Page 75 of Coffee Shop Girl
I dipped my canoe paddle farther into the water, casting a dancing ripple on the surface. “I don’t know for sure what Maverick is thinking, but I know it’s not a relationship.”
“A flirt fest?”
“Ah...”
“Are you his friend?”
“Yes.”
“Client, for sure.”
My nose wrinkled. That didn’t throw us in an ideal light, and friend was a little tooblahfor me.Love interestsounded as exciting asmiddle-school crush.
“Do we have to label it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I can tell you what he’s thinking,” she said, leaning back and setting a floppy straw hat on top of her head. Lizbeth was all easy grace, like a young Audrey Hepburn. “This is a classic romance, Bethie. He’s a troubled soldier returning from war with PTSD and a closed-off heart. Only the perfect, feisty woman who stands up to him when all the others won’t will steal his heart. Just be sure to refuse his kiss and not be impressed with the glorious state of his body.”
She clutched dramatically at her chest while I tilted my head back and laughed. Maverick had PTSD about something, all right, but I had my doubts it had anything to do with the war.
Her smug grin faded.
“Seriously, Bethie. Is he messing around, or what? Not that I’m complaining. I could listen to his voice all day, and Ellie isn’t as tense when he’s around. But he’s got to pee or get off the pot, you know?”
While I didn’t love the metaphor as it pertained to me, I could see where she was coming from. A thousand responses flooded my mouth, but I couldn’t say any of them. They all revolved around two unexpected attachments that had fallen into my lap weeks ago. I didn’t want Lizbeth to think they were a hardship in my life.
Besides, Maverick would roll through here once he finished his grandpa’s cabin, girls or no girls.
“He’s not the committing type,” I said. “He mentioned not even having a place to live while he travels around fixing businesses. I hardly think he’d want to be calling home to a girlfriend while he gets his company off the ground. What we have is just . . . for fun.”
Lizbeth lifted a hand as if I’d proven a point. “He’s the stereotype! I told you.”
“He is not,” I muttered, splashing her with my oar. “He isn’t troubled.”
“But his heart is closed.”
“His heart is ... fine.”
She smirked when the answer stuttered out of me, then her expression became serious again. “Maybe he’s never felt love.”
I groaned. “Those romances are filling your brain with utter mush. They’re going to take you away from me if I don’t start giving you something of substance to read.”
A flash of fear appeared on her face but vanished just as quickly.
I let out a long, regretful breath.Thathad been really stupid. “I’m sorry,” I said, shoulders slumping. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
Lizbeth gave a half-smile and a shrug. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” But her voice sounded strained. Any hint of trouble and she panicked, though she tended to hide it well. “And you’re wrong. I’m too brilliant for them to touch me intellectually.”
She said it without malice or arrogance, and she was right. Lizbeth was borderline genius. She’d skipped two full grades in elementary school. If Mama hadn’t died, this next year would have been her senior year in high school. Her quick mind computed at twice the speed of mine, which made her fairy-like creativity even more interesting.
“When are you going to college?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
“Dunno. Thought about testing out in a year or two, then applying around. I need to ace the SAT first.”
“You could probably go anywhere.”
