Beauty and the Baller(30)

“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 . . .”





Chapter 7


NOVA

Life is strange indeed.

It’s Friday, and I’m sitting in a job interview at the high school—the very last place I considered working.

Nervous, I stare down at my hands, carefully manicured and painted a navy blue by Sabine last night while we watched Downton Abbey. My clothes finally arrived from Piper, my roommate in New York, and I’m dressed like a professional: maroon silk blouse, a snazzy little navy blazer, a gold pencil skirt—Bobcats colors. Best of all, I have killer gold Gucci stilettos with crystals over the tips of the toes, just a tiny bit of bling because too much might scare the people of Blue Belle. My hair is tamed, scraped back in a sleek, high ponytail. My understated makeup says, Hire me. I’m a serious professional.

I hold my breath as Principal Lancaster checks out my résumé—which I typed up last night on my laptop, then printed out on regular paper. Mrs. Meadows told me about the opening when she popped by for a chat on Monday. My dear, they’re hiring at the high school. I’m not sure what for, but you should go . . .