Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(25)

Sabine’s face glows. “We’re studying the French Revolution in Coach Smith’s class. I want some books about France,” she tells me, her gaze already scanning the shelves.

“France? I always wanted to try the Alps. Do I need to buy skis?” I smile.

She squints at me. “You’d have a hard time finding ski equipment in Texas.”

“True, but I could get behind a trip to France. Eiffel Tower, museums, wine, cheese . . .”

She cranes her neck to look around me. “Right, we could do that, but beginners can’t ski Mont Blanc in France. You need mountaineering experience, and you’d have to be in top physical shape. You are not ready for that journey. You’ll need an intense cardiovascular exercise program, maybe some Pilates to stretch out your muscles. I suggest you start on the bunny slopes somewhere in the US, perhaps Colorado. There’s Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge—really I could go on and on . . .”

I do a thumbs-up. “Got it. I need to work out, or I will die skiing. Also, we’re on a budget. Look in the used section when you pick out your books,” I call out as she rushes off.

A tall young man in a bookstore uniform—white pants and a polo—pauses mopping, leaning on the stick as he watches the sway of her hips.

“You missed a spot,” I say tartly when he still hasn’t taken his gaze off her.

“Oh yeah.” Red colors his face as he gets back to work. See, I can guardian.

I mosey to the front counter, where there’s a blackboard menu behind a young girl in a red apron with DOG’S BOOK BARN scripted on the front. I order a regular coffee and a chocolate croissant. I need sugar. It’s been another two weeks of no job, and anxiousness hangs over me like a wet cloud.

As she hands my drink and wrapped pastry over, I lean in. “Are you guys hiring?”

She smiles at me, braces shining, sweet as the pie. “The owner mostly hires high school and college kids.” She gives a coffee to a customer who’s been waiting, then bounces back to me. “He says it’s to give us purpose. He’s, like, the best! The pay is better than Dairy Queen. Plus, the books are cool. Our prices are competitive with any online place.”

I take in the girl’s name tag. “That’s super great of him, Allie. I used to bartend. I think he’d be happy to have me. And I know my coffee.” It comes in beans, and you grind them. I can totally be a coffee barista. “Is the manager here?”

She pushes up white glasses. “I’m the weekend manager.”

Her attention goes to the entrance when the bell rings, indicating that someone new has entered. She flashes a bright smile at them, then focuses back on me. “Hang on one moment. Let me get you an application.” She darts into an office, then comes back.

“Great,” I say as she hands it over.

“I’d be happy to talk to you after you’ve filled it out. Please use a black pen, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Please. Interviewing with a perky teenager. What has my life come to?

I turn, trying to juggle the application with my drink and food, but collide with a hard body. Coffee drenches us as my croissant sails out of my hand and plops on the concrete floor, a gob of chocolate oozing out.

I look up at the sculpted, broad chest now wearing a liberal amount of hot liquid.

An internal groan comes from me. I’d know that six-four muscled body anywhere.

Dammit. Ronan.

And I’m still not wearing a dress and stilettos.

I’ve seen him several times since the front-porch incident. Last Monday evening, he dropped by to pick up the box he left at my house when he brought Sparky. Why does a man worry about his containers? It’s just a box. Mama has hundreds. I had my sleep shorts and a tank top on, my hair tangled and damp from a shower. He stood at my door for several moments after greeting me, then abruptly left. Then there was the awkward encounter at Randy’s Roadhouse. I meant to inquire about work again, but he showed up, and I chickened out, took my food, and left.

Then this week, on Wednesday night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went for a midnight walk, saw him ahead of me, and ducked behind a tree while he passed.

“I’m so sorry! Did it burn you?” I say as I scurry around and pick up the mess on the floor.

We both grab napkins from the counter and wipe at our clothing.

“No, it’s fine. Are you okay?” His face is impassive, nearly inscrutable, hidden by the shadow of his ball cap. Part of me—the stupid, silly part—longs to see his whole face.

“Yes. You got most of it.”

He dabs at his shirt. “Nice to see you again too, Nova.”

I wince. “Nova actually means a star that releases a sudden burst of energy. Mama said she named me aptly. It’s derived from the Latin novus or new. I always took it to mean ‘a new star.’” I stare at a point on his chest. Why does it have to be so spectacular? Why am I rambling?

The less time I spend with him, the better.

“Ronan is Irish and means ‘little seal.’ We’re neither Irish nor do we know a thing about seals. My mom just liked the sound of it,” he says as he takes his hat off, pushes a hand through his wavy hair, and then settles it back on his head. The brief moment gives me a glimpse of his face, the brutalness of the scars juxtaposed with his chiseled jawline and straight, Greek nose.