“Who’s the tiny girl with the short, brown hair?” Kirsten asked. “Do you think she’s an actress? If she is, I sure haven’t seen her in anything.”
That sounded like a description of Alexis, the girl who’d been angry at Dalton and trying to take his picture. I was equally curious, but didn’t want to let on to Kirsten how much I knew.
“Tiny girl, huh? If I see him again, I’ll ask.”
“That’s her over there,” Kirsten said, pointing to the person walking out the door of Java Jones.
The girl moved quickly, her head ducked down, and I swear she glanced over at me before she started moving faster along the sidewalk.
Oh, it was Alexis all right. What was she up to now?
We had six coffee shops in Beaverdale, five of them serving decent coffee. So why was Alexis at that particular coffee shop? The one that had a direct view in the windows of Peachtree Books?
I shuddered at the thought she might be spying on me.
Then Kirsten handed me my sandwich and I was happy again. They put diced jalapeno peppers in the tuna sandwiches, and it’s to die for.
I ran across the street with my lunch and opened the door to the phone ringing.
“There you are,” came a sultry male voice over the line. “The phone just rang and rang.”
Breathlessly, I said, “Just popped out for lunch. Sorry, we don’t have voice mail.”
“I didn’t want voice mail. I wanted you.”
“You have my cell phone number.”
“And have you ignore my phone call? You slipped away on me last night. Are you avoiding me? I’m beginning to think I smell bad.”
I twirled in place with a big grin on my face, wrapping the long yellow cord around myself. “No, baby. You smell good.”
He growled. “I like you calling me baby. You make me feel so good. What are you wearing?”
Some customers walked into the bookstore, the bells on the door jingling merrily.
“I’m wearing my favorite blue dress. I don’t think you’ve seen me in it.”
“I bet it would look great… on my floor.”
“Ouch. That’s bad.”
There was a pause, and I heard voices in the background, people arguing with each other.
CHAPTER 14
Dalton sighed from his side of the phone call. “I’d better get back over there. Next time I do this, remind me that there’s no such thing as a simple film.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“You know, you could call me for a change. It would go a long ways to making me feel like I don’t smell like garbage.”
“You smell good, trust me. I can’t wait to smell you again.”
“Really? Even the armpits?” He laughed.
“I hope you’re not ticklish, because I plan to nuzzle your armpits.”
“Fuck me, but that sounds f**king hot. HOT.”
The customer browsing the books showed signs of interest in my conversation, so I covered the receiver with my hand and whispered, “I’m going to do bad things to you.”
“Whatever you do to me, I’m going to serve you back. Double.”
“In that case, there’s going to be a lot of licking.”
He answered with a growl.
“How’s the movie shoot going?” I asked.
“Aren’t you full of questions. You haven’t explained why you ran out on me last night.”
“I got scared.”
“Scared of what? I’m not the big, bad wolf. Not unless you want me to be. Peaches Monroe, do you want me to huff and puff and blow your house down?”
I giggled in response.
There was a long pause, and I heard his muffled voice as he talked to someone else on his side.
“We’re going to be filming late tonight, doing some night scenes,” he said when he came back. “Actually, that’s the bad news. I won’t be able to see you until Saturday at the soonest.”
“So, I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Will you call me baby again?”
“Saturday, baby.”
He groaned. “Your voice. It’s like launch control for my pants, if you know what I mean.”
I cupped my hand over my mouth and the receiver again and whispered, “Am I making you hard, baby? Do you want me to ride your pony?”
He chuckled. “You can ride my pony any time, but you need to get on top.”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“You will ride me, and you’ll call me Lionheart. I want to feel your fingernails digging into my chest as you throw your head back and ride me senseless, crying out, ‘Faster, Lionheart, you little stud-pony, faster!’"
I fanned my face with my hand. He sure could paint a vivid scene.
A white-curled lady with a coral necklace and matching sunglasses approached the counter with her romance novels. She coughed politely to get my attention.
“Thank you, sir, for the special order,” I said with a professional tone into the mouthpiece. “We’ll have that particular item ready for you Saturday. What time will you be by?”
“I’ll come to your house in the morning. Is ten too early?”
“Not at all,” I breathed. “I look forward to it.”
Someone hip-checked me, nearly knocking me over, wrapped up in the phone cord as I was.
Amy, my employee, was there for her shift, and she’d simply shoved me out of the way so she could ring up the coral-necklace-wearing customer expediently.
After the lady paid and left with her smutty novels, Amy turned to me and asked, “Who were you talking to?”
I’d already hung up the phone, and struggled to come up with a cover story. I couldn’t just tell people I was dating Dalton Deangelo, because then they’d demand updates and ask questions I didn’t have the answers to, such as why? Why was a famous actor whose nude torso appeared on television weekly dating Peaches Monroe? And how? And then, once more because it begged to be asked again, why?
“None of your beeswax,” I said. “Grownup stuff.”
Amy snorted. She was sixteen, and even though I was barely six years older than her, she liked to act like there was a giant generation gap between us, implying I was closer in age to her parents than to her. She had blue hair. When I was in high school, only the skanky girls (like Kirsten) colored their hair, but it seems these days they’re all experimenting, with streaks at minimum, but frequently the whole head. So, maybe Amy and I were from a different generation after all.