“Okay. You don’t have to talk about that.”
Her stare moved over my features. “You have seven dark freckles on your face.” I lifted my eyebrows at this observation and sudden subject change. She was right. But she wasn’t finished. “Your shirt also has seven buttons. Most women’s shirts have eight buttons.”
I glanced at my shirt, then back to her. “Why does my shirt only have seven buttons?”
“The shirt you’re wearing has only seven buttons because it was specifically made for a short person.”
“You’re right. I got it in the petite section.” I smiled at her, because her observation and subsequent conclusion was useless, but it was also oddly cool. “You’re kinda like Sherlock Holmes.”
“I just notice things, meaningless things, typically having to do with numbers or patterns.” Her intense blue gaze swept over me and she pressed her lips together, like she was forcefully stopping herself from continuing.
So I prompted, “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t shake your hand,” she blurted, then she sighed, as though the words cost her.
“That’s okay.” I waved away her apology; I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “It confused me at first, but I’d much prefer to talk to you than hold your hand.”
Her smile was smaller this time, but struck me as no less singular.
I liked Shelly Sullivan. She was weird. I imagined her type of odd made it difficult to find friends; but to me, she seemed like someone worth knowing.
Therefore, before I could think better of it, I suggested, “We should go out. You and me. We should go out and do stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” She looked wary.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t know. I didn’t know what two women did when they got together other than gossip—which is what my mother did with her friends—and I had no interest in that. I’d never had an in-person girlfriend. All my friends were pen pals. Except Cletus, but he wasn’t really my friend since I was blackmailing him; and he wasn’t a woman.
Definitely not a woman.
“We could make soap,” I suggested for no reason in particular.
Her eyes lit. “You know how to make soap?”
“I do. I make soap all the time, when I’m not baking.”
“I’d like to learn how to make it. I like soap.”
“Good.” I grinned, excited.
“Yeah. Good.” She also grinned, but it was tinged with confusion, like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“We’ll make it at my kitchen, at the bakery. It’s a sterile environment, it has to be, and that’s important for soap making.”
Her eyes grew even wider at this news. “It’s sterile?”
“Yes. Well, not hermetically sealed type of sterile. But it’s professionally cleaned—from top to bottom—every day.”
“That sounds amazing.”
I chuckled. Her enthusiasm about the cleanliness of my kitchen was adorable. Seeing that she had a thing for hygiene, I added, “And we’ll wear latex gloves while we do it.”
“While you do what?” Cletus’s voice cut in; both Shelly and I turned our heads toward the sound.
My heart did a pathetic little flutter, leaping toward him, and my eyes devoured every visible detail of Cletus Winston. It was the first time I’d seen him in over a week and I . . . well, I’d missed him. I’d missed his company and bluntness. I’d missed his funny facial expressions and deadpan jokes. I’d missed his somber nod, because he did it so well and used it when he didn’t know what else to do.
I braced my feet apart as he neared and my heart continued to act erratically. I made an effort to subdue the misbehaving organ by reminding it that I was blackmailing this man.
We were not friends. He did not like me. He tolerated me, nothing more.
But he is so . . .
“Hi, Cletus,” I said, feeling inexplicably out of breath.
He stepped next to Shelly and offered a disappointingly benign, “Hello.”
Cletus’s eyes skimmed over me briefly with what felt like purposeful detachment, then he turned his attention to Shelly. “Do you need me to order gloves for the shop?”
She shook her head. “No. I told you, I’m fine with grease. Car engines are cleaner than people.”
“Unfortunate, but true.” He gave her a half smile.
The sad little flutter became a painful, deflating flop. But I plastered a grin on my face, because I was good at this. I was good at people being disinterested in my presence.
I shoved the muffins at Cletus’s chest, unable to raise my eyes higher than his chin. “Here. These are for . . . for your family.”
In an automatic movement, his hands lifted to the plate and I released it to his grip.
Not waiting for a response, because my heart hurt and was screaming at me to leave, I gave Shelly a quick smile and promised, “I’ll see you later.”
I turned and walked quickly out of the garage.