Two of a Kind (Fool's Gold #11)(29)

Angel and Ford took off at a run.

“What happened to the easy jog?” Consuelo asked.

“You ever see them do something the easy way?”

“Good point.” She sighed. “I hope Ford wins. The loser will cook for a week, and Angel’s better in the kitchen.” She glanced at him. “I’m Felicia’s friend.”

He met her dark gaze. “I heard.”

“What are the odds of her getting out of this with her heart in one piece?”

“She hasn’t decided if we’re dating yet.”

Which didn’t answer the question, but he should get points for trying.

Consuelo raised her eyebrows. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said. “I want her to be happy.”

“With you?”

“No,” he admitted. “Not with me.” At one time, maybe. But not for a while now. Ignoring the fact that he didn’t have the skill set, he wasn’t interested in belonging. In caring. He liked living on the edges, pretending he fit in when he knew better. It was easier. Safer. Comforting.

“You tell her?”

“In many ways.”

“Is she going to listen?”

“Do women ever?”

He half expected that to earn him a quick flip over her shoulder with a hard landing, followed by her boot on his throat. Or at least the attempt. He knew the counter moves, but it had been a while. He might work out regularly, but he didn’t spar with anyone.

“Women usually hear what they want to hear,” Consuelo said grudgingly. “Felicia might be smarter than most, but she’s no different when it comes to reading men.”

Part of that was a lack of experience, Gideon thought. Felicia had missed out on what most women her age took for granted. She’d never dated. He might not be able to give her a picket fence—despite her claim it made for lousy containment—but he could let her practice on him. Let her figure it out with a guy who only wanted the best for her. As long as they both remembered his limitations.

In the distance they heard two quick gunshots. Nearly fifteen seconds later, another set echoed off the mountains.

“What did you leave for them to find?” Consuelo asked.

Gideon grinned. “A thumb drive.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “I really hope Ford wins.”

* * *

FELICIA COULDN’T GET comfortable in Pia’s office. This was her third day and she still felt like an interloper. In her head she understood that the space didn’t belong to anyone. Technically someone could own a building or a house, but this was different. She’d been given the keys to the office. The issue wasn’t her right to turn the lock—it was what happened when she stepped inside.

The office itself was small. Not much more than a desk, a few chairs and a lot of filing cabinets. The large dry erase board listed all the festivals, and under each festival was a to-do list. The remaining free wall space was taken up by posters of various events.

No matter that she knew where everything was or understood in her head that she was now in charge of the festivals—she couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong.

She felt dominated by the monster Rolodex and all the stacks of paper. Pia’s system was well organized but still relied on actual paper. There was a scent to the small office. Nothing unpleasant. Instead, it seemed as if she’d entered an ancient and sacred place where change was forbidden and those who tried were punished.

Felicia was itching to start a searchable database and put everything on the computer. Then she could relegate the old filing cabinets to storage and have some room. But not here, she thought, chiding herself for feeling superstitious yet unwilling to challenge the sense of unease.

Just one more week, she told herself. She was already set to move next Monday. Justice, Angel and Ford would be helping her. She would pack up herself and have everything ready to go. Once she was settled in her new place, she would feel more connected to her new job. At least she hoped so.

She was still worried about doing everything right. Not the logistical parts of the job—that was easy. But the rest of it. The connecting with people, the making memories. What if she got it wrong? What if she was a square peg in a round hole?

The use of the cliché made her smile. She liked clichés and common phrases. Not only did they fit easily into many situations, they implied universal understanding. Clichés provided a commonality with those around her.

Someone knocked on her half-open door. A blonde woman in her mid-fifties smiled as she walked in. She was of average height, with pretty features and a welcoming air about her.

“Hi. I’m Denise Hendrix. Do you have a second?”

Felicia knew about the Hendrix family. Ford was the youngest of the three boys. He had three younger sisters who were triplets. This must be his mother, although Denise looked much younger than she was.

“Of course,” Felicia said, coming to her feet. “I know Ford.”

Denise moved toward her, hand outstretched. “The young woman who is so good with logistics. Yes, Ford has mentioned you. From what he says, you’re going to whip our festivals into shape.”

“I’m hoping to keep them going,” she said. “I want to respect the history of the town and its celebrations. I’m not sure I’ll need a whip.”