We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (9 page)

Mayor Stephen Monroe, also known as Uncle Steve to me, passed an ordinance declaring the Burger Barn a heritage site. He decreed it of utmost importance to the value of the Town of Beaverdale that burgers continue to be served from the big, red barn at the entrance to town—burgers or nothing. And the sign for Burt’s Burger Barn, a neon wonder that could be seen for miles, wouldn’t be touched except for the purpose of restoration.

Burt’s daughter Chloe took the news in stride, thanks in no small part to the fourteen percent increase in business that came as a result of all the publicity. She added a second sign for the pies underneath the original one, expanded the barn with an all-glass addition plus a second entrance, and now we have hot burgers
and
warm pie. Who could ask for more in a town?

~

I did the sexy mermaid walk most of the way in to work Monday morning. I let my thighs rub merrily together, my knees drawn to each other like fridge magnets, my weight back over my heels so that ants could run parades under my relaxed toes.

Charm?

I checked out my reflection in store windows.

I had fucking capital-B Booty
and
Charm.

When I walked into Java Jones, Kirsten looked up from the cafe latte she was steaming and asked me if I had a bladder infection or something.

I took a wider stance and said, “Just trying to have more charm. Probably a lost cause.”

“You’re brimming with charm,” came a male voice from behind me. “Leave some for everyone else.”

I whirled around, expecting to see another regular customer.

Dalton Deangelo sat at a round cafe table, a laptop in front of him and a foamy cappuccino next to it.

He grinned, the dimple in his chin deepening. “Wait, what were we talking about? Line?” He looked left and right playfully. “I’m lousy when I go off-script.”

“What are you doing here?”

He pointed his thumb at the window behind him. “Waiting for that bookstore to open.”

I swore under my breath and turned back to the counter to place my order. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away.
Do not think about him putting his hand in your panties
, I told myself.

For the next few minutes as Kirsten made my mocha, I could think of nothing
but
Dalton’s hand in my panties, his fingers playing me like a harp. And his lips on my neck.

A flushing sensation began in my belly and seeped up to my neck, causing my skin to sweat all the way to the top of my head. I accepted my mocha, put on the lid, and attempted to get out the door without walking strangely. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember how to walk normally. Hopping on one foot would have been more natural than how I stomped out of the coffee shop.

Across the street, my hands shook as I attempted to get my key in the lock. It was like that moment in a horror movie where the idiot girl is trying to get away, but she’s trembling so bad she keeps dropping the keys.

I dropped the keys.

Dalton picked up the keys and handed them to me.

“I’m in town shooting a little indie movie,” he said.

I tried again with the keys, keeping my back to him. “How long?” I tried to sound casual, but it came out sounding like a squeaky gate.

Don’t think about his hand in your panties.

Dropped the keys again.

“Long enough to get bored and look for trouble,” he said.

“I’m sure trouble finds you easily enough on its own.”

He laughed, making me feel just comfortable enough to get the door open.

We stepped inside the shop and I ran to turn off the alarm. In the silence as I flipped on the lights, I could hear him breathe in deeply.

“Can’t beat that smell,” he said. “Heaven is a place on earth, and it’s a bookstore.”

“Why are you here? Isn’t shooting a movie kind of an all-day thing?”

“I’m not the only star of this one. The girl is the one with the big transformation. It’s very inspiring.”

I got myself behind the counter, where I felt more comfortable, half hidden.

“You’re not the star? Then why are you doing it?”

“Because I get to play a really complex character, and do some serious acting. I don’t mean to bite the hand that feeds me, but talking around prosthetic fangs is not the reason I… worked really hard to get into this business any way I could.”

“What’s the movie called?”

“The working title is
Waterfall
, but that’s not going to be the final title. You’ve probably seen little arrow signs around town with the word
Waterfall
on them.”

“Have I?” I took a sip of my mocha, thoughts swirling around my head.

“You will now, since I told you.”

“Despite all the movies I’ve seen, I know absolutely nothing about how they get made.”

“That gives us plenty to talk about.” He gave me a sexy look, his eyes full of intensity. “I had a really nice day with you Saturday. And night.”

I took another sip, noting how flavorless the mocha was. Stress will do that to you—suck the taste right out of your mouth. As I tried to figure out why Dalton Deangelo was in my bookstore, I felt the stress crashing down on me like angry waves decimating a sand castle.

“I’m not going to talk to any reporters, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said. “You don’t have to pretend to be interested in me.”

He leaned forward in a deliberate pose of relaxation against the counter, elbows on the countertop and chin in hand. Raising one sexy, dark eyebrow, he gazed into my eyes and said, “Tell the world.”

As sweet and naive as he’d seemed on Saturday, not knowing how a wedding buffet worked, now he was radiating dark sensuality and danger.

And me? I’d never been so turned on in my life. My nipples hardened inside my bra, pulling the skin of my chest taut. My breathing quickened, and the heat sought every nook and crevice.

Never mind that he’d shushed me. He could shush me all he wanted. He could throw me onto the counter and shush me for hours. He could shush my neck, my breasts, my lower back, my…

“Dinner tonight?” he asked. “Unless you’re still mad at me for shushing you.” His dark eyes were hungry and wolf-like, impossible to look away from. “Shushing you is something I swear I’ll never do again.”

“I don’t know why I got so upset. I’m certainly not perfect.”

“Let’s blame my stalker.”

The front door jingled with customers coming in. I waved at the woman with long, white hair, realizing she’d been at Dottie’s workshop the day before.

“Small world,” she said to me, then started browsing in the staff picks section.

Dalton turned to wave at the woman, then returned to staring at me. “This town is incredible. You all know each other, don’t you?”

“Beaverdale’s not quite that small. We’re not Wolfspit. That’s just down the river from here. They passed a law in the fifties, that you couldn’t marry within the town.”

“And?”

“People just stopped getting married.”

He laughed. “We love who we love, and we have little choice in the matter.”

“We always have choices.”

He drummed on the counter top. “Dinner tonight? Shall I swing by at closing and pick you up?”

“I don’t know. Your life is not like my life. You have a stalker. It’s been fun, but we had our day, and I know I’m not the girl for you.”

The white-haired woman came up to the counter, no books in her hand.

“Anything I can help you find, ma’am?”

She turned to Dalton, taking a really good look at him, then turned back to me. “What would Dottie say?” she asked me.

He said, “Who’s Dottie? I don’t have my Beaverdale-to-English handbook.”

Damn it, the woman was right. I was refusing Dalton because I worried I wasn’t good enough for him. But I was the only one of me, an original, and that was way more than just good enough.

I tilted my chin, showing my sexy, vulnerable neck to Dalton. Rubbing my index finger along my lower lip, I said, “Dottie would tell me to act like I’m really busy, but offer to rearrange some things at great sacrifice so I can see you for dinner tonight. But you may not pick me up from work. I need to change into something more charming.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said, backing away. “Seven o’clock? I remember where you live, in that cute little house.”

“Perfect.”

“Perfect,” the other woman repeated after me.

Dalton backed up to the door and opened it without taking his eyes off me.

“Wear something casual,” he said. “Jeans or whatever.”

“Casual. Okay.”

He slipped out, waved through the glass door, then walked away.

I started breathing again. How long had I been holding my breath?

“Dottie would be proud,” the woman said.

I didn’t know whether to hug her or kick her out of the store, so I just nodded and dumped the pens and pencils out of the tin to give them a good sorting.

Eyes wide open
, I told myself, though it was probably too late.

Here’s how nervous I was about my date with Mr. Sexytrousers Dalton Deangelo: I sat in a pile of clothes, inside my walk-in closet, and bawled.

Shayla got home from an early shift at the restaurant and came running up the stairs to my room, asking, “Is somebody torturing a small mammal in here?”

“Small? No, not small.” I picked up a pair of sky-blue jeans and tossed them at her. I’d sent her enough text messages that she was well-aware of my imminent date and emotional disaster. I wailed, “Why did you let me buy these? One wash and they’re shrunk to hell. And the worst part is, they weren’t even on sale.” (More sobs, plus additional sniveling.) “Just take my credit card and freeze it in a block of ice, then grab the slipcover off the sofa and cut a neck hole in it, because that’s what I’m wearing tonight.”

She crossed her arms, no pity in her golden-brown eyes at all. “Poor Peaches. She has a date with a hot actor.” She frowned at the bright blue jeans and picked them up. “Of course these don’t fit you. They’re mine. I was wondering where these were.”

“Don’t mess with my head! You’re the one who threw out the scale, and now I’ve gained twenty pounds, haven’t I?”

She grinned. “Wearing your fancy underwear, I see. Planning to show him your peaches up close?”

I pulled a dress off a hanger and clutched it to my chest. The pricey lingerie set had been a splurge on my last birthday, and I’d never actually worn the silky cream-colored bra and panties with the contrasting black lace. They looked and smelled lovely in my underwear drawer, but I’d finally cut off the tags that afternoon.

“A woman’s fancy underwear is just for her,” I said.

Shayla crouched down next to me in the jumbled closet and rubbed her palms up and down my bare shins. “This isn’t this morning’s shave. You’re going to sleep with him tonight.”

I pushed her away from me, laughing. “I’m not the fun one.”

She raised one immaculately-groomed dark eyebrow as if to say,
we’ll see about that
.

Shayla started looking through the clothes on the floor around me. “You know, I’ll have to re-name my vibrator,” she said. “Since you’re dating the real Drake Cheshire, I can’t be riding his choo-choo train to O-town.”

“Does your sex toy really need a name?”

“What would you suggest?”

I got to my feet and dried my eyes. “How about a title? Like… The Assassin. Because he gets in and does the job.”

She swatted my butt playfully. “Damn, girl. They should hire you to do their marketing.”

“I’m awesome at everything but my own life.”

“Let’s get you dressed before the second act of your pity party.”

She started rooting through my closet, setting aside things to try on.

We managed to find
my
bright blue jeans, which were a similar shade to my roommate’s, but a few sizes larger. Fastening the button, I wondered if I hadn’t lost a pound or two. What a good feeling it is to pull on slightly loose pants! Relaxed clothes are a gift that keeps on giving all day.*

*Sweatpants don’t count.

The doorbell rang right on time, and I was surprised to find a middle-aged man with a brown mustache standing at my front door. It wasn’t until I spotted the ponytail that I recognized him from two nights before.

“Vern,” he said, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Dalton’s driver and butler.”

“Butler!” I turned and looked at Shayla, who just shrugged.

I hadn’t realized butlers actually existed, outside of period dramas on BBC, but here was one in the flesh.

“Mr. Deangelo was running late with dinner preparations,” Vern said. “He sent me to fetch you.”

“Fetch me?” I turned and looked at Shayla, who managed another shrug.

Vern turned around and started walking back down to the car. He wore black pants and a white shirt, and from behind he looked a lot like a woman, with broad hips. Vern’s body shape had absolutely nothing to do with my situation, but my mind latched onto it as relief from feeling nervous about the date. I followed him out to the car, got into the back seat, folded my hands on my lap, and thought about Vern the Butler.

Was there a Mrs. Vern who loved him exactly how he was, wide hips and all? Why did I notice other people’s body shapes in a critical manner when I had such a chip on my shoulder about everyone noticing mine? Was there a school for training butlers, or some standard examination they had to pass to call themselves a butler? Could women become butlers?

Vern guided the long, black car away from the heart of town, away from the two best restaurants in town.

I looked around for the button that would lower the panel between me and Vern, but the toggle that seemed like the logical controller simply adjusted the angle of my plush leather seat.

Mystery ride, it was.

The scenery outside changed from town to fields and farmhouses, then just fields.

I sent a text message to Shayla:
If you don’t hear from me in one hour, Vern the Butler has abducted me for his own nefarious purposes. We’re heading north on Springer Road, so start looking for my body parts in that direction.

Five minutes later, Shayla messaged me back:
How special! I’m glad you’re wearing nice underwear!