Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (any book recommendations .TXT) 📗

This silent whistle, though, is useless. I hope she didn’t spend a pretty penny on it. It’s only worth a dull one found between sofa cushions.

“Nice to see you, Miss Renee, how is your mother?” Miss Jones asks, making conversation as she rounds the counter toward the section of new arrivals.

Her thin lips, painted a shade of pink that’s nearly the same as her skin tone, purse as she gets to the first watercolor scenery.

Their conversation is littered with small talk and polite laughter, which I mimic. Making sure to laugh at just the right time, even though inside I feel like my chest is cracking wide open. It’s obvious she’s prying, but Renee also has a soft spot for the woman. It’s easy for Renee to ignore most of the gossiping hens, as she calls them, although she usually adds in other colorful language. Miss Jones gets away with it, though.

My mind drifts as the conversation turns to white noise. Everything was finally okay. I was okay. Bridget is doing so, so well and I felt free for the first time in years.

Tears threaten to prick at my eyes so I resort to turning my back to the two of them and focusing on the computer screen at the desk. As if something is so very important that it’s all right for me to ignore a client.

If my boss were here, she’d be livid.

He cannot be here. Brody … my throat tightens as I take out a bottle of water from under the desk and quietly have a sip.

“Dear, Magnolia, my dear, is the change of weather getting to you?” Miss Jones asks although I know for certain she knows it’s not allergies. “The change of season always bothers me,” she continues without pausing and opens the clasp of her purse to produce a small pillbox. “Allergies can be brutal, here you are.”

Renee’s gaze dances between the two of us as I accept the pill and take it. Why the heck wouldn’t I? Better to play along and for Miss Jones to not have any new information to spread gossip. I’m pretty sure the little pink pill was a Benadryl. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll help me sleep tonight.

“I saw Robert just yesterday,” Miss Jones says casually, slipping the pillbox back into her purse as I nearly choke on the sip of water.

Here it is. Here it comes. First she started with Renee and now it’s my turn.

“He said his mother’s allergies are getting worse. Every season it seems to be something new.”

I offer her a smile and answer, “Maybe I’ve developed an allergy to something.”

Renee’s grin is Cheshire catlike as she peeks up at me from behind Miss Jones’s back. “Roses,” she mouths and I swear if I didn’t love her, I’d hate her right now.

“Mm-hmm,” Miss Jones murmurs, gracefully taking in another piece of art as she continues, “I believe Robert may carry a soft spot for you still.” Her voice is quiet, contemplative but still casual. “The way he’s helped you, a man doesn’t help like that unless he wants more.”

Every ounce of blood drains from my face. Oh my Lord, I can’t even think about Robert at a time like this.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, dear,” she’s quick to add and the look on her face seems practiced but genuine. The look is one that screams, “I’m sorry I said something alarming, upsetting … something that crossed the line, but also it needed to be said.” I know it well. “I thought we’ve had this conversation before? No?”

“We have,” I say and force a smile although I can feel it waver. Renee takes the moment to stand now, no longer seated and very much paying attention to every word. Bless her, but she doesn’t need to be my protector. Well, not from Miss Jones anyway, of all the people in this small town. “I assure you we’re only friends.”

“Oh, well then,” she says with a nod and moves on to the next piece, letting a little gasp show her approval of it, “then maybe that gentleman you happened to run into earlier? Is he a friend?”

“Word gets around fast,” I joke, feeling my cheeks heat.

“So he’s a friend then?” she asks, glancing behind her shoulder at me before telling me, “I’ll take this one.” As if this conversation isn’t exactly what she came for.

“A friend from your college days, I suspect?” she says and tilts her head, a blush coloring her own cheeks as well. I don’t have a moment to answer, not a single moment because just then the bell above the front door chimes and in walks the man of conversation, grabbing the attention of all three of us.

Involuntarily, I reach for the useless silent whistle as if it’ll save my life.

There’s a saying I never understood: he’s a tall drink of water.

The older women around here say it in the beauty salons and at luncheons all the time and it’s followed with slight blushing and laughter. I understood what it meant when I heard it; I’m not dense.

The men they were talking about were handsome. Got it, check, understood.

But I didn’t really get it until just now. As Brody stands there, slipping his hands into his jean pockets and biting down on his bottom lip like he’s unsure of his good-looking self, it hits me.

My mouth is dry and I can’t swallow. I can barely breathe, so there’s not much in my body that’s working at all. Other than the thermostat. One look at him and his broad shoulders, and his strong, stubbled jaw, with the snap of a finger, my insides are all burning up.

It takes a long second for me to