We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (18 page)

Our mayor, Stephen Monroe (Uncle Steve to me), capitalized on this, and along with the Beaverdale Chamber of Commerce, they printed up a couple thousand fake passports and encouraged people through the Visitor Center (next to the library) to visit all the sights in town and get their passport stamped.

I designed our Peachtree Books stamp myself, and I stayed within the limitations mandated by City Hall, keeping it within one inch by one inch.

Those sneaky buggers over at Black Sheep Books made their stamp one and one-quarter inch in diameter, and argued that because it was
round
, it was taking up no more
area
than our square stamp. Never mind the fact that other businesses kept their stamps within the one inch diameter. Oh, no. The rules simply didn’t apply to Black Sheep Books, because they were “creative thinkers,” and perhaps the rest of the town would benefit from their many, many innovations, such as their Borrow-A-Bike program that never really took off, on account of the yellow bicycles being too attractive as souvenirs.

Not only did their stamp exceed the size limit, but Black Sheep Books didn’t take care when stamping passports, and their heavy black ink often overlapped the more artistic stamps, such as our peach-hued stamp.

I’m getting myself all worked up. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t get started talking about those sheep-fuckers.*

*When not in polite company, I do call them sheep-fuckers. Feel free to do the same yourself, just not around children.

So, Wednesday.

I pulled a big, plump peony from the bouquet and played a very long game of He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-Me-Not with the petals.

Carter, our delivery guy, came in the door whistling. “Ten boxes!” he said to announce what he was bringing in.

“Awesomesauce.”

He stopped and leaned over my pile of pink petals. “You making potpourri?”

I stared up at his big, blue eyes, framed by orange-blond, nearly-translucent lashes. “Who taught you that word, Carter?”

He put his elbows on the counter and leaned down so his eyes were at my level. I tease Carter about being a ginger, like my father, as they both have the same red hair that curls into ringlets unless it’s cut short.

“Am I right? Are you making potpourri?”

He was so close, I could have counted his freckles. Was he flirting with me? I’d never seen him without his shirt on, but I imagined the freckles extended down over his broad shoulders.

Carter moved to Beaverdale about a year ago, to complete his recovery from a bad car accident. He’d been unconscious for three days, broken bones all over, and when he finally woke up, he asked the nurse for a cigarette.

His family knew something wasn’t right, as he’d never smoked a day in his life—that they knew of. The truth was, he’d smoked for a few months when he was fourteen, and something about the brain injury had set him right back one entire decade, possibly to the day. There were some physical problems as well, like needing to learn how to walk without falling over once his leg was healed, but the most curious aspect was his lost memory.

He’d been a super-smart student, getting top grades in law school and being courted by top law firms in Los Angeles. But all that knowledge was gone after the coma. He couldn’t take the bar, because he was fourteen inside, with a fourteen-year-old’s knowledge.

Carter recovered physically, and by the time he turned sixteen for the second time, he had the mental faculties of a keenly intelligent twenty-year-old, getting smarter every day.

But this person, this new Carter, had no interest in law school. He wanted to play guitar and write music. Did the world need another lawyer, or did it need a poet? That was what he asked his parents when they delivered their ultimatum.

They felt the world needed another lawyer far more than another poet, hence the differential in potential earnings. When he wouldn’t agree, they changed the locks on the guest cottage across the pool from their mansion, and he found himself homeless.

Carter packed up his car, leaving behind most of his worldly possessions, but not his his three favorite guitars. He drove out of LA not sure where he was going. He stopped for gas and picked up a copy of
Small Town Life in America
. He opened the magazine to a story titled
Passports & Beavers
.

By the time he got back into the driver’s seat, his mind was made up, and he programmed Beaverdale’s coordinates into his car’s navigation system.

“I know all about potpourri,” he said, grinning and still eye-level with me. “It’s petals and bark, and you girls like it. Are these flowers from some dude?”

“Yes. Some dude.” I could feel my cheeks reddening, because now I was thinking about some dude. He was quite the dude, all right. My brain was traipsing around the filing cabinets full of images of Dalton with his clothes off, recalling the sensations of his soapy hands all over my body in the shower.

I continued, “Just a dude I know. We’re sorta seeing each other, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

“I should’ve asked you out when I had the chance,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes at Carter. Red-haired boys are always the biggest pranksters—what’s that all about?

“Don’t make fun,” I said.

He backed away, holding his hands up. There was new ink swirling up his arm—those fancy fish people put in their ponds. Coi. Or as the local raccoons thought of them, supper.

The coi fish on Carter’s arm were spotted with his freckles.

“I'm not teasing,” he said. “Let me know when you get tired of this douche and I’ll take you out for one of those fancy lemonades girls like.”

“How do you know he’s a douche?”

“I took one look at you when I came in, and you looked like you were going to cry. Usually you get real excited to see me. I like to pretend it’s my good looks and tight ass, but we both know it’s the new books I deliver. Today, though, your face is all droopy. So, what’s the matter? What’s the story, morning glory?”

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to tell him specifics, so I said, “Do you ever think other people will never understand what it feels like to be you?”

“People don’t know what it feels like to truly be themselves, let alone other people.”

I swept up the petals and crushed them into a ball in the palm of my hand.

“Why are you so wise?” I asked.

“Because I took a workshop from Dottie Simpkins.”

“What?”

He started laughing, bending over and slapping his knee. “Just kidding. Shayla tried to get me to go for one that’s just for men, but I have band practice scheduled for all the same times as the workshops.” He grabbed the hand truck he’d brought some boxes in on and wheeled it to the back table where I liked to receive the stock. “Would you like your delivery here, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir.”

He bent over, giving me a good view of his cute buns and muscular calves. Carter always wore shorts, even on the coldest days of winter. He claimed he “ran hot.” Mm-hmm.

Carter moved quickly, tossing the boxes onto the old wood table as easy as if they were empty and not full of heavy books. He raced back out the door and returned with the other five boxes.

I grabbed my clip board with the invoice attached, plus the box cutter. Naturally, this was the cue for a rush of customers to come in the door, all needing to get recommendations. I knew that helping customers was my real job, but when you’re trying to receive an order, they do feel like interruptions.

“Have fun,” Carter said with a knowing look as he rolled his handcart out the door.

I got busy, unpacking boxes and helping customers until it was past lunch break. I put the “Back in Five Minutes” sign up, locked the door, and ran over to get my lunchtime mocha and my tuna sandwich from Java Jones.

Kirsten, the girl who managed the place, looked more wan and limp than usual. She was probably on another juice cleanse or three-day fast. Either way, I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask.

“What are you up to with that actor guy?” she asked as she steamed the milk for my mocha.

“Nothing. What did you hear? Who told you? Was it Chantalle Hart?”

She snorted as she finished making my drink. “Saw you with my own two eyes. In here the other day. He even asked if I knew you.”

“Ah. Yes. He wanted to ask me some questions about life in a small town, as research for the movie they’re shooting.”

“Is he staying up at the No-Tell Motel?”

Yikes.
What did Kirsten know?

I shrugged, a pitiful attempt to hide my shock. “Beats me.”

Kirsten shook her brown ponytail and gave me a Like Hell look. She’d been a few years ahead of me in school, but I was well aware of her reputation. Whenever an attractive couple broke up, Kirsten would appear on the doorstep of the young man, ostensibly to cheer him up, and wearing nothing but a bit of lace under her overcoat. I heard through Shayla that she’d gone to the city for Sex Addict Rehab, but first of all, I don’t think that’s a real thing, and secondly, I don’t think it worked.

“Who’s the tiny girl with the short, brown hair?” Kirsten asked. “Do you think she’s an actress? If she is, I sure haven’t seen her in anything.”

That sounded like a description of Alexis, the girl who’d been angry at Dalton and trying to take his picture. I was equally curious, but didn’t want to let on to Kirsten how much I knew.

“Tiny girl, huh? If I see him again, I’ll ask.”

“That’s her over there,” Kirsten said, pointing to the person walking out the door of Java Jones.

The girl moved quickly, her head ducked down, and I swear she glanced over at me before she started moving faster along the sidewalk.

Oh, it was Alexis all right. What was she up to now?

We had six coffee shops in Beaverdale, five of them serving decent coffee. So why was Alexis at that particular coffee shop? The one that had a direct view in the windows of Peachtree Books?

I shuddered at the thought she might be spying on me.

Then Kirsten handed me my sandwich and I was happy again. They put diced jalapeno peppers in the tuna sandwiches, and it’s to die for.

I ran across the street with my lunch and opened the door to the phone ringing.

“There you are,” came a sultry male voice over the line. “The phone just rang and rang.”

Breathlessly, I said, “Just popped out for lunch. Sorry, we don’t have voice mail.”

“I didn’t want voice mail. I wanted you.”

“You have my cell phone number.”

“And have you ignore my phone call? You slipped away on me last night. Are you avoiding me? I’m beginning to think I smell bad.”

I twirled in place with a big grin on my face, wrapping the long yellow cord around myself. “No, baby. You smell good.”

He growled. “I like you calling me
baby
. You make me feel so good. What are you wearing?”

Some customers walked into the bookstore, the bells on the door jingling merrily.

“I’m wearing my favorite blue dress. I don’t think you’ve seen me in it.”

“I bet it would look great… on my floor.”

“Ouch. That’s bad.”

There was a pause, and I heard voices in the background, people arguing with each other.

Dalton sighed from his side of the phone call. “I’d better get back over there. Next time I do this, remind me that there’s no such thing as a
simple
film.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“You know, you could call me for a change. It would go a long ways to making me feel like I don’t smell like garbage.”

“You smell good, trust me. I can’t wait to smell you again.”

“Really? Even the armpits?” He laughed.

“I hope you’re not ticklish, because I plan to nuzzle your armpits.”

“Fuck me, but that sounds fucking hot. HOT.”

The customer browsing the books showed signs of interest in my conversation, so I covered the receiver with my hand and whispered, “I’m going to do bad things to you.”

“Whatever you do to me, I’m going to serve you back. Double.”

“In that case, there’s going to be a lot of licking.”

He answered with a growl.

“How’s the movie shoot going?” I asked.

“Aren’t you full of questions. You haven’t explained why you ran out on me last night.”

“I got scared.”

“Scared of what? I’m not the big, bad wolf. Not unless you want me to be. Peaches Monroe, do you want me to huff and puff and blow your house down?”

I giggled in response.

There was a long pause, and I heard his muffled voice as he talked to someone else on his side.

“We’re going to be filming late tonight, doing some night scenes,” he said when he came back. “Actually, that’s the bad news. I won’t be able to see you until Saturday at the soonest.”

“So, I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Will you call me
baby
again?”

“Saturday, baby.”

He groaned. “Your voice. It’s like launch control for my pants, if you know what I mean.”

I cupped my hand over my mouth and the receiver again and whispered, “Am I making you hard, baby? Do you want me to ride your pony?”

He chuckled. “You can ride my pony any time, but you need to get on top.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“You will ride me, and you’ll call me Lionheart. I want to feel your fingernails digging into my chest as you throw your head back and ride me senseless, crying out, ‘Faster, Lionheart, you little stud-pony, faster!’"

I fanned my face with my hand. He sure could paint a vivid scene.

A white-curled lady with a coral necklace and matching sunglasses approached the counter with her romance novels. She coughed politely to get my attention.

“Thank you, sir, for the special order,” I said with a professional tone into the mouthpiece. “We’ll have that particular item ready for you Saturday. What time will you be by?”

“I’ll come to your house in the morning. Is ten too early?”

“Not at all,” I breathed. “I look forward to it.”

Someone hip-checked me, nearly knocking me over, wrapped up in the phone cord as I was.

Amy, my employee, was there for her shift, and she’d simply shoved me out of the way so she could ring up the coral-necklace-wearing customer expediently.