle was not part of the plan. I clapped my hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Hang on. Tight.”
“’K.” Her knees took their place on either side of my hips.
“Tighter.”
The helmet pressed against my back, and her arms came around in front of me, crisscrossing my chest. “Like that?” she asked, her voice muffled by the helmet.
Not even close. I moved her hands farther on either side of my chest so she was really hanging on to me, and gripped the sides of her thighs. I forced her legs against me so that her knees dug into me. “Like that. Pretend we’re one person. Got it?”
That was when her legs really scissored tight around me, a vise grip that made me ache for her.
The ache. Fuck almighty, it had been such a long time since I’d felt the ache.
The owner of the
Crown Prince of India was a pudgy guy in a yellow polyester shirt who dabbed constantly at his sweaty forehead with a damp tissue. Normally I came in here for the lunch buffet—all you could eat tikka masala, rice pudding, and whatever that potato and cauliflower thing was for six bucks? That was my jam—but at dinner it was more upscale. No buffet, no endless vats of tapioca. Instead they had menus, tablecloths, and napkins folded like swans. Or ducks. Or something. Stella and I followed the owner to the back of the restaurant, to a two-top underneath an old-school lantern straight out of Aladdin. Unfortunately, it had an LED light inside. Progress was a pain in the ass. Nobody looked good under all those lumens.
Except she did. While everybody else in the place seemed sunken and pale, she radiated warmth and beauty. She was all big smiles and thank you so much as she sat down and put her napkin on her lap. I followed her lead, and underneath the table I felt her leg press against mine. She moved it away, like she was startled, so I made up the difference and leaned mine against hers. That time she didn’t move hers away, and she spun the silver ring she wore on her thumb, made from the handle of what looked like an antique spoon, with her eyes twinkling.
God yeah.
“And what can I get for you and your wife to drink?” the owner said to me, dabbing now at his shiny mustache.
Stella snickered into her menu, and her big blue eyes darted up at him. Then to me. She hadn’t said a word, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. We’d known each other all of a few hours, and we’d been mistaken for a couple not just once but twice.
In the mirrors that lined one side of the Crown Prince—crackly, gold-backed, vintage 1960s—I saw it again. Same as we did in the jewelry store, we made sense together. We didn’t look like we were on a first date at all; there was no awkwardness, no discomfort. Not from me, and not from her. But I knew we’d have looked a shitload better with my hand on her thigh. So I carpe diemed that idea and gave her a squeeze.
Stella’s eyes flashed at me. Not a warning, not at all. More like, What took you so long?
Shimmy Bang Sparkle Page 3