“And neither do you.”
On that point, I can’t argue. And if I’m honest with myself, the same stereotypes about felons still cross my mind even though Connor seems to be different. I never got explicit details from Blake about who Connor hurt or why. I asked once or twice, but Blake would always divert and change the subject. I summed it up as he was afraid I would think less of Connor if I knew, so I stopped asking. Be that as it may while my mother’s fear mongering rattles in my brain, something inside me, somewhere deep where that gut feeling takes over, is telling me that Connor is so much more than anyone could ever assume.
“I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” I hang up quickly and toss the phone in my purse. My mother is as uptight as they come. She’s your classic overbearing, anal-retentive, know it all. Clenching my eyes closed, I raise my head and say softly in front standing in the middle of the bread aisle, “Lord, please grant me the strength I need to be patient with my mother and not kill her.”
“Peace be with you, child,” a deep voice answers and I stumble back as my eyes fly open. A tall man with shaggy hair and blue eyes stares back at me as he grins. He’s very broad, and the sleeves of his dirty T-shirt hug his large biceps.
“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “I heard you praying, and I couldn’t help myself.”
Something about his laugh is infectious, and I join him. My face must reflect my surprise and complete embarrassment. “You must think I’m insane?”
“No. I empathize.”
“You have a bat-shit crazy mother, too?” I question.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies in a serious tone. “You know, they have a support group that meets every Wednesday down at Church of the Ascendants. The group’s called Children of Meddling Mothers.”
I stare at him blankly. Is he serious? I wait a moment before responding, thinking he’ll laugh or say ‘just kidding,’ but he just stares back at me. Shit. He is serious. “Do you go to these meetings?”
His features lift and a huge grin spreads across his face. “I love that you just believed me.”
And my face grows two thousand degrees hotter. I shake my head. “God, I’m so na?ve. I totally just fell for that.”
“I’m Vick Reynolds,” he replies as he switches the grocery basket he’s carrying to his left hand and reaches out his right hand to shake mine. As his fingers curl around my hand, I notice his nails are caked with various colors of paint.
“Demi Stevens,” I mumble through my humiliation. His hand is firm and holds mine until my eyes meet his again.
“Painter,” he says.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused.
“You were looking at my nails. I thought you might be wondering why they’re caked with paint. I’m a painter.”
“Oh . . . like art or like house painter?”
“Well, both actually. We do commercial painting. Unfortunately, the artistic side doesn’t quite pay the rent. I just moved here from California. I’m working with my uncle, Gregory’s Paint. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.” He nods once at my response, and an awkward beat of silence falls between us. Of course, I feel obligated to fill it. “How do you like it here so far? I imagine this small town is quite different from any place in California.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile as his blue eyes stare at me. “As of about two minutes ago, I think I like this town a whole lot better.”
Whatever the reddest shade of red is, I have to be that color as I continue to blush. His line was cheesy, but I still appreciate the compliment. “That was quite a line, Vick,” I jest.
He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of practice here. It’s been a while.”
“And why is that?”
“Women don’t like starving artists,” he admits as he runs his paint dappled hand through his shaggy hair. “And what do you do, if I may ask?”