When in Rome(22)
Phil and Todd are sitting at the high-top table, nursing the coffees they ordered an hour ago and eating bites the size of crumbs. I’ve seen mice tackle a larger mouthful. Thank goodness I can close up in about thirty minutes, and…wait, no, I can’t go home. She’ll be at home. What am I even supposed to say to her? How will I avoid her with so many hours left until I can justify going to sleep? I’ve been going to James’s house every day after work until I’m ready to go to bed just so I don’t have to spend any time with Amelia. But he told me—not very politely—to quit being a coward and that I wasn’t welcome this evening at his house.
I’ve been kicking myself for agreeing to let her stay the weekend. Should have turned her away immediately. It’s not like she’s homeless or penniless. And when I stop and ask myself why I did let her stay, I’m not comfortable enough to answer. Because I’m pretty sure it would have something to do with the way I lingered in the bathroom over her bottle of body lotion like a freak. I told myself to leave it alone. Just leave it ALONE. But it was sitting there next to her hairbrush and makeup bag and it was too tempting not to pop the top to sniff it like the pathetic piece of shit that I am. Even worse, I felt disappointed when I smelled it because I knew—from standing too close to her on too many occasions—that the scent was all wrong. It changes when it’s on her skin. Turns deeper, softer, and warmer.
I’m annoyed.
I’m angry.
I’m frustrated.
And I lean into those emotions like old friends because those are the ones that keep me from making a careless mistake like growing attached to a beautiful, talented woman with a great personality and a life far far away from Rome, Kentucky.
Gemma finally leaves the shop with her apple bourbon vanilla pie (the same one she always gets, by the way), and most everyone else, except Phil and Todd, clears out. I’m wiping down the counter when I spot a woman rolling up in front of the shop window on a bicycle…
No. What is she doing here? And why is she wearing my hat?
The little thief.
The door chimes as Amelia steps in, sunlight spilling all around her form like she’s a damn angel sent to earth to prove that heaven really exists. I wish I could say my eyes don’t track the length of her tan, toned legs in her white shorts—the same ones she was wearing the night I met her—but they do. Her long dark hair is now braided over her shoulder and drapes all the way down to the middle of her abdomen. It’s tied at the end with a navy silk ribbon that matches the blue in the striped tank top she’s wearing. White canvas sneakers cover her feet, but I know there’s red toenails hiding underneath. Needless to say, this classic and sophisticated style of hers is a complete contradiction to my old, faded Atlanta Braves baseball cap. Does she think it’s helping her hide? She sticks out like a beautiful, radiant thumb.
She ducks her head a little and then approaches the counter hesitantly. “I know I said I wouldn’t bug you, but your fridge was sort of empty, so I thought I’d come into town and get a few things to make dinner tonight. Earn my keep and all. But then I saw the name of this shop and remembered you saying you owned a pie shop, and ohshootyou’remad.” She sizes up the frown on my face and starts backing away. “I’ll just go. Sorry. This was a bad idea and—” She cuts herself off and turns around, heading for the door, braid whipping her back like it’s spurring her to move faster.
Phil and Todd duck their heads together, whispering and casting me disappointed looks. Like James, they don’t think I’m treating Amelia well enough. This town is too damn polite for its own good, and I wish I wasn’t raised to think the same way. I wish I could successfully push her away like I’ve been trying to do instead of immediately tugging her back.
“Amel—Rae.” Her shoulders bunch when I call her name, and she freezes, lightly spinning on the balls of her feet to face me again. I hitch my head toward the pie case. “Have a look around.”
Maybe if I let her see everything now, she’ll get her fill of the “normal life” and hit the road sooner. Because I’m sure that’s all this is for her. The rich and famous star is stooping down from her stage to ooh and ahh over our quaint little lives and then she’ll take some stories of our Mayberry-type town on the road with her to tell her friends. This town is just a layover for her type. Believe me.
I don’t know if Amelia is smiling or frowning as she looks over every nook and cranny of my pie shop because I go into the back kitchen and clean up for the day. When I hear the front door chime, I audibly sigh with relief knowing that the bell means she’s gone.
“Shouldn’t have let her stay,” I grumble under my breath as I scrub a mixing bowl in the sink. “Not worth it.” Scrub, scrub, scrub. “Such an idiot.”
“You talk to your dishes more than people.”
I jump a mile out of my skin at the sound of Amelia’s voice behind me. I startle so much that I accidentally fling a big glob of soap bubbles right into my eye. “Shit. Dammit!” Now my eyes are burning like they were just doused with bear spray. I’m trying to use my elbow to wipe them out, but it’s not working and my hands are still too soapy to use them.
“I’m so sorry! Let me help.” Amelia tugs my shoulder turning me toward her, and through my burning, squinting eyes, I can see that she has wet a dish towel. If she thinks I’m going to let her doctor me up, she’s got another thing coming. I don’t want her anywhere near me.