Page 70 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“Huh?”
“Look at Layla’s boobs,” Eden said. All three of them paused to admire Layla’s rack. “Now, she’s wearing a to-die-for, high-end, sexy push-up bra under that deputy’s uniform. And why is that, Deputy? Why are you wearing an underwire for your shift?”
Layla shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “Because when my boobs look good, I feel good.”
“And what happens when you feel good?” Eden asked.
“My Awesome Sexy Factor goes through the roof. When I feel sexy, I exude sexy. When I feel good, people want to be around me. And not just the ones with penises. Same goes for our on-trend, vampy friend here,” she said, pointing at Eden.
“A good-quality mascara and leggings that make my ass look like a gift from the heavens are not required for toilet scrubbing or scone baking or vineyard walking,” Eden informed her. “But when I put a little effort into myself, when I pull on the perfect cleavage sweater or try a new eyeliner, or get eight hours of sleep, I feel like the best version of myself.”
They both looked at her expectantly.
“All I’m hearing is you saying if I get better bras and slap on some makeup, maybe I can find a guy,” Sammy said sullenly.
“Honey, that is not what these beautiful young women are saying,” Bobby said, stopping next to the table, one hand on a curvy hip. “You gotta take care of you first. If you’re running all over town taking care of everybody else, who’s taking care of you?”
“Is this a conversation the whole town has about me?” Sammy wondered.
“Just the Dr. Sammy Roundtable,” Eden smarted off.
“We’re up to forty-two members,” Layla said.
“Meetings are every other Tuesday,” Bobby teased.
“You run yourself all over town working and elbowing your way to the front of the line to volunteer for every damn thing. What’s left for you? When’s the last time you did something for you like blow-dried your hair?” Layla asked.
“Or got a facial?” Bobby suggested.
“Or sat in front of your fireplace with a big ol’ glass of wine and a sexy book?” Eden added.
“Or ate an entire tray of brownies?”
“Exhausted people aren’t sexy. They’re not the life of the party,” Liz, the town florist, chimed in from the table next to them. “They’re too tired to have fun.”
Sammy felt a little stunned.
“It’s a good news-bad news kind of thing,” Eden told her.
“Good News: You’re hot AF, dummy,” Layla said fondly.
“Bad News: You’re the one who needs to make the effort,” Eden said. “Until you start taking care of yourself and remembering what a brilliant, beautiful badass you are—”
“Awesome alliteration,” Bobby cut in.
“Thank you, Bobby,” Eden said with a quick grin. “Until you start taking care of yourself, no one else is going to excavate under the layers of exhaustion and pathological helpfulness and self-neglect to find your sexy center.”
The women at the tables around them broke out into spontaneous applause. Eden and Layla leaned back in their chairs, wisdom dispensed.
“Raise your vibe, honey, and watch the world fall at your feet,” Bobby told her.
Sure. She’d just schedule in longer showers and some online shopping sprees in between calving seasons and vaccinations and renovations to the farm. Maybe take up paragliding or pottery. Didn’t they understand? There was no time left over in the day for herself.
But she was too damn tired to say just that.
The shop door opened on a burst of cold. With it came one stubbled, scowling Ryan Sosa. He was wearing glasses today. They made him look like a rugged, crabby poet.
Sammy felt her vagina flutter in appreciation.He was still here! Still gorgeous! Still grumpy! And he was looking right at her.
