Page 92 of Ripped & Shipped
But my relief is premature, because Esther loops back around to address me.
“Chris, I agree with Virginia.” Esther refers to Memaw by her given name. “I think it’s great you’re seeing Ella Mae. Put family feuds to death. And besides, someone ought to have mercy on that girl, after all. Otherwise she’d never find herself a husband.”
Mercy on her? This town. I think I see red. Why can’t anyone appreciate Ella Mae’s special qualities that are so obvious to me? I get it. Sure, she’s been over-the-top—annoying even. She even irritated me, so I understand how off putting her behavior has been at times, but she’s never been unkind.
This whole conversation is one that would gut Ella Mae if she happened to overhear it. And yet, no one’s feeling the least bit guilty for acting like she’s a charity case when it comes to romance.
“What’s wrong with Ella Mae?” I defend.
Laura has already picked up her scissors and shut her gaping mouth by now, but her brow raises like she wants to take my temperature.
I can’t help myself. Even if all Ella Mae and I ever are is friends, I can’t just sit by and let this pass.
“Isn’t she the one who dropped everything to help Jayme get her publishing deal?” I ask, looking each woman in the eye. “And like Mabel just said, doesn’t Ella Mae take time out of her week to coach Mabel in everything she wants to know about being online? And what has she ever done besides being a little bit loud and over-the-top? She volunteered her time to take the photos of the firemen last year, just so the town could get a new popcorn machine. If you think about it, she’s constantly giving to others without any thought of return. And this is the thanks she gets. People talking behind her back.”
I finish my speech, close my eyes for a moment, and then I look at Laura who has a stunned expression on her face.
“Cut my hair.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER31
Ella Mae
I’m nursingmy nighttime tea. It’s one of those evenings I feel like simply doing nothing at all. Meg’s out with Joe, and I have the house all to myself. Being an influencer means I call my own hours. It also means I work late into the night most nights, and I am on the job over weekends and holidays.
So, yes. I’m sitting here, already in my fuzzy socks and a pair of pink pj’s with sloths all over them, with my warm mug of tea in my hands. I’m so on brand right now, and the theme is: Unplug, girly.
My hand almost itches to reach for my phone to check my notifications, and okay, I’ll admit it, to check out those pictures from our photo shoot today—especially that kitchen kiss. That’s the stuff dreams are made of. But not my dreams. I learned a long time ago that dreams are for girls like Lexi, Shannon, and Em. Maybe Jayme and Laura had a harder go of things, but even they ended up with their prince at the end of their fairy tale.
I’m not a princess, and I’m not checking the driveway for white knights on horses. I’m my own white knight. Knightess? Knighterina? Knightella? Whatever. I’ve got my own back.
A sigh escapes my lips. Seriously. A sigh? The thought of what Chris’ mouth felt like on mine has been on an infinite loop ever since he left. What.a.kiss. I’ve been kissed before. I’m nearly thirty. But I’ve never been kissed likethat.
Thank goodness Meg had the sense to blurt something out. I was about to climb across the island and scale Chris like one of those guys who climb for coconuts in Polynesia.
Okay. One peek at our photos won’t kill me. I can just scan my camera roll. I don’t have to go online. I set my tea on the coffee table in front of me and open my phone.
There we are—piggyback riding, walking and holding hands, and kissing. Whew. It’s a little much to take in. In a different world, I’d say I’m falling for the soldier. But this is Bordeaux. And lines are drawn. Besides, I’m Ella Mae. And that alone means no man from this town would dare tarnish their reputation by dating me.
It’s okay. I’m having more fun than I hoped to have doing this charade with Chris. And if it means a few more kisses, and a few more laughs, I’ll take what I can get. At least at the end of all this we’ll still be friends. I think that’s what we’ve become. Even that development is basically a miracle.
There’s a knock at the door. Did Meg forget her keys? It’s only seven forty-five. She wouldn’t be back so soon.
I stand up, shouting out, “Who’s there?” as I walk toward the front door.
“It’s me,” comes the all too familiar voice, that also happens to send goosebumps across my skin.
“Wait a second. I’m not decent.” I say.
I hear Chris clear his throat. I don’t know what he’s thinking, so I clarify. “I’m in my baby sloth pjs. Let me get some sweats on.”
I hear his rumbly chuckle through the door and I want to throw it open. Just once, I’d have him come in, we’d cuddle on the couch, make out a little, talk, laugh. Just be together. No faking, no worrying about tomorrow, or this town, or stalkers. Just Chris and me and an evening together.
I scurry upstairs and change and then I come down and let him in.
He looks a little distraught. His hair’s cut shorter and his beard’s been trimmed. Thank you, Laura. Who knew it was possible for Chris to look even yummier than he did when he left today?
