“Is there a problem?” Scotia placed her package of turkey breast on the counter. “I know you have honey baked ham. I can see it right there.” She pointed to the interior of the glass case.
“It’s just that I was already helping the Banana Cake Queen,” he squeaked, tipping his chin toward me.
Scotia glanced at me and did a double take, turning completely on the second pass. “Jennifer Sylvester.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved over me, assessing. “You’ve gained weight.”
I decided this meant that she thought I looked healthy. “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”
She frowned, shaking her head slightly as though I were a simpleton, someone to be pitied. I swallowed down, down, down the familiar pangs of embarrassment and discomfort. Instead, gripping my shopping bags, I lifted my chin. A sudden desire to contradict her expectations gripped me.
“Is your momma here?” she asked, as though I weren’t allowed in public without an adult escort.
I lifted my chin higher. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh.” She appeared to be disappointed by this news, but rallied quickly, dismissing me and turning back to Garrison Jr. “Cut me my ham, young man, while I think about the cheese.”
Garrison Jr., still holding my French bread, didn’t move and neither did I. I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, it wasn’t that big of a deal. What Scotia Simmons thought or didn’t think of me mattered very little in the long run. I should just let the woman order her ham and cheese.
On the other hand, she’d already had her turn. Now it was my turn. She was a line usurper and a bully. I wasn’t in the mood to be bullied or usurped.
Gathering a deep breath and tightening my grip on my shopping bags, my heart racing a million miles a minute, I prepared to speak up for myself.
I hadn’t quite collected my nerves before Scotia sharpened her tone at Garrison Jr. “What is wrong with you?” she huffed. “I don’t have all day to wait for my honey cured ham and Swiss cheese.”
I licked my lips, mentally arranging and rearranging the words I would say, and opening my mouth to begin. Yet it was no use, the objection caught in my throat and with each attempt I grew increasingly frustrated with myself.
Speak up! Say something! You can do this.
And then unexpectedly, a familiar voice cut into our conversation. “Mrs. Simmons, what’s your number?”
I started because the voice sent an electric shock of surprise racing down my spine and a prickle of excitement beneath my skin.
Both Scotia and I glanced behind us and found Cletus Winston standing just a few feet away. He looked remarkably messy in his white T-shirt and greasy coveralls, the long sleeves tied at his waist. But to me, he also looked breathtakingly gorgeous.
Quite literally, the sight of him stole my breath.
His clean white T-shirt was just faintly tight across his impressive chest, hinting at the bulky power beneath. The short sleeves were pulled slightly tighter over the bulge of his biceps, revealing—not hinting—at his impressive strength. The long blue sleeves of his coveralls tied low on his narrow hips emphasized the flat plane of his stomach. The tips of his long fingers were stained gray from a day’s work at the auto shop. His long hair stuck out and up at odd angles and was adorably askew, like he’d been running his big hands through the curls recently or he’d been caught in a windstorm.
I’d like to run my hands through those curls. The thought caught me unawares and drove both the earlier determination and frustration from my mind, leaving me nonplussed and hot under the collar.
He wasn’t looking at me, thank goodness. His attention was affixed to Scotia Simmons, an affable and innocuous expression on his chaotically attractive features.
But I also detected a glint of exasperation behind his eyes, which—by the way—were hazel today.
He didn’t allow her to respond, continuing, “Because I have number thirty-seven, and I just heard number thirty-six being called.”
She frowned at Cletus, then cast an aggravated glower at me. “I was number thirty-five, but I—”
“Oh. You already had your turn? See now, I was wondering if they’d started using numbers with a fractional component.” Cletus stepped forward and handed Scotia his ticket. “Here, you can have my number thirty-seven. That way you don’t have to draw a new number.”
Scotia blinked at him, then at the ticket he’d placed in her hands.
I blinked at him, too. Because he’d managed to grab a ticket and evade my notice until just now.
Meanwhile, Cletus gave me a deferential head tilt. “Do you mind splitting your sandwich? I was planning on ordering the cheese steak as well.”
It took me precisely two seconds to recover. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly fine.”