by Jill Shalvis
Uh huh. She had to consciously unclench her teeth to speak. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Petunia,” she said, wanting to be crystal clear. “And you’ll need to be back to pick her up before closing.”
Five extremely long minutes later he’d filled out the required form, provided the information she needed after a quick call to his aunt, and—with one last amused look at her reindeer antlers, aka penis-headband—walked out the door.
Willa watched him go.
“Are you looking at his ass?” Rory asked, coming to stand next to her, casually sipping her coffee as she handed over Willa’s.
Yes, she was looking at his ass. To her eternal annoyance, it was a pretty great one too. How unfair was that? The least he could have done was get pudgy. “Absolutely not.”
“Well then, you’re missing out,” Rory said.
“He’s too old for you.”
“He’s twenty-nine. What,” she said at Willa’s raised brow. “So I looked at his driver’s license and did the match, that’s not a crime. And anyway, you’re right, he’s old.”
“Hey. I’m only a few years behind him you know.”
“Yeah well, you’re old too,” Rory said and flashed a grin.
The equivalent to a declaration of love.
“And anyway,” the girl went on. “For the record, I was noticing his ass for you.”
“I gave up men, remember? It’s who I am right now.”
“Who you are right now is a woman imitating a chicken, but hey, if you want to let your past bad judgment calls rule your world and live like a nun, you’ll get no argument from me.”
“Gee,” Willa said dryly. “Thanks.”
“But I reserve the right to question your IQ. I hear you lose IQ points when you get old. Maybe you should start taking that Centrum Silver or something.”
Willa threw the penis headband at her but she, being a youngster and all, ducked in time.
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