Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter
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man patted her hand in a show of camaraderie. “I ever tell you two about the night I let the wife use zip ties in the bedroom?”
Yeah, he’d told her about a dozen times. Mrs. Bowright had tied him up all right, only to fall off the bed and knock her head on a side table. Cooter had to crawl bare-butt naked across the floor to get to the phone stuffed in the pocket of his discarded jeans. He’d ended up using Google to find a way to free himself from the ties before the paramedics arrived—something about spreading your elbows, raising your arms and slamming your joined hands into your torso—but not before he’d mistyped and found himself on a zit-popping site.
Ryanne listened, anyway. She loved the old man.
For once, Jude refused to be ignored. He stepped into her line of vision, their gazes tangling together. Blood fizzed in her veins as her stomach performed a series of flips.
How did he affect her so quickly and intensely?
Easy: her romantic past was basically a blank slate. She had no experience, so she had no means of fighting her attraction to this—any man.
Bottom line, she’d gone two and a half years without dating. Before that, she’d only gone out a handful of times, too distrustful of the male species to offer more than a handshake at the door.
Why bother doing more? In high school, her mother slept with not one but two of her boyfriends, and Ryanne had feared it would happen again (and again).
Just wanted to know if they’d cheat on you, cariño.
Yeah, right. You don’t betray your “sweetie.”
Ryanne’s trust issues had only gone downhill when she’d started working here. Before taking over ownership, she’d balanced the books, bused tables and waitressed. Every night, someone had propositioned her, pinched or swatted her butt, or groped her breasts. Supposedly devoted husbands had picked up singles, and women who’d left with a man one weekend had cried a week later when he’d gone home with someone else.
As a child, some of her mom’s “special friends” had gotten handsy. Once, Ryanne had overheard one of those special friends laughing with coworkers, bragging about easy conquests and sneering about “clingy bitches.”
It was a miracle Ryanne had gotten over her issues, and a bigger miracle someone as cranky as Jude had set her fantasies aflame. He really, really wasn’t her type.
Was anyone?
Surely! She would find a candidate sooner or later, and he would be everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d ever needed. Honorable, loyal to the bone. Kind. He would prize and cherish his significant other, no matter how long or short their relationship.
He would be like Earl Hernandez, who’d had a heart of gold.
When Earl died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago, her entire world had come crashing down.
Only recently had she cracked open the journals he’d written throughout his life. His devotion to his first wife, who’d died before him, had shone as brightly as a star in the darkest of night. If those two had lived, they would still be together.
“I need to speak with Ryanne privately,” Jude said to Coot.
He did? About what?
“Course. No problem, Jude.” Coot blew her a kiss before wandering off.
“So...how are you?” Jude said, now looking anywhere but at her.
Going to exchange pleasantries, were they? Okay, fine. “I’m well. How about you?”
He shrugged and said nothing else.
Oookay. Exchange over. “What can I get you? Liquid Viagra? Blowjob on the rocks? Screaming Orgasm?”
“Water.” His voice was a little hoarse, and she fought a grin as she filled a glass with his beverage of choice. “And add a lemon,” he said.
Ooh la la. Lemon. She wedged a slice on the rim. “That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents.”
His gaze zoomed back to her, his lips pursed, pulling his scar taut. “Two fifty for water that’s never before cost me a dime?”
Was he such a miser at other businesses or just hers? “My mistake. Tonight I’m charging you for my time and energy. And if you think you’re getting a bargain, you’re right.” While everyone else tiptoed around him, afraid of making him unhappy—well, unhappier—she often bristled like a porcupine.
Unfortunately, she’d inherited her mother’s hair-trigger temper.
He stroked two fingers over his beard stubble before placing a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Do not keep the change. And since we’re on the subject of time and energy, you’d do well not to waste mine by admitting you need me.”
You need me.
Was this an attempt to ask her out? “Excuse me?” she said, and grudgingly handed him two dollars and fifty cents.
“Your security—” air quotes “—wouldn’t stop an accident much less a deliberate crime. You need me to fix the problems before someone gets hurt.”
Nope, he wasn’t trying to ask her out, and she wasn’t disappointed.
“No one’s going to get hurt.” Her “duplicitous flirting” helped maintain the peace, preventing fights. When one happened to break out, she handled it.
“You’re too trusting,” he said.
What! “Too trusting? Me?”
“You must think the best of people. Otherwise you’d fix your ancient locks, and better watch your customers. You have four employees, and there’s no way the five of you can keep track of everyone at once. What if someone steals money from your register? How will you know, until it’s too late? Plus, there are too many dark corners in and around your bathrooms. What if a woman is assaulted? And do you have any idea what’s going on in the parking lot?”
The thought of anyone being assaulted in her establishment sickened her. “Just so you know, I’m not responsible for the decisions others make. And my locks do their job, which is all that matters. But what do you suggest I do about the dark corners? And what’s going on in the parking lot?”
“Add motion sensitive lights, as well as hidden cameras.” He said no more, ignoring her second question.
“Lights, yes.” Even though the constant on and off might be annoying. “Cameras, no way. They’re a violation of privacy.”
“It’s perfectly legal to put cameras in the hallway outside a bathroom. Also, you need at least two men at the front door. Someone to monitor who enters, and someone to monitor who exits. The latter can issue Breathalyzer tests to anyone planning to drive.”
A customer signaled her from the other end of the bar, but Ryanne held up a finger, asking for a moment. “Hello. I’m a walking Breathalyzer. And as much time as you’ve spent here, you should know it. The things you’re suggesting will only tick off loyal patrons, costing me business and money.”
Every spare cent she made went into her travel fund.
As a little girl, she’d escaped her rocky home life inside the pages of travel books, imagining she was somewhere—anywhere—else. Now she longed to visit those places for real.
Last week, she’d purchased her first ticket. In two months, twenty-eight days and seven hours, she would be on a first-class flight to Rome, where she would spend four weeks biking through the city and its surrounding countryside, touring the Vatican, oohing and ahhing over famous artwork, eating fresh cheese and homemade pasta, and tasting wine at different vineyards.
Muscles jumped beneath Jude’s navy blues. “For Ryanne Wade, monetary profit comes before other people’s lives. Got it.” He turned on his booted heel and stalked away.
Dang him! He always had to have the last word. But...was