Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)

With the windows rolled down, Sabine and I belt out “The Climb,” by Miley Cyrus, as we pull up to a bookstore. I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel while she moves her shoulders with the beat. Like me, she sings with heart. It’s a song about an uphill battle, about struggles and mountains in your life, but you don’t stop; you keep climbing.

I throw the Caddy in park and inhale a lungful of late Texas summer as I gaze at the new bookstore. On Main Street, and just a few blocks from our house, it’s inside an old barn.

We step inside to the cool air. Completely renovated, the inside is bright and spotless with white walls and big industrial lights that hover over the space. On the right side are red-and-black tables and booths, most of them packed. The left side features an order counter with a long bakery case. The back of the barn is lined with tall rustic-looking shelves.

Sabine’s face glows. “We’re studying the French Revolution in Coach Smith’s class. I want some books about France,” she tells me, her gaze already scanning the shelves.

“France? I always wanted to try the Alps. Do I need to buy skis?” I smile.

She squints at me. “You’d have a hard time finding ski equipment in Texas.”

“True, but I could get behind a trip to France. Eiffel Tower, museums, wine, cheese . . .”

She cranes her neck to look around me. “Right, we could do that, but beginners can’t ski Mont Blanc in France. You need mountaineering experience, and you’d have to be in top physical shape. You are not ready for that journey. You’ll need an intense cardiovascular exercise program, maybe some Pilates to stretch out your muscles. I suggest you start on the bunny slopes somewhere in the US, perhaps Colorado. There’s Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge—really I could go on and on . . .”

I do a thumbs-up. “Got it. I need to work out, or I will die skiing. Also, we’re on a budget. Look in the used section when you pick out your books,” I call out as she rushes off.

A tall young man in a bookstore uniform—white pants and a polo—pauses mopping, leaning on the stick as he watches the sway of her hips.

“You missed a spot,” I say tartly when he still hasn’t taken his gaze off her.

“Oh yeah.” Red colors his face as he gets back to work. See, I can guardian.

I mosey to the front counter, where there’s a blackboard menu behind a young girl in a red apron with DOG’S BOOK BARN scripted on the front. I order a regular coffee and a chocolate croissant. I need sugar. It’s been another two weeks of no job, and anxiousness hangs over me like a wet cloud.

As she hands my drink and wrapped pastry over, I lean in. “Are you guys hiring?”

She smiles at me, braces shining, sweet as the pie. “The owner mostly hires high school and college kids.” She gives a coffee to a customer who’s been waiting, then bounces back to me. “He says it’s to give us purpose. He’s, like, the best! The pay is better than Dairy Queen. Plus, the books are cool. Our prices are competitive with any online place.”

I take in the girl’s name tag. “That’s super great of him, Allie. I used to bartend. I think he’d be happy to have me. And I know my coffee.” It comes in beans, and you grind them. I can totally be a coffee barista. “Is the manager here?”

She pushes up white glasses. “I’m the weekend manager.”

Her attention goes to the entrance when the bell rings, indicating that someone new has entered. She flashes a bright smile at them, then focuses back on me. “Hang on one moment. Let me get you an application.” She darts into an office, then comes back.

“Great,” I say as she hands it over.

“I’d be happy to talk to you after you’ve filled it out. Please use a black pen, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Please. Interviewing with a perky teenager. What has my life come to?

I turn, trying to juggle the application with my drink and food, but collide with a hard body. Coffee drenches us as my croissant sails out of my hand and plops on the concrete floor, a gob of chocolate oozing out.

I look up at the sculpted, broad chest now wearing a liberal amount of hot liquid.

An internal groan comes from me. I’d know that six-four muscled body anywhere.

Dammit. Ronan.

And I’m still not wearing a dress and stilettos.

I’ve seen him several times since the front-porch incident. Last Monday evening, he dropped by to pick up the box he left at my house when he brought Sparky. Why does a man worry about his containers? It’s just a box. Mama has hundreds. I had my sleep shorts and a tank top on, my hair tangled and damp from a shower. He stood at my door for several moments after greeting me, then abruptly left. Then there was the awkward encounter at Randy’s Roadhouse. I meant to inquire about work again, but he showed up, and I chickened out, took my food, and left.

Then this week, on Wednesday night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went for a midnight walk, saw him ahead of me, and ducked behind a tree while he passed.

“I’m so sorry! Did it burn you?” I say as I scurry around and pick up the mess on the floor.

We both grab napkins from the counter and wipe at our clothing.

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?” His face is impassive, nearly inscrutable, hidden by the shadow of his ball cap. Part of me—the stupid, silly part—longs to see his whole face.

“Yes. You got most of it.”

He dabs at his shirt. “Nice to see you again too, Nova.”

I wince. “Nova actually means a star that releases a sudden burst of energy. Mama said she named me aptly. It’s derived from the Latin novus or new. I always took it to mean ‘a new star.’” I stare at a point on his chest. Why does it have to be so spectacular? Why am I rambling?

The less time I spend with him, the better.

“Ronan is Irish and means ‘little seal.’ We’re neither Irish nor do we know a thing about seals. My mom just liked the sound of it,” he says as he takes his hat off, pushes a hand through his wavy hair, and then settles it back on his head. The brief moment gives me a glimpse of his face, the brutalness of the scars juxtaposed with his chiseled jawline and straight, Greek nose.

I say his name, dragging out the syllables. “It sounds kinda strong. Invincible.”

He gives me a glance, then takes the damp application and napkins I have clutched in my hand, tosses them in the trash, and puts his hands on his hips and levels me with that steely gaze. “So. Why are you avoiding me?”

“You saw me duck behind the tree? Dang. I thought I was being stealthy. Guess I’m not quite the ninja I thought.”

“Hmm.”

I chew on my lip. “Looking back, perhaps it was impulsive.” I point to the scratch on my arm. “The branch of the tree got me. Satisfied?”

“No.” He flicks at a piece of croissant on my shoulder, then focuses back on me. “You don’t like me. Maybe we should discuss—”

Allie comes around the bakery case, vibrating as she gives him a wide smile. She hands him a coffee and a chocolate croissant. “Coach, here’s your usual,” she says.

I gaze at it longingly. Where’s mine?

“Congrats on the wins against Wayne Prep and Payton High. We really kicked their asses—um, butts.” She bats her lashes. “I didn’t think you’d be coming in today.”

“There’s someone I wanted to see.” He looks at me.

“Me?” I squeak.

“Hmm. I drove through town and saw your car.”

Allie cuts in. “I’ve got the cookies laid out for tomorrow, and the new mango tea has come in. I can’t wait to put it on the menu. Oops, another customer. Catch you later, Coach.” She stops as she turns. “Oh, this older lady is looking for work.”

She leaves, and I grimace as realization dawns. Dammit, why are the stars aligned against me? “You’re the person who owns this place? Wow. Football coach and a business entrepreneur.” I shake my head. Of course Sabine wouldn’t think to tell me. She’d assume I knew. “Why open a store if you’re leaving?”

He gives me his profile, ignoring my question. “Lois mentioned you were looking for a job.”

“There’s always the strip club at the end of town.”

His lips twitch. “I see you got your roses fixed.”

I nod. “Mama had tools in the shed. I did some pruning and said a little prayer. I was tempted to steal some holy water but chickened out. Mrs. Meadows sent a crew over this week, and they replaced the rest with new plants and mulch. It looks better than it did before.”

“I called them. I sent them. I paid for it. I didn’t let the booster club bow and scrape to take care of my problems while I’m winning football games.” He finally looks at me, a smile curling his lips as he repeats my words from the party.

My heart does that flip-flop thing, and I blink rapidly at the effect of Ronan Smith being nice. “Over and done, then. We have no need to talk about it anymore.”

“We still have unfinished business, Nova,” he says, his voice lowering. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

Behind him, the entrance to the barn opens, and two women sweep inside. Melinda Tyler and Paisley Lennox Carlisle. My hands curl. Paisley is one of two people in Blue Belle I don’t want to ever see. Still as willowy as ever, she looks like a million bucks in dark skinny jeans and a red silky blouse with strappy heels. A designer purse is slung over her shoulders. Her makeup is perfection, her brown hair up in a chignon, golden highlights framing her oval face. I want to spit.

Following my eyes, Ronan stiffens and groans. “Jesus! I can’t get away from Melinda. She’s at work. She’s at the games. She’s here.” He mutters under his breath, then says, “She showed up at my house last night.”

He motions for me to follow him as he walks to the end of the bakery case. They haven’t seen us, but we’re still partially visible, and they’ll be coming up to order. Sweat pops out on my forehead. I do not want to see Paisley. Not when I’m in frayed shorts and an old Aerosmith shirt from high school with coffee stains! It’s too much!

He gives me a pained look. “You won’t believe what she did . . .”

“Who?” I say distractedly, eyeing the women.

“Melinda . . . aren’t you listening? I wish someone would. No one understands that she’s driving me crazy. This town is driving me crazy.”

I ease closer to him. He’s big. I can hide behind him. “Of course I’m listening. You’re rambling about your stalker while I’m trying to avoid being seen . . .”

Ronan is still muttering, and I’ve missed part of it. “She came to my door and was wearing this shiny black trench coat—”

“In this heat? Why?”

“With lacy lingerie underneath. She dropped her coat right in my foyer and threw herself at me.”

My eyes flare, and I give him my full attention. “Ballsy. Was it pretty? The lingerie?”

He lifts his shoulders. “Who cares?”

I frown. “Wait, let me get this straight. She came to your house to have sex, and you said no. Just clarifying.” Melinda is beautiful, and he is a man . . .

There are several beats of silence as his gaze lowers, skating over me. “I don’t want to have sex with Melinda. She’s not my type.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Blonde.”

“Just blonde? Pathetic.”

“No, smart-ass. I need a connection to someone. A spark. I don’t have sex with just anyone.”

“Curious. Again. How old was Jenny?”

He huffs. “Old enough!”

“Uh-huh. Forget that. I’m worried about me. I know that woman with Melinda, and I look like something the cat dragged in. Dang it. I forgot the Tylers are related to the Lennox family. That explains why they’re together. Ugh.”

He glances over at them, tugging his hat lower. “Let’s hide, then. Seems to be your go-to to avoid people.”

“Me? Didn’t you hide from Melinda on my porch?”

“That was different. She’s insane.”

I smile. “You know, you just might be back in my good graces with the hiding idea. And I take those nighttime walks to think, so don’t be all huffy that I hid from you. I can’t think with you around—now get us out of here.”

He pauses, his lips quirking. “You can’t? Really?”

I wave at him. “Ronan. Where can we hide? This is your store. And who the heck is Dog?”

“My dog. His name is Dog.”

“Dumb. You have a giant Irish wolfhound, and you didn’t name him something cool like, I don’t know, Goliath or Hercules or Maximus—”

“You talk too much. Come on. Follow me.” He takes off to the back of the barn, where we slide into the slice of shadow created by two looming shelves. Thankfully, there isn’t anyone around us. He positions us so that he’s behind me and tells me to be the lookout since I’m smaller.

“They’re ordering,” I tell him over my shoulder.

“Did they see us?”

I pause to savor Ronan Smith depending on me, sounding all kinds of sweet. It’s a direct contrast to the in-control, überserious quarterback he portrayed for the media. “I don’t think so.” I peek around the corner and run envious eyes over Paisley’s ensemble. Damn her sense of style. Those red stilettos are gorgeous.

“Who are you running from?” he asks. “She looked familiar.”

I suck my cheeks in, then blow them out. “Paisley Lennox Carlisle. Also known as my best friend in high school until she stole my boyfriend, Andrew. And I’m not running, just preventing a social disaster.”

There’s a long pause. “Andrew Carlisle’s your ex? Our basketball coach?”

“Yes.” I turn to face him, starting when I realize how close we are. He’s wearing a blue workout shirt and shiny silver gym shorts with sneakers. The heat from him feels like a furnace, and he smells like man and sweat—with a little coffee. His well-defined forearm muscles ripple as he shifts around.

My eyes race over him as he sets his drink on a shelf. There are three things that make me instantly horny: a man in a lushly tailored suit, muscled forearms, and a male fresh from a workout. He’s hitting two right now, and I’ve seen him in a suit. It was divine.

Deep breath. I’m done with athletes. Especially this one.

“What happened?” he asks.

I lean against the shelf with him. I shouldn’t divulge my past to Ronan—he works with Andrew—but then I’ve never been one to do what I’m supposed to do.

Plus, I left all my friends in New York, and I’m bursting to vent.

“In a nutshell: everyone thought Andrew and I would get married. I assumed.”

“Ah. Tell me more.”

I stop and rub the back of my neck. “We were a big deal in high school, junior to senior year. He was the quarterback, and I was the cheerleader. It was true love, whatever. There were four of us who did everything together: me, Andrew, Skeeter, and Paisley. We graduated and went to UT together. Paisley and I joined a sorority, and they had football scholarships. I went there because of him—like, I followed him. I’d always wanted to go to school in New York . . .” My words trail off as I swallow thickly.

“They hurt you.” His gaze searches my face. “Fuckers.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Fuckers.”

He takes a bite out of his croissant. “That’s the spirit.”

“Give me half of that, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I might even make stuff up.”

He breaks off a piece and hands it to me.

I pop it in my mouth and chew. “First, I need to back up and give you the backstory—which is true, by the way.”

“Okay,” he muses. “We’re stuck here anyway.”

“My mom was a homemaker who sold Mary Kay makeup, but don’t let that fool you. She grew up with money; her family owned several banks in Dallas. Very strict, old-school, conservative people. She went to private school, had etiquette classes, even a debutante ball. They cut her off when she married my dad. They wanted her to marry someone from their circle, but she was in love. My dad was ten years older than her and a big rodeo star,” I say wistfully. “He was your typical cowboy on the circuit but didn’t see a future there long term after he met Mama. He quit the rodeo and managed a construction company. They were so happy . . .” I stop, a tug in my chest.

“You miss them.”

“So much.” I smile wryly. “Skipping that . . . Andrew came from money. Oil and cattle. Big sprawling mansion. Fancy cars. Paisley too. Her dad was in business with Andrew’s. They were all good friends and a lot like my mom’s family; they had certain expectations for their kids.”

He nods.

“My mom used to clean their houses on the side, and that’s how I met Andrew and Paisley as a kid, and I was drawn into their little circle. Mama insisted on putting me in pageants, right there with Paisley. Maybe it was because she wanted things for me that she had growing up—I don’t know, but she’d scrimp and save to buy my dresses or sew them herself. Sometimes I wore Paisley’s hand-me-downs.”

“Two friends slash rivals in a Texas pageant.”

I smirk. “Yep. Our senior year, it was me and her against everyone else in the pageant; then when it came down to just me and her, and I won the crown . . . she changed.” My nose scrunches. “But I wouldn’t see it for what it was until later.”

“She wanted your tiara.” He tears the last bit of his pastry and gives me half.

“Thanks. She wanted everything I had, no matter what. She took Andrew—”

“Then he was a fool,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt this episode of As Blue Belle Turns. Please continue.”

Our chests brushing, I take his Bobcats ball cap off and put it on my head. “My payment for the rest of the story. It’s a bad hair day.”

He huffs. “You marched into my party, your cat attacked a guest, then you told me off in front of everyone. You’ve eaten my pastry and taken my favorite hat, yet you’re chicken to face your high school nemesis?”

“You wanna see Melinda?”

“Well played.”

“Right. So back to the saga. We made it to our sophomore year at UT, and I kept expecting an engagement from Andrew, but he grew distant. I’d text him, and he’d reply hours later.” I frown at the swell of emotion that digs into my chest, the hurt that never goes away.

Ronan tenses. “Hey. You don’t have to explain if it’s painful. I was just trying to . . .”

“No, I started this. Maybe it’s good to talk. I loved him. Madly. He’d been my sole focus for four years.” I take a breath. “A lot of weekends, I came home to help Mama with Sabine, and I missed a lot of his games, but that Sunday I came back early. I had a key to his place and went over to surprise him. I walked in the kitchen, and on the table were candles and leftovers from a dinner. It was chicken breasts stuffed with mozzarella and spinach, and there’s only one girl who loved to cook that . . . Paisley. I stood in the kitchen for a long time, taking in the food, my head processing. Then I heard them. I eased open his door, and they were having sex . . .” This is definitely TMI, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s the images in my head. Their feet tangling on the bed, their soft whispers. “I—I didn’t stop them. I just sat down outside his bedroom and listened. I needed to hear it all, to really let it sink in . . .” I pause. “Have you ever been betrayed like that?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re lucky. I still can’t eat chicken—which is stupid. Do you know how much chicken food there is in the world? Chicken parm, lemon-pepper chicken, fried chicken.” I count them off on my fingers. “Paisley ran out crying. Andrew said it was only that one time, that it was a stupid mistake, that he’d only ever slept with me and he had a weak moment, wondering what it would be like with someone else, and she’d been chasing him. He begged me for a month to take him back. Got down on his knees outside my window at the sorority house. Followed me to class. Called me repeatedly. Called Mama for help.” My lips twist. “Then Paisley came to me and said she was pregnant.” A long breath comes from my chest. “Andrew’s parents got involved and insisted he marry her if he wanted their money. I left and went to NYU.”

There’s a beat of silence as he stares at me. “Now you’re living in the same town with them.”

I lift up my hands. “You see my problem. I swore I’d never live here, yet . . .”

“Right,” he says rather distractedly, a calculating gleam growing in his eyes as he shifts around. “Melinda is here with Paisley, and both of us need to make a statement. No more hiding. I have an idea. It’s a little risky and might require some faith in me, but I have a good feeling . . .”

He takes my elbow and tugs me out of the stacks.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim.

“You want payback, right? For what Paisley did?”

“Mama always said ‘Never wrestle with a pig. You’ll get dirty, and the pig likes it.’ I don’t know where she heard it—”

“Bernard Shaw. Famous playwright.”

“Look at you and your brain.”

“I enjoy reading.”

I gaze around at the store. “Noted.”

He pushes a hand through his messy-pretty hair. I sigh at it and reach up and touch it.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Fixing your hair.”

“Why?”

“I considered a job as a beautician when I couldn’t get a job after college.”

He stares at me.

I shrug. “I like hair. I can do a french braid, a fishtail, a triple fishtail, a lace braid.” I pause. “Huh. I see where Sabine gets it.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s focus. I want to put this Melinda thing to rest. I don’t have time to mess with her machinations. It’s war.”

“War sounds rather ominous,” I say warily. “What about the pig thing? Do we want to lower ourselves to their level?”

“I do whatever it takes to win.” He pulls us to the center of the store and throws a wave up at Allie, who sparkles at the attention.

“The entire town is in love with you,” I mumble.

“Not you,” he replies. “Which makes this even easier. You don’t even like me.”

Oh. I’ve had time to process seeing him and that Awful One-Night Stand. Yes, my self-respect—and heart—took a beating that night, but perhaps I’ve softened . . . he was still grieving. I suspect he still is. That kind of pain can ease, but it never quite goes away.

He leads me to a table near Melinda and Paisley’s, then presses a book into my hands, one he grabbed off a display on our way to the front. “Speaking of books, here’s one of my favorites, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a Chinese military strategist. Take it. It was written in the fifth century and has thirteen chapters, each one devoted to a skill set related to war tactics. Now people use it for business, lifestyle discipline, legal strategy, whatever. I use it for football. For life, really. You’d be surprised at the wisdom.”

“Who? What? And you think I talk too much? I probably won’t read it, but thanks?”

His face transforms with that genuine smile, and I inhale a breath.

“What?” I ask after a few moments pass.

“You’re surprising,” he murmurs.

“In a good way?”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Very vague,” I grouse. “I’m not obtuse. I’ve heard of the book, of course. I have a BA in art history from NYU.” A degree I’m still paying for.

“‘The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy so they can’t fathom our real intent.’ We’re using that one today. You ready?”

“Got it. Confusing the enemy. This sounds violent,” I say as he pulls us closer to their table, then stops under one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling.

Then . . .

With an adoring look—whoa—he takes both my hands in his.

His plan clicks in my head. “Ronan, no, this is not a good idea—”

He ignores me, his fingers lacing with mine. “Babe, thank you for the coffee date.” Warm and deep, his voice carries over the store.

There’s a long silence; then I hear a gasp. Melinda. I glance over, and Paisley meets my eyes and drops her fork, her face paling. She breathes my name. Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart; Nova is back in town, my eyes say. Ignore the T-shirt. My clothes are coming . . .

I look up at Ronan, my voice low. “Technically, I never got my coffee. Your big body bumped into me.”

“You bumped into me, babe.” He smiles as his hands move up my arms to my throat. It’s a tantalizing, possessive action. He lets one rest there, holding me as our eyes cling. I feel the pulse in my neck throbbing. I picture how it must look: me in his hat, us in the middle of the store, our chests nearly touching, his fingers toying with the neckline of my ancient T-shirt.

Intimate.

“I think that’s enough,” I murmur as I bat my lashes. “She’s probably going to sneak in my house and murder me after this.”

“I won’t let her. Plus, don’t you want Paisley to think you’re banging the hot football coach?”

“Who said you were hot?”

His eyes glitter at me. “You, Nova Morgan, may not like me, but you think I’m sexy. I know this.”

“You’re an egotistical ass.”

“Hmm. I think you like that too. Let’s test a theory.”

“What theory?”

“A primal one,” he purrs as he drags his thumb over my bottom lip.

I’m too shocked to move. It feels like I’m back at the Mercer Hotel, his undivided attention laser focused on me.

My breath quickens. In for a penny . . . “All right. Quit stalling, and get it over with.”

“I’m making sure they see us. Be patient.” His fingers trace up my jawline to my hair, rubbing the strands through his fingers.

“Oh, I can feel people looking.” My body is hyperaware of everything, especially him. I don’t drop his gaze, but I know Allie is looking. Maybe the mop boy.

He bends down into my neck and bites my earlobe. “You smell like apples.”

I gasp. “Perfume . . . reminds me of home . . . long story about Mrs. Meadows’s trees . . .”

“Hmm.” He tilts my chin up, and his eyes are that hot, stormy color. Oh . . .

He takes my mouth hesitantly, with small brushing kisses. One, two, three times, testing and tender. He wraps his arms around my waist and slants his mouth differently, deepening the kiss. I pause, tempted to push him away, but instead part my lips, my tongue touching his. Sparks ignite inside my body. His fingers slide around and cup my scalp as he kisses me, tasting, exploring every corner of my mouth. Heat rushes over my skin, and my hands, which hadn’t known what to do, move up his broad chest and tangle in his hair.

He steps back, his chest rising rapidly.

We breathe for a good five seconds.

“Not bad for a fake kiss,” I manage.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he announces with me still in his arms. “My place.”

My gaze darts over to Melinda and Paisley. Both are staring, mouths slightly ajar. Melinda has a flush on her face, her eyes brittle, and Paisley blinks at me in disbelief.

“Sure,” I reply, then whisper, “Not,” before I twirl away.

I’m still recovering my pulse rate when he stops at the entrance and sends me a smile and a heated look. Give him an Academy Award. Then he sends me a thumbs-up and is out the door, all business. A long sigh leaves my chest.

Leaving the dining area, I head to the stacks to find Sabine. By the time I make it back to the front with her, Melinda and Paisley have gone.

I touch my lips . . .

How am I supposed to forget that kiss?

He probably already has.

I laugh.

“I found a book on orgasms,” Sabine says, and I start and take it out of her hands and set it down on a shelf. We finally had the “orgasm talk.” I focused on being factual, which is how she relates best. I found a photo in Mama’s sex book and used a pen to point out the part of a woman’s anatomy that’s likely to lead to climax. I was detailed and scientific. Being honest and practical with her does not encourage her to engage in sex. Knowledge gives her power and prevents her from feeling shameful about her body.

“What? It’s about surprising new science that can transform your life. See, it says so right on the front. You’re single. Maybe you can read it.”

“I don’t have a sex life. And I’ve told you everything I know. That book is a gimmick.”

“I don’t have a sex life either, but I will someday.”

“Not tomorrow or anytime in the next ten years,” I say.

“Were you a virgin at fifteen?”

“Yes.” Andrew was my first. At sixteen. It was too soon.

She sets her books on the counter. The guy at the checkout is the mop boy; then I see his name tag.

“Hello, Toby,” I mutter. So. This is why she wanted to come today.

He’s attractive: tall with short dark hair, soft brown eyes, and broad shoulders. She has good taste.

He gives me a hesitant glance. “Hi, Ms. Morgan. Nice to meet ya. Hey, Sabine, did you find everything you wanted?”

My eyes tighten. Was he with her in the stacks?

“You’re looking pretty freaking amazing,” she tells him, and I sigh gustily at her frankness. “Nice uniform,” she adds.

“It’s just white pants and a polo,” I murmur under my breath.

“Ah, well, I’m just working.” He blushes as he scans her books, never taking his eyes off her. “Can I text you later?”

“Yeah,” she replies.

Oh my God, they’re texting?

“You scanned this one”—I pick up a book—“twice. Look alive, Toby.” I give him a sweet but deadly smile. And keep your paws off my sister.

Finally, we finish and exit the store, a sigh of relief hitting.

“Back to this sex book,” I say. “Your brain is still cooking, which means your body isn’t ready to make those kinds of decisions. Twenty-five is when an adult’s brain is fully formed. You told me that.” I give her a triumphant look, which she ignores as she gets in the car and sets the France books on her lap.

“Sometimes you just have to trust me, Nova. I won’t rush into anything. Maybe you need sex.” She counts off her fingers. “It boosts your immune system, prevents heart disease, improves bladder function, relieves stress—and I can keep going. Just because I want to talk about it doesn’t mean I want to hook up with some rando.”

“Well. I’m grateful for that.”

“I’m not Celia Keller.”

“Who’s that?” I throw the Caddy in reverse.

“Lacey’s older sister.”

“Ah.” Lacey has been her bestie since their elementary days.

“She picked up a cowboy at the Roadhouse, fucked him in the bathroom, then ended up pregnant with twins. They cry all the time when I’m at Lacey’s. Two boys. They poop, and it’s disgusting.”

“Fucked?” I give her side-eye.

She shrugs. “Cursing is actually a sign of intelligence. NPR did a study—”

“Not in the South and not from a lady’s mouth.”

Sabine cocks her head. “It’s true, then.”

“What?”

“That when you get older, you turn into your mother. You sound just like her.”

Great.

“Dammit.”

She rolls down her window. “Exactly. Different flowers, same garden . . .”