Karma's Kiss, page 9
“Well try to channel a ballerina. Get on those tippy toes.”
He reaches out to squeeze my middle, and it tickles. I whirl around and sock his arm. “Knock it off, will you? You’re jeopardizing our mission!”
“Which is what again, exactly?”
“We’re going to steal cookies from the cookie jar. Queenie made a whole batch of her famous chocolate chunk cookies for the school bake sale tomorrow, but I know there’s gotta be a few extra.”
“I remember your house smelling good when I picked you up.”
“It smelled like that all day and Queenie wouldn’t let me have a single cookie! It was torture!”
Though I warned him to stick close, Sawyer peels off my established path through the kitchen and bangs his shin against the leg of the kitchen table.
“Oh my god, you could never be a spy!” I tell him.
Now he’s jumping around, acting like he needs his leg amputated. “Why’d she need to put the table right there anyway? Get me some ice, would you? It’s swelling.”
“Oh come on. You barely banged it.”
“I’m sure it’s a bloody mangled mess. I’ll need twenty stitches at least.”
I laugh and then—realizing I’m being too loud—quickly lower my voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me see.”
I’m already kneeling on the floor before him, squinting in the dark, tugging on his pant leg. “Here?” I ask, skimming my thumb over the front of his left shin.
“No. Higher,” he says with wicked intent.
“Hilarious.”
I intentionally press on the spot where there’s a tiny bump on his shin, and he winces. “Dammit, now it’s really going to bruise.”
He reaches down and hooks his hands underneath my arms so he can haul me back to my feet and away from his injured leg, lest I get any more ideas about “healing” him. Our bodies brush together and his hands slide from beneath my arms, down along the curve of my waist. The moment passes where he should have pulled them away if he was merely helping me find my footing, but now, he just holds on to me, clinging in fact. I hear his sharp intake of breath when I raise my hands and rest them on his chest. There’s an electric current running between us that I want to test. I step closer and there—it’s pure magic.
I sway against him and his hands circle around my lower back, drawing me completely flush against his hard body. I feel the ridge of his jeans press into my belly. His broad chest and strong arms hold me steady. Our hearts race as if trying to outcompete one another.
I tip my chin up in the dark and sense rather than see him lower his face toward me, but he doesn’t do it. He’s dangling the carrot just over my head.
LORD HAVE MERCY.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I whisper, sounding slightly awed by the idea of it. “If not, can I kiss you?”
Can I kiss Sawyer Garnett? It never seemed like a question I’d ever get to ask, but now he leans down and answers with his lips pressed against mine. Warmth spreads through my limbs like fire and the heat immediately envelops us. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed someone like this—with hungry, nearly desperate need—that I can’t pull myself away.
Our kiss in the vineyard the other night was fueled by wine, or so I convinced myself, but this is something else entirely. Our mouths open to each other. Sawyer’s arms band around me even tighter. He’s a boa constrictor, which makes me easy prey. Swallow me whole. See if I care.
Something crashes outside, a tin trash can lid banging against concrete.
“It’s just the neighbor’s cat,” I assure him, holding him close just in case he gets any ideas.
Trash can lid, nuclear war, Armageddon—who cares? I need this.
As far as making out is concerned, Sawyer knows what he’s doing. More so than Matthew. I know I shouldn’t be comparing the two in this moment, it’s just Sawyer is knocking me on my ass here and I want to sink my fingers into his hair and tug. I want to suggest we keep this party going on the floor of my mom’s kitchen, or propped up on her linoleum countertops, or pressed against her little farm animal needlepoint picture.
It’s ludicrous.
I smile as I pull back. “Stay focused. Cookies,” I remind him.
He kisses me again, groans like he’s annoyed to break it off, and then steps back.
The separation almost does me in. Never mind, take me, here, NOW. I almost suggest it, but then I reach back, take hold of the countertop behind me, and try to get it together. I know if I let go, I’d sink down to the ground like a boneless blob.
“You okay?” I ask him through the darkness.
“No.”
Huskiness laces that word. I grin.
“And I know you aren’t either, so don’t even lie.”
“Don’t worry, if you could see me, I’m sure I look like I just put my finger in an electrical socket.”
“That good, huh?”
I’m too scared to answer, which in turn scares me even more. Fortunately, I know what’s behind me. The smell is impossible to ignore. Chocolate heaven awaits, and I turn around and feel for the stacks of Tupperware. I tug the lid off the top one, and the sweet smell of my mom’s chocolate chunk cookies is enough to make my eyes flutter.
“Here.” I hold a cookie out in the general direction of Sawyer’s mouth, and in the darkness, he bites down.
I yelp and then laugh. He didn’t bite my finger; he only nibbled it a little.
We each have two cookies, and then another. My stomach hurts, but Sawyer wants more. I’ve lost count of what number he’s on now.
“You’re going to be sick,” I warn.
“I can’t stop,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.
I feed him another one, kiss him, and taste the chocolate on his lips.
Suddenly bright light floods the room as someone flips the kitchen light switch. My eyes squeeze shut, and when I open them again, I see Queenie standing in the doorway dressed in a floor-length floral nightgown with a silk bonnet covering her infamous foam rollers. She’s worn the rollers and bonnet to sleep every night for as long as I can remember. They’re a good benchmark. If she ever forgot them, I’d have to assume an alien took possession of her body.
“What the hell are y’all doing in here?!” she demands with her hands on her hips.
Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are tugged together in annoyance. She’s definitely not amused by our late-night antics, and Sawyer must realize it.
“Hey Queenie, you sure look pretty in that little hat.”
His flattery eases her furrowed brows a bit, but it’s not enough to get us out of trouble. Maybe he should have complimented her nightgown too. She gets them two for twenty dollars down at Nichols, and she loves to brag about it.
But it’s too late for that; her finger comes up to wag at us. “Hope y’all enjoy baking because I needed every last one of those cookies for the bake sale tomorrow morning. I promised Stacey Wolfe twelve dozen.”
This is how Sawyer and I come to be baking cookies with Queenie at 1:30 in the morning. And she doesn’t let us sit back and watch either. We’re the ones mixing and scooping while she instructs us from the sidelines with her arms crossed. “You’ll need twice as many chocolate chunks as that if you expect them to be any good.”
Once we have a batch in the oven, Sawyer goes to lie down on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. I think all those cookies have finally hit him.
I lean down to look in the oven, checking to see the cookies are baking right. The last thing I want to do is remake them again. Once I confirm they’re doing their thing, I notice Queenie watching me with a secret little smile.
“That boy’s smitten over you,” she whispers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hate to break it to you, Queenie, but I have absolutely no clue.
CHAPTER 9
It’s not enough that I remake the stolen cookies. I’m also enlisted to work the bake sale alongside my mother. Stacey Wolfe—the head organizer—was a teacher at Oak Hill High School for thirty years before she retired, and now she spends most of her free time trying to raise money for the school district. Her newest goal is to bring in reading and math specialists for the elementary grades. It’s a noble cause so I try not to complain about melting under the summer sun. Apparently Stacey thinks it’s best to set up right on Main Street to get the most foot traffic possible, so we’re directly outside Nichols with no shade to be had by the time the sun’s blazing overhead.
I’ll admit, I was skeptical of how a simple country bake sale could generate enough of a profit to make a dent in these specialists’ salaries, but I quickly come to realize this is no small operation. At least fifty people drop off items between eight and nine AM, and there’s a line winding down the block by the time we open half an hour later.
Cash is waved in front of my face. “Gimme a dozen lemon bars. Two of Mabel’s cherry pies if you got ’em, and of course, a half-dozen of Queenie’s chocolate chunk cookies!”
It feels like I’m working in the Walmart electronics department on Black Friday. People are shouting, cutting in line, demanding sweets. Queenie’s cookies sell out in thirty minutes. The mini cheesecakes and key lime pies go soon after. One man cries when I tell him we’ve run out of Mabel’s cherry pies.
“My wife is gonna kill me.”
We’re down to pecan pie bites and brownie bars when my brother’s McCall Heating & Air truck pulls up in a vacant space a ways down the street. He must have come straight from a job because his cheeks are red and his hair is matted with sweat near the temples when he strolls up.
“Hey, Mama,” he says, leaning over the table to kiss Queenie’s cheek. “Sold out of the cookies already?”
“You had to get here early for those,” she says with a proud smile.
David clicks his tongue. “Cruz’ll be mad about that. He made me promise I’d bring some home.”
Upon hearing that her beloved grandson wants some of her homemade cookies, Queenie promises to make Cruz his own personal batch and drop them off later.
An impatient customer grabs Queenie’s attention and David looks over at me, taking me in from head to toe, biting back a shit-eating grin.
“Love the outfit.”
He’s talking about the chef’s hat that rises a foot over my head and the apron I was forced to put on when I arrived that reads Donut Worry, Be Happy.
“Be careful or Mom’s going to enlist you too.”
He holds his hands up. “No can do. I’ve got to be at a house a couple blocks over for a twelve o’clock appointment. Air conditioner’s blown. Maybe next time.” He winks before pointing at a brownie bar. “How much for one of those?”
“Ten dollars.”
“TEN DOLLARS?!” He laughs as he pulls out his wallet. “That’s highway robbery.”
“Proceeds go to children. Don’t be selfish. Here, give me that twenty, actually. Stacey says whoever has the most sales by lunchtime gets a prize.”
I point to the porcelain figurine of a cat playing with a ball of yarn that’s sitting in the center of the bake sale table. I don’t want it. Where would I put it? It looks like something a grandma keeps in a dusty china cabinet. Hell, Stacey probably pulled it out of her own dusty china cabinet this morning.
Still, I’m competitive and I want to win.
David withdraws the twenty, and I yank it out of his hand before he can think better of it. He chuckles as I pass him a brownie bar.
He can’t wait to take a bite and then proceeds to talk with his mouth full. “Heard you and Sawyer had a second date.”
“Who told you?” I slip the twenty into the stack of cash inside my apron pocket.
“Sawyer.”
I peer up at him to see he’s grinning like a fool.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” I press.
“Why would it be weird? Have you forgotten that I had to reconcile the fact that Matthew Mason was going to be my brother-in-law up until recently?” His face contorts with disgust. “You think I’m going to put up a stink about Sawyer? Talk about a fucking upgrade.”
“Language, David McCall,” Stacey snaps from down the table.
“Sorry, Ms. Wolfe.”
David and I both had Stacey as our tenth grade English teacher. She could make the burliest football player quake in his boots if he dared turn in an assignment one day late. Honestly, she still scares me a little.
“Heard he slept on Mom’s couch last night,” David goes on.
Sawyer fell asleep while the cookies were still in the oven, and once I was ready to head upstairs, he looked too cozy to disturb. I tugged off his boots and covered him with a big fuzzy blanket. When I woke up this morning, he was chatting with Queenie in the kitchen while they drank coffee together. His hair was all kinds of crazy and his shirt was rumpled. It didn’t matter though; he looked over and smiled at me, and I felt just as out of sorts as I had the night before.
“How do you like your eggs, Sawyer?” Queenie asked.
“Whatever’s easiest. I’m not picky.”
Queenie giggled and I rolled my eyes and Sawyer grinned, staring at me as I walked toward him and stole the coffee cup right out of his hand. “Give me that. I need it.”
“It’s black,” he warned just as I forced down an egregiously large sip. I pulled a face and handed it right back to him.
“That’s not black coffee, that’s tar. Queenie, how many scoops did you put in the machine?”
She waved her wooden spatula at me from the stove. “Listen, if you’re gonna criticize my coffee, you can march your butt down here and make it yourself.”
Sawyer and I raised our eyebrows at each other as we stifled our laughs. The whole thing felt dangerously easy, like he was already part of the McCall clan.
“Yes,” I tell David now, sounding unemotional about it. “He crashed on the couch because he was helping make cookies. End of story.”
“Sounds scandalous,” he teases before stepping back to allow a new customer to take his place. The bake sale ends in a few minutes, and people are making a mad dash for any last-minute items.
“What else did he tell you?!” I holler at my brother. “About our date?!”
David pulls a zipper across his lips before taking another huge bite of brownie, which is just plain annoying; shouldn’t his loyalty lie with me?!
While my first two dates with Sawyer were nothing short of vineyard-picnic-chocolate-mousse glorious, a part of me is wary about continuing down this path with him. Let’s take stock of why, shall we?
I’m only recently single. Actually, I’m still paying off my nonrefundable wedding dress, in fact. Where am I going to wear that now? Grocery shopping? Honestly, I should probably see if Matthew’s secretary wants to buy it off me seeing as she likes my taste when it comes to everything else for her wedding…
Anyway, besides my status as a newly minted single girl, there is the issue of Sawyer and me getting off to a weird start. That’s hardly a meet-cute we could share at our wedding. Yes, everyone! I participated in an espionage heartbreak attack on him and then accidentally let my feelings get in the way of the mission.
It’s not like it really matters. A few pierce-you-through-the-heart kisses does not a relationship make. I should not be entertaining the idea of texting him about a third date. It’s ludicrous.
Fortunately, the decision has been taken out of my hands for the moment. I’m busy tonight—couldn’t call him even if I wanted to. I have book club.
Once a month, my mother and her closest eleven friends get together at my mom’s house for book club. Seems simple. It’s not. I’ve heard about this club for years. I knew it was invite only, and even though there’s a waitlist a mile long, no new members are allowed to join until a current member dies. Truly, that’s what my mom said. With a straight face!
I thought she was exaggerating about this, but just a little while ago, our doorbell rang. Everyone in the group shouted at me not to answer it.
“Why in the world not?”
I ignored their protests and swung the door open to find Marie Claire—retired PTA president and current preacher’s wife—cradling a casserole dish and smiling wide.
“Madison, good to see you! You look just cute as can be in that dress.” Then she dipped her head around me to see into the living room. “Hi, y’all!”
“We’re a little busy here, Marie Claire,” Paulette Dougherty said, not getting up from my mother’s couch. I thought her tone was a bit aggressive, but it didn’t deter Marie Claire.
“Oh I know! I know! I saw you guys were over here and I was just at home tonight, not doing anything at all. Thought I could stop by with this seven-layer bean dip and—”
She was already handing me the dip when Lolly Garnett—Sawyer’s grandmother—yanked it out of my hands and shoved it right back at Marie Claire. “You know the rules!”
Then she slammed the door in the poor woman’s face.
I didn’t think Lolly had it in her! She’s got Queenie by twenty years and seems frail as a bird. She’s five feet nothing on a good day, maybe a hundred pounds.
My jaw was on the floor. “Don’t you think you all are taking this book club membership thing a little too far?”
All twelve women in my mother’s living room stared back at me as if I’d completely missed the point.
“It’s exclusive. It’s just the way it has to be,” Lolly snapped. “And besides, Marie Claire doesn’t want to join our book club, she just wants to come in here and get the 411 so she can gossip about us on Sunday. That woman loves to yap. If you’re ever curious about how a rumor gets started in this town, look no further than Marie Claire.”
The only reason I’m allowed to stay for book club (no, being a blood relative of Queenie is not enough) is because I’m living here right now. It wouldn’t be fair for my mom to kick me out for the night. I know this because I overheard the women debating whether to kick me out for the night.
“She could sit out on the curb for a while. What’s the big deal?”
Now, we’re sitting in the living room enjoying Laura’s margaritas, Pamela’s guacamole, Queenie’s melted brie, Lolly’s pigs in a blanket, and Paulette’s bacon-wrapped shrimp. My plate’s fully loaded and I’m figuring out how I could possibly shuffle things around a bit so I can fit one more shrimp when the women start diving into their discussion.
He reaches out to squeeze my middle, and it tickles. I whirl around and sock his arm. “Knock it off, will you? You’re jeopardizing our mission!”
“Which is what again, exactly?”
“We’re going to steal cookies from the cookie jar. Queenie made a whole batch of her famous chocolate chunk cookies for the school bake sale tomorrow, but I know there’s gotta be a few extra.”
“I remember your house smelling good when I picked you up.”
“It smelled like that all day and Queenie wouldn’t let me have a single cookie! It was torture!”
Though I warned him to stick close, Sawyer peels off my established path through the kitchen and bangs his shin against the leg of the kitchen table.
“Oh my god, you could never be a spy!” I tell him.
Now he’s jumping around, acting like he needs his leg amputated. “Why’d she need to put the table right there anyway? Get me some ice, would you? It’s swelling.”
“Oh come on. You barely banged it.”
“I’m sure it’s a bloody mangled mess. I’ll need twenty stitches at least.”
I laugh and then—realizing I’m being too loud—quickly lower my voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me see.”
I’m already kneeling on the floor before him, squinting in the dark, tugging on his pant leg. “Here?” I ask, skimming my thumb over the front of his left shin.
“No. Higher,” he says with wicked intent.
“Hilarious.”
I intentionally press on the spot where there’s a tiny bump on his shin, and he winces. “Dammit, now it’s really going to bruise.”
He reaches down and hooks his hands underneath my arms so he can haul me back to my feet and away from his injured leg, lest I get any more ideas about “healing” him. Our bodies brush together and his hands slide from beneath my arms, down along the curve of my waist. The moment passes where he should have pulled them away if he was merely helping me find my footing, but now, he just holds on to me, clinging in fact. I hear his sharp intake of breath when I raise my hands and rest them on his chest. There’s an electric current running between us that I want to test. I step closer and there—it’s pure magic.
I sway against him and his hands circle around my lower back, drawing me completely flush against his hard body. I feel the ridge of his jeans press into my belly. His broad chest and strong arms hold me steady. Our hearts race as if trying to outcompete one another.
I tip my chin up in the dark and sense rather than see him lower his face toward me, but he doesn’t do it. He’s dangling the carrot just over my head.
LORD HAVE MERCY.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I whisper, sounding slightly awed by the idea of it. “If not, can I kiss you?”
Can I kiss Sawyer Garnett? It never seemed like a question I’d ever get to ask, but now he leans down and answers with his lips pressed against mine. Warmth spreads through my limbs like fire and the heat immediately envelops us. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed someone like this—with hungry, nearly desperate need—that I can’t pull myself away.
Our kiss in the vineyard the other night was fueled by wine, or so I convinced myself, but this is something else entirely. Our mouths open to each other. Sawyer’s arms band around me even tighter. He’s a boa constrictor, which makes me easy prey. Swallow me whole. See if I care.
Something crashes outside, a tin trash can lid banging against concrete.
“It’s just the neighbor’s cat,” I assure him, holding him close just in case he gets any ideas.
Trash can lid, nuclear war, Armageddon—who cares? I need this.
As far as making out is concerned, Sawyer knows what he’s doing. More so than Matthew. I know I shouldn’t be comparing the two in this moment, it’s just Sawyer is knocking me on my ass here and I want to sink my fingers into his hair and tug. I want to suggest we keep this party going on the floor of my mom’s kitchen, or propped up on her linoleum countertops, or pressed against her little farm animal needlepoint picture.
It’s ludicrous.
I smile as I pull back. “Stay focused. Cookies,” I remind him.
He kisses me again, groans like he’s annoyed to break it off, and then steps back.
The separation almost does me in. Never mind, take me, here, NOW. I almost suggest it, but then I reach back, take hold of the countertop behind me, and try to get it together. I know if I let go, I’d sink down to the ground like a boneless blob.
“You okay?” I ask him through the darkness.
“No.”
Huskiness laces that word. I grin.
“And I know you aren’t either, so don’t even lie.”
“Don’t worry, if you could see me, I’m sure I look like I just put my finger in an electrical socket.”
“That good, huh?”
I’m too scared to answer, which in turn scares me even more. Fortunately, I know what’s behind me. The smell is impossible to ignore. Chocolate heaven awaits, and I turn around and feel for the stacks of Tupperware. I tug the lid off the top one, and the sweet smell of my mom’s chocolate chunk cookies is enough to make my eyes flutter.
“Here.” I hold a cookie out in the general direction of Sawyer’s mouth, and in the darkness, he bites down.
I yelp and then laugh. He didn’t bite my finger; he only nibbled it a little.
We each have two cookies, and then another. My stomach hurts, but Sawyer wants more. I’ve lost count of what number he’s on now.
“You’re going to be sick,” I warn.
“I can’t stop,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.
I feed him another one, kiss him, and taste the chocolate on his lips.
Suddenly bright light floods the room as someone flips the kitchen light switch. My eyes squeeze shut, and when I open them again, I see Queenie standing in the doorway dressed in a floor-length floral nightgown with a silk bonnet covering her infamous foam rollers. She’s worn the rollers and bonnet to sleep every night for as long as I can remember. They’re a good benchmark. If she ever forgot them, I’d have to assume an alien took possession of her body.
“What the hell are y’all doing in here?!” she demands with her hands on her hips.
Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are tugged together in annoyance. She’s definitely not amused by our late-night antics, and Sawyer must realize it.
“Hey Queenie, you sure look pretty in that little hat.”
His flattery eases her furrowed brows a bit, but it’s not enough to get us out of trouble. Maybe he should have complimented her nightgown too. She gets them two for twenty dollars down at Nichols, and she loves to brag about it.
But it’s too late for that; her finger comes up to wag at us. “Hope y’all enjoy baking because I needed every last one of those cookies for the bake sale tomorrow morning. I promised Stacey Wolfe twelve dozen.”
This is how Sawyer and I come to be baking cookies with Queenie at 1:30 in the morning. And she doesn’t let us sit back and watch either. We’re the ones mixing and scooping while she instructs us from the sidelines with her arms crossed. “You’ll need twice as many chocolate chunks as that if you expect them to be any good.”
Once we have a batch in the oven, Sawyer goes to lie down on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. I think all those cookies have finally hit him.
I lean down to look in the oven, checking to see the cookies are baking right. The last thing I want to do is remake them again. Once I confirm they’re doing their thing, I notice Queenie watching me with a secret little smile.
“That boy’s smitten over you,” she whispers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hate to break it to you, Queenie, but I have absolutely no clue.
CHAPTER 9
It’s not enough that I remake the stolen cookies. I’m also enlisted to work the bake sale alongside my mother. Stacey Wolfe—the head organizer—was a teacher at Oak Hill High School for thirty years before she retired, and now she spends most of her free time trying to raise money for the school district. Her newest goal is to bring in reading and math specialists for the elementary grades. It’s a noble cause so I try not to complain about melting under the summer sun. Apparently Stacey thinks it’s best to set up right on Main Street to get the most foot traffic possible, so we’re directly outside Nichols with no shade to be had by the time the sun’s blazing overhead.
I’ll admit, I was skeptical of how a simple country bake sale could generate enough of a profit to make a dent in these specialists’ salaries, but I quickly come to realize this is no small operation. At least fifty people drop off items between eight and nine AM, and there’s a line winding down the block by the time we open half an hour later.
Cash is waved in front of my face. “Gimme a dozen lemon bars. Two of Mabel’s cherry pies if you got ’em, and of course, a half-dozen of Queenie’s chocolate chunk cookies!”
It feels like I’m working in the Walmart electronics department on Black Friday. People are shouting, cutting in line, demanding sweets. Queenie’s cookies sell out in thirty minutes. The mini cheesecakes and key lime pies go soon after. One man cries when I tell him we’ve run out of Mabel’s cherry pies.
“My wife is gonna kill me.”
We’re down to pecan pie bites and brownie bars when my brother’s McCall Heating & Air truck pulls up in a vacant space a ways down the street. He must have come straight from a job because his cheeks are red and his hair is matted with sweat near the temples when he strolls up.
“Hey, Mama,” he says, leaning over the table to kiss Queenie’s cheek. “Sold out of the cookies already?”
“You had to get here early for those,” she says with a proud smile.
David clicks his tongue. “Cruz’ll be mad about that. He made me promise I’d bring some home.”
Upon hearing that her beloved grandson wants some of her homemade cookies, Queenie promises to make Cruz his own personal batch and drop them off later.
An impatient customer grabs Queenie’s attention and David looks over at me, taking me in from head to toe, biting back a shit-eating grin.
“Love the outfit.”
He’s talking about the chef’s hat that rises a foot over my head and the apron I was forced to put on when I arrived that reads Donut Worry, Be Happy.
“Be careful or Mom’s going to enlist you too.”
He holds his hands up. “No can do. I’ve got to be at a house a couple blocks over for a twelve o’clock appointment. Air conditioner’s blown. Maybe next time.” He winks before pointing at a brownie bar. “How much for one of those?”
“Ten dollars.”
“TEN DOLLARS?!” He laughs as he pulls out his wallet. “That’s highway robbery.”
“Proceeds go to children. Don’t be selfish. Here, give me that twenty, actually. Stacey says whoever has the most sales by lunchtime gets a prize.”
I point to the porcelain figurine of a cat playing with a ball of yarn that’s sitting in the center of the bake sale table. I don’t want it. Where would I put it? It looks like something a grandma keeps in a dusty china cabinet. Hell, Stacey probably pulled it out of her own dusty china cabinet this morning.
Still, I’m competitive and I want to win.
David withdraws the twenty, and I yank it out of his hand before he can think better of it. He chuckles as I pass him a brownie bar.
He can’t wait to take a bite and then proceeds to talk with his mouth full. “Heard you and Sawyer had a second date.”
“Who told you?” I slip the twenty into the stack of cash inside my apron pocket.
“Sawyer.”
I peer up at him to see he’s grinning like a fool.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” I press.
“Why would it be weird? Have you forgotten that I had to reconcile the fact that Matthew Mason was going to be my brother-in-law up until recently?” His face contorts with disgust. “You think I’m going to put up a stink about Sawyer? Talk about a fucking upgrade.”
“Language, David McCall,” Stacey snaps from down the table.
“Sorry, Ms. Wolfe.”
David and I both had Stacey as our tenth grade English teacher. She could make the burliest football player quake in his boots if he dared turn in an assignment one day late. Honestly, she still scares me a little.
“Heard he slept on Mom’s couch last night,” David goes on.
Sawyer fell asleep while the cookies were still in the oven, and once I was ready to head upstairs, he looked too cozy to disturb. I tugged off his boots and covered him with a big fuzzy blanket. When I woke up this morning, he was chatting with Queenie in the kitchen while they drank coffee together. His hair was all kinds of crazy and his shirt was rumpled. It didn’t matter though; he looked over and smiled at me, and I felt just as out of sorts as I had the night before.
“How do you like your eggs, Sawyer?” Queenie asked.
“Whatever’s easiest. I’m not picky.”
Queenie giggled and I rolled my eyes and Sawyer grinned, staring at me as I walked toward him and stole the coffee cup right out of his hand. “Give me that. I need it.”
“It’s black,” he warned just as I forced down an egregiously large sip. I pulled a face and handed it right back to him.
“That’s not black coffee, that’s tar. Queenie, how many scoops did you put in the machine?”
She waved her wooden spatula at me from the stove. “Listen, if you’re gonna criticize my coffee, you can march your butt down here and make it yourself.”
Sawyer and I raised our eyebrows at each other as we stifled our laughs. The whole thing felt dangerously easy, like he was already part of the McCall clan.
“Yes,” I tell David now, sounding unemotional about it. “He crashed on the couch because he was helping make cookies. End of story.”
“Sounds scandalous,” he teases before stepping back to allow a new customer to take his place. The bake sale ends in a few minutes, and people are making a mad dash for any last-minute items.
“What else did he tell you?!” I holler at my brother. “About our date?!”
David pulls a zipper across his lips before taking another huge bite of brownie, which is just plain annoying; shouldn’t his loyalty lie with me?!
While my first two dates with Sawyer were nothing short of vineyard-picnic-chocolate-mousse glorious, a part of me is wary about continuing down this path with him. Let’s take stock of why, shall we?
I’m only recently single. Actually, I’m still paying off my nonrefundable wedding dress, in fact. Where am I going to wear that now? Grocery shopping? Honestly, I should probably see if Matthew’s secretary wants to buy it off me seeing as she likes my taste when it comes to everything else for her wedding…
Anyway, besides my status as a newly minted single girl, there is the issue of Sawyer and me getting off to a weird start. That’s hardly a meet-cute we could share at our wedding. Yes, everyone! I participated in an espionage heartbreak attack on him and then accidentally let my feelings get in the way of the mission.
It’s not like it really matters. A few pierce-you-through-the-heart kisses does not a relationship make. I should not be entertaining the idea of texting him about a third date. It’s ludicrous.
Fortunately, the decision has been taken out of my hands for the moment. I’m busy tonight—couldn’t call him even if I wanted to. I have book club.
Once a month, my mother and her closest eleven friends get together at my mom’s house for book club. Seems simple. It’s not. I’ve heard about this club for years. I knew it was invite only, and even though there’s a waitlist a mile long, no new members are allowed to join until a current member dies. Truly, that’s what my mom said. With a straight face!
I thought she was exaggerating about this, but just a little while ago, our doorbell rang. Everyone in the group shouted at me not to answer it.
“Why in the world not?”
I ignored their protests and swung the door open to find Marie Claire—retired PTA president and current preacher’s wife—cradling a casserole dish and smiling wide.
“Madison, good to see you! You look just cute as can be in that dress.” Then she dipped her head around me to see into the living room. “Hi, y’all!”
“We’re a little busy here, Marie Claire,” Paulette Dougherty said, not getting up from my mother’s couch. I thought her tone was a bit aggressive, but it didn’t deter Marie Claire.
“Oh I know! I know! I saw you guys were over here and I was just at home tonight, not doing anything at all. Thought I could stop by with this seven-layer bean dip and—”
She was already handing me the dip when Lolly Garnett—Sawyer’s grandmother—yanked it out of my hands and shoved it right back at Marie Claire. “You know the rules!”
Then she slammed the door in the poor woman’s face.
I didn’t think Lolly had it in her! She’s got Queenie by twenty years and seems frail as a bird. She’s five feet nothing on a good day, maybe a hundred pounds.
My jaw was on the floor. “Don’t you think you all are taking this book club membership thing a little too far?”
All twelve women in my mother’s living room stared back at me as if I’d completely missed the point.
“It’s exclusive. It’s just the way it has to be,” Lolly snapped. “And besides, Marie Claire doesn’t want to join our book club, she just wants to come in here and get the 411 so she can gossip about us on Sunday. That woman loves to yap. If you’re ever curious about how a rumor gets started in this town, look no further than Marie Claire.”
The only reason I’m allowed to stay for book club (no, being a blood relative of Queenie is not enough) is because I’m living here right now. It wouldn’t be fair for my mom to kick me out for the night. I know this because I overheard the women debating whether to kick me out for the night.
“She could sit out on the curb for a while. What’s the big deal?”
Now, we’re sitting in the living room enjoying Laura’s margaritas, Pamela’s guacamole, Queenie’s melted brie, Lolly’s pigs in a blanket, and Paulette’s bacon-wrapped shrimp. My plate’s fully loaded and I’m figuring out how I could possibly shuffle things around a bit so I can fit one more shrimp when the women start diving into their discussion.
