Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Not today, Satan. Not today.
Head to the alcohol! That will help. Do they make low-calorie wine? Yes, yes they do.
I walk past a few people and maneuver to the liquor aisle—then I see him.
Facing away from me, he’s bending down to check out the beer. From this angle, he could be any hot college guy at the grocery store, but the new, longer hair is unmistakable, and I’d know that frame anywhere.
That tight, muscular ass? Best on campus.
I don’t see Dani, and relief washes over me. I’m wary, though. She’s probably back at the makeup section a few aisles back.
He’s about ten feet away, yet his chiseled profile is enough to make me pissed, those broad shoulders enough to make my heart stutter. In his cart are packs of Big Red gum, a giant bag of Cheetos, protein drinks, and beer.
I look around to reroute my shopping and avoid him. The last thing I want is a replay of our bookstore argument a few days ago. Avoidance is the best course of action.
An older lady, maybe in her sixties, appears at the other end of the aisle, facing him. She seems distracted with her phone up to her ear as she talks to someone and bumps into his cart. I hear him apologizing as he moves out of the center of the aisle.
Her phone drops to the floor with a clatter.
Moving like lightning—as usual—he bends down, picks up her phone, and hands it back to her.
She doesn’t take it; her mouth flops open like a fish as she takes him in.
Yeah, he has that effect on most females, but this is different. This isn’t awe.
Blaze is still holding out her phone, and she snatches it out of his hand.
WTF?
Before I know it, I’ve eased in closer, moving slowly as I browse the Zinfandel selection, one eye on the pink wine and one on them.
His feet shuffle. Someone is antsy.
I pick up a bottle of something and pretend to study it.
“Mrs. Wilson…how are you? I—I—” he says softly.
She crosses her arms, seeming to gain back her composure. “Blaze Townsend. What are you doing here?” Her voice drips with a deep, thick Southern accent, someone who’s lived in Mississippi her entire life.
“Ah, I attend Waylon. Just restocking before class—”
“Of course, with alcohol I see.” Her eyes dart to his cart. “Are you even twenty-one?” She purses her lips and continues. “Why wouldn’t you be? You get to grow older. You have a life. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
My hackles rise.
“Yes, ma’am. Have you, um, moved to Magnolia?”
She sniffs and looks down a rather long nose at him. With faded blonde hair up in a French twist, cream slacks paired with a green sweater set, and a silk scarf that looks more expensive than my rent, she smells like old money. I picture her living in a plantation-style mansion, probably with a big porch and Greek columns in the front.
Her voice is cold. “No. Visiting some friends here for the week. They have a house on the lake. We’re retired now. Not much left for us to do in Alma. No grandkids.”
“Right, right. Guess Mr. Wilson isn’t mayor anymore.” He pauses, his hands moving from his legs to his cart, which he clenches like a lifeline. “I—I don’t get back to Alma much—”
“Don’t blame you.”
Her face is scrunched up, as if she smells something horrid, and I set the bottle back down on the shelf. Forget the Zinfandel; I’m outright staring now. FBI mode is on.
He hunches over the cart, leaning his arms on the side. “Right. I love Magnolia, so there’s no reason to go back.”
Bitterness flits over her face. “Good for you. You got the perfect life while my daughter is dead.”
He seems to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. My parents—”
“Your parents.” She spits the words out. “They deserve what they got for killing my Carry-Anne.”
What?
He bows his head and stares at the floor.
“They were useless druggies. Everyone knows that. Only they took her with them.” Her face compresses. “You might be a big football player here, Blaze, but everyone in Alma knows where you came from.”
“I…I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. I think about her—”
She jabs an unsteady finger at him. “No, don’t think about her. She should be alive right now. She should be married and happy and having babies, but your parents ruined our lives and…and…here you are living yours.” She takes a breath, and her hand rests across her chest as if she’s protecting herself. “Why, you’ve ruined my day.”
“I’m…sorry,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice.
I swallow. He’s apologized three times, and each time is worse than last, his voice leaning toward that dark sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes.
“Sorry means nothing,” she mutters before whipping her cart around and speeding away until she’s around the corner, the tap tap tap of her heels loud as she picks up her pace on the next aisle over.