Out of Eden. Beth Ciotta

the sight of those river-blue eyes. Her stomach constricted as she thought she’d maybe, possibly insulted him. Normally she went out of her way not to hurt someone’s feelings. “Not that you’re not attractive. I mean you’re gorgeous. In a, you know, beefcake sort of way.”

      He raised a brow.

      “But I’m not the beefcake type,” she rambled on. “I mean, you’re not the type for me. That kiss was just…well, I was drunk and you were there.”

      “So if Ashe…”

      “Exactly,” she lied. “What can I say? I was pretty blitzed.”

      “No argument there.”

      Embarrassed and oddly provoked, she hitched the purse she’d just picked up at Boone’s higher on her shoulder and hiked her chin a notch. “I’m just saying you don’t have to worry about me stalking you or coming on to you, because I’m over you. Completely. That schoolgirl crush? History. So…there. We’re okay. Right?” She stuck out her hand, offering a truce, retaining her dignity. “Friends?”

      He clasped her palm, stroked his thumb over her skin.

      Heat shot up her arm and burned a path from her heart to her…Uh-oh.

      He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make her insides gooey. “Join me for a cup of coffee?”

      She blinked. “What?”

      “You were heading toward Kerri’s.”

      “Yes, but…”

      “Friends confide in each other.”

      “Sure, but…”

      “The beef you have with Spenser. Maybe I can help.”

      Kylie stared, his words not registering as much as his touch. He was still holding her hand, still stroking her skin. She tingled everywhere. Eh-ver-ree-where. Even her hair tingled. How was that possible? How could she get zip from a kiss and zing from holding hands?

      Then again, this morning she was sober.

      This was bad. Not the sober part. The zing part.

      Really, really bad.

      Kylie jerked free. “Thanks, but…I’m late.” She spun back toward the hardware store.

      “Thought you were heading for the café,” Jack said with a smile in his voice.

      Was he teasing her? The thought occurred that he’d done that thumb-stroking thing on purpose, just to see if she really was cured of her schoolgirl crush. Curiosity? Arrogance? Although, it wasn’t like Jack to lead a girl on.

      “I was,” she said over her shoulder, feigning an easy smile. “But now, thanks to our chat, I’m late. Meeting someone. Gotta run.” She intentionally left the identity of that someone to his imagination. Hopefully, he’d imagine a guy. Maybe even—eew—Ashe. She sure as heck didn’t want him thinking she was hopelessly single, which she was, but that wasn’t the point.

      Flustered, Kylie rushed over the threshold of Hank’s Hardware and slammed into Faye.

      “You’re twenty minutes late.”

      “Sorry.” Kylie wanted to spew about the unnerving encounter with Jack, but she felt stupid. Just this morning, she’d sworn she was over him. Actually, she’d declared her undying love dead the day she’d learned he was getting married—much to Faye’s relief. Faye, who’d endured years of Kylie’s unrequited pining. Faye, who apparently had problems of her own. As soon as they had a private moment, she’d have to ask why she and Stan were on the outs.

      “I left this at the bar last night,” Kylie said, flashing her purse and hoping it excused her delay. “Had to stop and pick it up.”

      “You drove without a license? Are you nuts?” Faye snapped her fingers. “Ah, yes. The new you. The rebel rouser. What next? Picketing the Bixley? Expand or else?”

      Again with the sarcasm. Kylie refused to take offense. If she stayed upbeat, maybe she could lighten her friend’s dark mood. “I could zoom my bike down Main Street topless,” she teased while glancing at the signs hanging above the aisles. “That would cause a stir.”

      “Speeding. Indecent exposure.” Faye sighed and shook her head. “You’re determined to land in jail, aren’t you?”

      Kylie snorted and moved toward aisle seven. “Jack wouldn’t arrest me. It would piss off Spenser.”

      “Spenser’s half a world away.”

      “Don’t remind me.” Kylie gestured to her flower-covered Doc Martens. “What do you think?”

      “So that’s how you’re going to shake up Eden. Impractical footwear.”

      “For a start.”

      “Nice ensemble,” Faye said, gesturing to the rest of Kylie’s attire. “Sort of retro Madonna. Except…you rode your bike in a skirt?”

      “Yep.”

      “No tights or leggings?”

      “I’m a little backed up on laundry.”

      “Tell me you’re wearing shorts.”

      “I’m wearing shorts.” Kylie stopped in the aisle stocked with paint supplies. “So about renovating McGraw’s…”

      “I can’t believe you’re going through with this.”

      “Believe it.” Kylie surveyed the shelves. Brushes, pads and rollers. Drop cloths. Sandpaper. Solvents and thinners. “I have no idea what to buy.”

      “Don’t look at me,” Faye said. “The only thing I know how to paint is fingernails.”

      “Ha.”

      “I’m serious. I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’ll need to paint the store. That’s what you have in mind, right? You’re going to make good on your threat? Pink walls, yellow trim? Spenser’s going to kill you.”

      Kylie waggled her brows. “Spenser’s half a world away.”

      “Can I help?”

      “Hi, Travis.”

      “Kylie.”

      Travis Martin was a long-time employee of Hank’s Hardware. Tall. Fit. His huge puppy-dog eyes and fleshy lips softened his hard-angled face. His red hair clashed with his olive skin. His nose had a weird bump and dent. She’d asked him about that once. An old baseball injury, he’d told her. He also had a scar dissecting his left eyebrow. He wasn’t handsome, but he was attractive, even with the unflattering hair color. She didn’t know his ancestry. Irish-Italian? Spanish-German? She didn’t even know where he’d lived specifically before moving to Eden, although she’d heard through the grapevine Montana. Or was it Wyoming? She never could place the accent.

      She did, however, know his shoe size.

      Mostly he purchased his footwear at a nearby department store—shudder—but he occasionally shopped at McGraw’s. She wasn’t sure she’d call him a satisfied customer. Although she always sold him what he asked for, he always seemed apathetic. Then again, he was a man, and men didn’t generally fuss over shoes. Especially the practical, silent type.

      She indicated his latest purchase. Insulated work boots—waterproof and rugged. Suitable for manual labor. “How are those holding up?”

      “Good.”

      “Because if you don’t like them—”

      “Like ’em fine.”

      “I have a new shipment of boots coming in.”

      He noted her Doc Martens. “With flowers?” He quirked an excuse for a smile. “No, thanks.”

      “We want to buy some paint,” Faye interrupted.