by A. J. Pine
“So that makes it right?” Every time he’d asked her what was in a sandwich, she’d been filled with pride that he’d enjoyed her creation enough to ask. And all along, he’d been pilfering her work.
“I know this hurts.” Her dad’s gaze was soft. “Do you remember when you took my set of screwdrivers to Emory’s to fix the loose storage lockers?”
“Don’t try to say that’s the same.” Kimmy couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
I should have told Mom. She’d understand.
“I didn’t begrudge you the use of my tools.” He was in dad mode, words slow and deliberate, as if he knew her mind was circling around the possibility that she’d been betrayed. “I did ask you after a month to bring them back when I knew I was going to need them.”
“Tools are not sandwiches.”
“But you borrowed my tools without asking,” her dad continued.
Kimmy swallowed a groan of frustration.
“You don’t have to admit I’m right.” His hand fell away. “But you know I am. Ninety-nine percent of the time.”
Kimmy stared at the freshly painted ceiling.
Her mother climbed onto the lower step of the truck. “Are you almost ready to go? I promised Haywood I’d be there soon. He left us a key under the mat.”
“Yes, Mom, but can you weigh in on this?” Because Kimmy would like to have someone on her side.
“Sure.” The pleasant smile on her mother’s face hinted at expectations of a food truck opinion. She had no idea there were much heavier issues at hand.
Kimmy explained what Booker had done.
Her mother didn’t hop up and down in anger. “You’re saying Booker used your sandwiches to finance his way through college?”
“Yes.” Maybe her mother was doing a slow burn on this.
“Don’t you create new sandwiches every week?” She was in mom mode, calmly presenting her arguments. “Do you even remember what sandwiches you were making ten years ago?”
No. “That’s not the point.”
A truck pulled up outside. It was a new truck, and Booker was driving.
Kimmy’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“Family goes the extra mile, honey.” Her mom hopped down and waved to Booker on her way back inside the house.
“Family.” Kimmy watched Booker approach. She had on her grubbies: jeans and a T-shirt she didn’t mind getting dirty. He wore pressed khakis and a black Burger Shack polo. “He’s not family.”
“Isn’t he?” Her dad waved Booker inside. “For years, you would’ve argued he is.”
She hated that her parents’ arguments made sense. Scowling, Kimmy set her hands on her hips.
“Hey.” Booker bounded up the steps and looked around. “What’s all this?”
“Kimmy’s future.” Her dad excused himself and left them alone.
“Family’s got your back,” Kimmy muttered. “Not.”
“What’s that?” Booker ran a hand over the countertop the same way Kimmy did when she came in, a greeting of sorts to the kitchen. He glanced around and then faced her. His gaze was soft, forgivable.
Do not forgive.
“This is my big move forward,” Kimmy said instead, planting her feet. “When we were kids, we always talked about having businesses of our own. This is mine.” She plastered a smile on her face and shored up her defenses for his criticism. “I know it’s not brick-and-mortar or white tablecloth but it’s a start.”
“What a great idea.” Booker began opening cupboards, checking out her space.
My baby.
“Low overhead. Freedom to change locations if the grass is greener elsewhere.” He poked around the box of utensils from Aunt Mitzy, muscles flexing as he moved things around. Every hair in place except that cowlick. His voice familiar, comforting, approving. “You can make your own hours. Work the catering circuit.”
“You stole from me.” There was no escaping that fact.
“Yes.” He leaned against the counter, not running from anything.
“You operated an illegal grill from your dorm room. No health inspections. No business license.” At the time, she’d thought he was daring for doing so.
“Yes.”
“And because you cheated the system, you thought you could cheat me.” Her words were roughened by hurt. “You didn’t ask. I would’ve been okay if you would’ve asked.” Because what her parents had said was true. He was like family to her.
Booker’s gaze didn’t drop from hers. “My dad gave me an indoor grill as a graduation present. I used it to cook meals. And then my college friends wanted me to grill for them. They were willing to pay.” He scratched at his cowlick. “My roommate was a business major. Somehow, it went from this little thing to a big thing overnight. Except…people got bored with burgers.”
“So you turned to sandwiches.” Hers.
“It was weird,” Booker said slowly, nodding. “When I prepared your sauces and put them on the grill, it was as if you were next to me, helping me, working with me.” His gaze was so dark and sorrowful she knew she’d forgive him. “I miss us working side by side, bumping elbows and scooting around each other.” His gaze took in the food truck’s kitchen. It was just the right size for bumping elbows and scooting.
But he’s not going to be cooking in here with me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission.” Booker’s eyes were filled with regret. “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you the truth.”
The air between them seemed thick with significance.
Kimmy could forgive him, and their friendship would carry on. Or she could hold on to the hurt, letting it sit like the taint of rotten eggs. She wasn’t the grudge-holding type. But she wasn’t the brush-it-off-and-everything-is-hunky-dory type either.
Kimmy sighed. She’d forgive him and hope time would heal the wound he’d made. “You should have asked or at least told me sooner. But you always were a procrastinator.” That wasn’t true but a truce sometimes required levity. And there was the promise she’d made about the week ahead.
Booker gave her a rueful smile. He knew he was still on shaky ground. “There’s something else. I—”
“Kimmy!” Her mom banged out the front door. “Time to go.”
“I have to help my mom with a client.” Kimmy moved toward the door. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Booker had a bewildered expression on his face. “What time?”
“What time?” Kimmy paused on the top step. “What time are you picking me up for Hay’s party?”
Chapter Six
Kimmy took Monday off to drive into Greeley.
She needed dresses, a pedicure, and a stylish haircut if she was going to spend the week pretending to be Booker’s girlfriend on the wealthy side of town.
What I need is my head examined.
This was the one time she should’ve broken a promise. Her hesitation wasn’t just because she was still in the process of forgiving Booker. Growing up, she’d never felt as if she fit with the kids who wore expensive tennis shoes and name-brand blue jeans. For heaven’s sake, she’d cleaned Haywood’s house yesterday for the party she was attending tonight. If that wasn’t proof she was out of her element, she didn’t know what was.
At the mall in Greeley, Kimmy ventured deep into foreign territory—a department store dress department.
“May I help you?” The woman who stepped between the racks had a style Kimmy envied. She wore a figure-flattering dress and a pair of attractive heels that didn’t look torturous.
“I’ll have one of those.” Kimmy’s gesture encompassed the woman. “I need three dresses to wear to wedding events and one to a wedding. Plus shoes. And…” She sighed. Might as well just admit all her failings. “This is what I normally wear to work.” She gestured to her blue jeans and red T-shirt. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make me look like I know what I’m doing in the dress department.”
The sales clerk—Lydia, her name tag
said—took Kimmy by the arm. “I’ve been dreaming of you my entire life. Come on.”
An hour later, Kimmy was armed with four dresses she’d never wear after this week, a pair of heels she could stand to wear for a few hours, and a referral to the spa in the mall.
At the spa, the hairstylist wasn’t as excited to see Kimmy as Lydia had been. “What kind of product do you use on your hair?”
“Shampoo.” By the woman’s frown, she could tell that was the wrong answer. “I have to wear my hair back for work every day. I don’t need product.”
The hairstylist tried to run her fingers through Kimmy’s frizzy hair but her hands moved slowly through the thick mass. “You need product. Good product.”
Kimmy took that to mean expensive. She couldn’t afford expensive. That was why she didn’t go to Prestige Salon in Sunshine. With all her credit card spending today, she was setting her food truck timeline back a week.
The hairstylist ran a comb carefully through Kimmy’s hair. “And you need bangs.”
“I don’t want bangs.”
“You need bangs.”
“No bangs.”
“I’ll change your mind.”
“No, you won’t,” Kimmy said as politely as she could.
“You’re tense.” The woman continued combing Kimmy’s hair.
“I’m tense because you keep talking about bangs.”
“You need a complete spa treatment. Massage. Facial. Wax. Mani-pedi. Hair. Afterward, you’ll feel like a new woman.” Her recommendations sounded convincing. Her hair, skin, and nails were flawless. Not to mention she styled hair while wearing high heels. She looked like she belonged at Hay’s party more than Kimmy ever would.
“Okay, fine.” Her credit card balance was going to be huge. “As long as you promise me no bangs.”
The woman didn’t promise.
Hours later, Kimmy left the mall with her purchases, muscles aching from a deep tissue massage, upper lip red from waxing, and bangs falling in a straight line across her forehead.
If it hadn’t been for her promise to Booker, friend and sandwich thief, she might not have opened the door when he came to pick her up for the barbecue.
“Whoa.” Booker took a step back. “Somebody’s been out shopping and…”
“You hate them.” Kimmy tried to pull her bangs down, hoping to help them grow out quicker. Like in the next ten minutes. “I don’t blame you. I hate them.”
“I wasn’t looking at your bangs.” He swooped in and ruffled them up. “That’s better.”
Kimmy doubted it.
Skippy sauntered out to rub against Booker’s legs.
“I recognize you from your pictures.” He leaned down to scratch her behind the ears. “Tell Kim she looks awesome, Skippy.”
On cue, Kimmy’s cat blinked up at her and meowed.
Kimmy took a moment to stare in disbelief. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” She grabbed a sweater and then locked her apartment door behind them, hurried down the stairs, and headed toward Booker’s truck. When she noticed Booker wasn’t with her, she stopped and turned. “What is it now? Did I leave a tag on?” She turned this way and that, tugging at her skirt.
“You have curves,” Booker said, almost in awe. “And legs.”
Kimmy sent her gaze skyward. “How many years have you known me?”
“Twenty-seven.” He approached, circled, and smiled. The really good smile. The one that practically lifted her spirits along with her lips. “I can’t remember ever seeing your knees after the sixth grade.”
“That can’t be. We went to prom…” She hadn’t wanted to bring that up again.
“Everyone has an unfortunate event in their past.” Booker caught her hand and led her to his truck. “So you ordered a prom dress online.”
“It wasn’t anything like the picture.” Or anything that flattered her teenage shape in any way. “No big deal. I just wore my coat all night.” And sweat like she’d taken hot yoga until one of the chaperones forced her to remove her coat in case she was harboring everyone’s alcohol. And then Booker and Hay had dared her to dance. And she’d gotten out there—horrid dress, horrid dance moves, and all.
Booker opened her door and helped her into the seat. “If you want to feel better, I could tell you about my preteen acne, which required a prescription and a nightly treatment from my grandmother—who made a sickly-smelling poultice.”
“Enough said.”
When Booker was behind the wheel, he slipped her another smile. “I know I’m going to say this wrong but you look beautiful.”
Kimmy’s cheeks heated. “Which is another way of saying that normally I don’t.”
“That’s enough whining.” He brought the truck to a stop at an intersection and then brushed his knuckles gently over her cheek.
The air went out of her lungs.
“I’ve only recently learned about penalties for whining. Per the retirement home rules, you owe me a nickel.” He drew his hand back and then made a right turn. “However, I’m willing to waive that fee since I owe you for the use of your sandwiches. I’ll pay for that dress you’re wearing. I’m sure you wouldn’t have bought it if not for our pact.”
Kimmy indignantly sucked in air. “You’re not paying for my clothes.”
“Then I’ll get you something for your food truck.”
“No thank you.” She sat stiffly in the seat, fully cognizant that she could use the money. “You don’t need to offer me money to make yourself feel better.”
“Kimmy, I want to pay you. I want to make this right. I—”
“If you offer me money again, I’m going to have to break my promise.” Her words tumbled out too quickly and at too high a pitch. Her cheeks began to heat again.
Booker glanced at her as he neared the town square. Her sister, Rosalie, was walking with her fiancé and their dogs. She waved.
Kimmy raised a limp hand. “If we both think this dating ruse is a bad idea, we can stop this now.” She’d return the other dresses and ask Paul to be her wedding date. She was sure he’d dance with her.
“This isn’t a bad idea,” Booker said firmly. “And I should know. I’m the king of bad ideas.”
“That you are.” At least he was fessing up to it.
Booker took Kimmy’s hand, and when she gave him an incredulous look, he said, “We need the practice.”
And then her cheeks were heating for an entirely different reason.
They reached Haywood’s place and went around to the backyard.
Kimmy stopped just inside the gate. She’d cleaned the inside yesterday but that had been before the decorators and caterers had come. “So pretty.”
“Yes,” Booker murmured next to her.
“Just look at all this.” She dragged him forward. “It’s wonderful.”
“It is.” His voice was gruff. His gaze intent. But he wasn’t staring at the backyard. He was staring at her.
Attraction fluttered in her chest. She swallowed. “You’re not even looking.” She turned and pointed, focusing on her surroundings rather than on Booker.
There were Chinese lanterns in orange and blue. Twinkle lights were strung from the trees, their warm glow just beginning to challenge the dusky sky. Places were set on white tablecloths with bouquets of spring flowers. Cushy blue chairs and couches sat around a stone fireplace with a roaring fire. Perfect for a chilly outdoor mountain evening.
It was everything the magazines depicted for garden parties, everything Kimmy longed to have someday if she could earn enough money. It made her sad that she’d be turning into a pumpkin at the end of the evening and going back to her two-room apartment with its outdated, cat-clawed furniture and plain white walls.
“Booker!” Haywood set down his beer and strode across the lawn to greet them. “You brought my favorite coworker in the whole wide world, Miss Kimmy Easley.” He hugged them each in turn.
Once released, Booker took Kimmy’s hand and gave her a look that seemed to say Here
we go.
“Book, you haven’t seen the house since I bought it.” Hay gestured around. “What do you think? Kim, Ariana, or I can give you a tour tonight.” Hay winked at Kimmy.
Booker raised his brows.
“I’ll explain later,” Kimmy said quickly, because Ariana was drifting across the lawn in an exquisite green dress and a delicate pair of taupe sandals with a mane of blond hair that had never been tortured with bangs.
“Booker. Kimmy.” Ariana noted their joined hands, and her smile broadened. “I was wondering when this would happen.”
“What?” Kimmy’s mouth dropped open. She wouldn’t have noticed if Booker hadn’t lifted her chin to close it.
“The chemistry between you two has been off the charts for years.” Ariana clapped her hands. “Come on. Hay’s been grilling but everybody knows he can’t hold a candle to you two in that department.” She hooked her arm through Kimmy’s and led her to a bar setup. “How about a glass of wine?”
“Sure.”
“Cabernet? Sauv blanc? Pinot noir?” Ariana tilted the bottles as she read the varieties.
The last time Kimmy had wine, it had been strawberry moscato and sweeter than soda pop. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.” Because she had no idea what kind of taste to expect from the wines before her. But she was determined to fit in and finish whatever was in her glass.
“Sauv blanc. This one’s from South Africa.” Ariana poured white wine into a glass and handed it to Kimmy. She paused, staring at Kimmy’s forehead. “Those bangs…”
“I know, right? Huge mistake.” Kimmy tugged at them.
Ariana gently moved Kimmy’s hand aside. “They should have blended them, whoever it was. Bangs are the right idea with the shape of your face, but not blunt cut. What was your hairstylist thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come into the salon tomorrow at eight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose.” No matter how awesome it felt to be asked.
“It’ll take five minutes. Ten tops.” Ariana fluffed Kimmy’s bangs again. “And you’ll feel ten times better.”
