Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(54)

“Did you know Gibson knows Henrietta Van Sickle?” she asked, poking her head out the back door.

I nodded, inserting the meat thermometer into a chicken breast. “Yeah, I think she sometimes cuts through his land on the mountain when she’s roaming. Sometimes he gives her rides into town.”

“He picked her up at my parents’ cabin and took her in,” she said.

“Do you think they bond over the whole hermit thing?” I asked, pulling the meat off the grill.

“Maybe,” she said. “I gave her the link to my survey and asked her to fill it out.”

“Those would be some interesting answers,” I predicted.

“Henrietta thinks you’re pretty buff,” she said.

“I thought she didn’t talk?”

Shelby grinned and made a show of flexing her muscles. “She didn’t have to.”

“Women,” I teased.

She sniffed the plate with suspicion when I carried it into the house.

“It’s chicken. You like chicken.”

“I like breaded chicken with dip that’s main ingredients are fancy chemicals,” she complained.

“You’re doing a great job with your training, but your eating could use that overhaul,” I reminded her.

“It’s not that bad,” she shot back.

“Oh, it is. Just try it.” I hefted the fork at her, and she turtlenecked away from it. I stepped in, cornering her against the kitchen counter.

“Come on, Shelby. Just one bite,” I said, moving in slower with the fork. “It’s just vegetables. Nothing scary.”

She pinched her eyes closed and opened her mouth. Before she could change her mind, I swooped the fork into her mouth.

She chewed in tiny, frantic motions, her nose under her glasses wrinkling. Then she cracked one eye open. She looked at me suspiciously. “That wasn’t horrible,” she accused.

“I know,” I said smugly.

“What was it?”

“Sautéed peppers and onions.”

“But I don’t eat peppers and onions,” she argued.

I shoveled another forkful in her mouth while it was open. She chewed, with less haste, then took the plate from me.

“Why does this taste good?” she wondered out loud. “Is it because I’m starving? Maybe because I didn’t make it?”

She speared a bite of chicken and popped it into her mouth. I waited.

“Oh. My. god. This is so superior to dino nuggets! What the heck, Bodine? What else have I been prejudiced to?”

I laughed while she shoveled nutrition into her face.

“Slow down there, slugger.”

I made up a second plate. “Dining room or couch?” I asked.

“Couch. ”

We sat and ate our dinners, watching a terrifying horror show. After we finished our food, Shelby slid her feet into my lap. I rested my hand on her smooth shins, resisting the urge to skim higher.

It was comfortable. Relaxed. Even though I was paying more attention to the feel of her legs, the smooth texture of her skin, the way her lips parted in anticipation as she watched TV.

Oh, boy.





29





Shelby





If an invitation to a Girls Night Out on a Friday at The Lookout was any indication, I’d been officially inducted into Bootleg Springs society. Scarlett, Cassidy, June, and Lula—the best massage therapist in the county—were waiting around a table near the dance floor for the round of drinks it was my turn to fetch.

I’d spent the morning working out. Then a picnic lunch with my parents and Billy Ray. And wrapped up the day spending hours building charts and graphs for the dissertation that was going to drag on forever and ever. Pushing back gainful employment and essentially wasting all that money I spent on education.

My frustration had risen to the point where Jonah made me go take a nap with the puppy. Tonight was a very welcome respite.

The bar was crowded with regulars and summertimers. Peanut dust rose up from the floor from shells crushed by boots. Good-natured arguments were brewing around the pool tables. I’d been in town long enough to know that the good-nature often turned bad if left alone too long.

“Usual?” Nicolette in her “I’m fluent in three languages: English, sarcasm, and profanity” t-shirt asked from the other side of the bar.

“Yes, please. And a round for the table,” I yelled. I waited while Nicolette made the drinks and watched the fun unfold around me. It was a rowdy country band on the tiny stage in the back. They had a long-legged blonde fiddler.

Just inside the door were two tables of Bootleg Springs elders gossiping about everyone who walked in. Bar-goers ranged in age from the newly minted twenty-one to the generous side of eighty.

It was an eclectic microcosm of the community. A concentrated drop of everyone that made Bootleg Bootleg. I wished I would have brought my laptop to encourage people to take the survey. I’d gotten over two hundred responses, which was an impressive sample in a town this size. And with every question answered, I learned a little something new about community.

I was still missing the hook for my paper. There was something I was looking for without knowing exactly what it was. But I’d know it when I found it. The thread that would tie all my work together.