Bittersweet Read Free Page A

sense.
    “There’s only one hotel in town, and you’re five feet away from it,” I say, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. I meant to sound businesslike, but I must seem like a loon given my too-harsh tone and the mesmerized staring. I blink a few times, take a deep breath … and get a hit of him. He smells like soap, the tiniest hint of masculine sweat, and peppermint from the gum I just noticed he has clamped at the back of his teeth. Don’t stare at his mouth…
    “Oh. OK.” His eyes drift over to the hotel’s façade, and I can see it’s not quite what he was hoping for. We hardly get any visitors, until recently at least, and the Fairview’s not exactly the Ritz. “Sort of … rustic,” he continues, blowing out a disappointed breath and raising one dark eyebrow.
    “Yep. Could say that.” If you were an asshole. It’s stupid, but for some reason I can’t stand it when outsiders are down on my hometown, even if it’s only subtle, and even if that’s exactly the sort of thing I would agree with if a local had said it. I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder, ready to head off, but he keeps looking down at me instead of moving away.
    “You know what, I actually never say that. Rustic? That’s like … something my grandmother would say,” he mutters, shaking his head. I can’t help smiling a little at that, and I take another breath, then realize breathing in is a big mistake. God, he really does smell good. I feel the rivulet of sweat trickle into my collar and down my spine, and I shiver a little in spite of the heat. It’s probably best I head home before I turn into a puddle at his feet. Starting to move away, I give him a quick smile and he steps aside, watching me as he slowly reaches down to pick up his bag and hoist it back over his shoulder.
    “So is the restaurant the only one in town too, uh … Cathy?”
    What? How does he know my— I glance down. My uniform. My name tag. My hand flies up and hovers over it, and I flush as I understand where he must have been looking to read it. Pursing my lips, I arch an eyebrow, challenging him. He looks at the ground for a split second, but then straight back into my eyes unapologetically, with the ghost of a flirty grin playing on his lips. Approaching puddle status…
    “No, it’s not the only one. But it might be a little rustic for your tastes, who knows?”
    He smiles a little and looks at me for a moment as if considering something, but then shrugs. “I’m Greg,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, wishing mine wasn’t so clammy. His is warm and dry and … strong. He holds on for a little longer than strictly necessary, and I have to force myself to pull my hand away.
    “OK,” I murmur. OK? OK? But I don’t really know what else to say. There are probably a million things, but I can’t think of them right now, because he’s staring into my eyes like he lost something in them. But then his jaw clenches a little.
    “Gotta go,” he says, then turns and strides away toward the Fairview without a backward glance. Huh.
    I finally remember how to walk, and head off toward home. What the hell was that? I roll my eyes at myself; a brief, totally generic exchange with a stranger and suddenly I’m like a freaking schoolgirl? It really has been too long. Besides, he’s just passing through. How long do they shoot a TV show for anyway? And he was kind of arrogant—borderline rude. I mean, the restaurant-name-tag thing? Not so much as a thank you for your help ?
    Fine, he was kind of handsome.
    OK, very handsome.
    But it doesn’t matter, right?
    * * *
    When I finally get home, I find Maxine sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table in the living room, poring over a dazzling array of fake fingernails.
    “Which shape?” she asks as I sink into the bliss of the couch and kick off my shoes. She holds up a set of nails so pointed they look like they could be used as weapons, and another with long, square tips.
    “How do people