Page 37 of Waiting for Tuesday

I turned back to the box of lotion I’d been working on, determined not to obsess for a second longer, and climbed up another step on the ladder. The herbal scent of rosemary and lavender hit my nose, and I looked to the moss-covered basket that hung from the ceiling —one of four that graced each corner of the room. Everything was crisp and clean, the perfect offset for the rustic brown paper of the Simply Tuesday’s packaging. Exactly what I’d wanted. So why wasn’t I happy?

My head sagged a little as I pulled a bottle of lotion from the box. My heart knew the reason, even though my mind was having a hard time keeping up. The kiss from John made me realize I’d been selling myself short for a long time. Possibly my whole life. His kiss brought to life the feelings that came with fairy tales, romance novels, and dreams of little girls. Something I’d convinced myself didn’t exist. So why did it have to come from a man I knew couldn’t give me a happy ending? A man who was a player, one who had multiple women in a single night?

I placed the bottle of lotion firmly on the shelf and hastily grabbed another. It slipped from my hand, landed on the step of the ladder, and then finally hit the hardwood floor with a thud.

“You okay?” Becky asked, startling me from my thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I climbed down the steps and snatched the bottle of lotion from the white distressed flooring. The fucking floor where he’d kissed me. “Damn it!” It had been three days since his mouth had been on mine, yet my lips still burned from the touch.

Becky sat on the other side of the room on the floor, her brows knit together as she peered at me. “You sure?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah.” But my insides twinged with guilt from not telling her what was going on. In the twenty years we’d known each other, John was the first man I’d ever kissed that she didn’t know about.

“What should I do next?” she asked, and I glanced over my shoulder before climbing up the ladder again.

“How about the cold-pressed soaps? There are a couple of cases over in the corner.”

She nodded and pushed herself off the floor.

It felt wrong keeping secrets from Becky, but at the same time, I didn’t want the questions. Not while John still worked under the same roof. I’d eventually tell her as I always did. I just wanted to do it when he was a safe distance away, so she didn’t fill my thoughts with dreams.

She grabbed a box from the corner and carried it over to the two-tiered display in the center of the shop. “Anyone coming to interview today?”

I turned my back to her and began stacking lotions on the highest shelf. “The lady who does placenta encapsulations. She’s coming at noon.”

Becky made a gagging noise behind me and I grinned.

“That’s so gross, Tuesday. Why would people do that?”

I laughed, finally finding the comic relief I needed, and looked over my shoulder, but my eyes locked on John standing in the doorway.

I instantly sobered. My heart flip-flopped in my chest, and I forced my eyes over to Becky. “They help replenish the mother’s hormones after birth.” My voice was flat, my cheeks incredibly heated, and I hadn’t realized until that moment, but I’d missed him. I knew nothing about him, but seeing his face just now was like breathing air for the first time after a long tunnel… and having your wish come true.

Becky narrowed her eyes, obviously noticing my fluster. “I don’t care what it does.” She rose to her feet. “I wouldn’t take placenta pills if you paid me.” She turned to John and lifted her chin. “How about you? Are you into placenta?”

He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m John Eaton.”

She smiled. “Becky. And you didn’t answer the question.”

He grinned a little and glanced at me. “No, I’m not into placenta.” But the way he said it, with his voice lowered a little, and his eyes searching mine—I couldn’t breathe.

I swallowed then turned to my display and continued stocking lotions on the shelf. I hated that he could affect me like this. He was a player, someone I needed to stay away from, yet my body wasn’t listening to what I was throwing down. It wanted him, and the tiny flutters all the way to my toes were only one of the signals.

He moved to lean against the counter next to me, his tool belt resting perfectly over his narrow hips, and his forearm flexing as he braced himself there. He grabbed a cookie from the plate and took a bite.

I cleared my throat and looked over. “Did you need something?”

He shook his head. “Just expecting a friend.”

“Oh.” I nodded and continued to work. But I was irritated—and it was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. He hadn’t come out here in two days, yet here he was with the gall to show himself looking likethat.His t-shirt stretching across his broad chest, his beard all shadowy and accenting his manly jaw, and his lips—a shade of pink that would make any girl jealous, but somehow looking absolutely perfect on him. The way he looked every day.

I peered at him, frustrated by all of it. “Those are lactation cookies,” I muttered.

His face contorted with disgust, and I couldn’t help but smirk with satisfaction. I wasn’t being fair. I was mad at myself, not him.

He spit the contents of the cookie into his napkin and coughed slightly. “Did I just eat placenta?”

I giggled at the thought then attempted to stifle the growing laughter with my hand. “N-no. Just oatmeal and brewer’s yeast.” But it wasn’t working.

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