“You didn’t say the wrong thing,” I let her know once we’re near the cash registers. “He’s just… a lot.”
“Well, sign me up for all of that if it’s too much for you. I’d like to see how I handle it,” she mutters before she claps her hand over her mouth and mutters, “Sorry! Foot-in-mouth-itis. I swear it feels like I suddenly ovulated the minute that man of yours walked in here looking at you like you’re his sole reason for breathing. I don’t mean to embarrass you.” She fans herself. “So inappropriate of me, especially considering you’re doing me a favor here.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “He has that effect on women, unfortunately. Just lower your voice because he has superhero level hearing and his ego is already the size of Texas.”
“The way he looks at you, wow, sister. You’re a lucky girl.”
“He’s definitely out of my league,” I mutter. “Always has been. He’s acting different now and I’m having trouble getting my head around it.”
She rears back. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’m a short, stereotypical nerdy bookish girl, with glasses and too much junk in her trunk. I’m also clumsy as hell, can’t cook to save my life so no wifely qualities whatsoever, and I’ve got some less than ideal personality quirks. I don’t usually dress like this either. I’m not exactly his type.”
“Nothing stereotypical about you from where I stand. You’ve got some self-confidence issues, clearly, but you gotta know you’re pretty. You’ve got pretty eyes, great hair, those bee-stung lips, and a rack most women would pay big money for. I would, if I had more than six dollars and thirty-seven cents in my savings account.” She points to her non-voluptuous chest. “And your derriere? You’re pin-up model shaped. That dress is perfect for highlighting your assets.”
I shrug.
“Be confident. Own all you’ve got goin’ on, girl. He’s obviously into all of it.”
I shrug again before I pick up a fluffy champagne-colored braided throw with sparkly threads woven into it and chuck it into the cart, thinking it’ll look good draped over that pastel pink reading chair. And now my face is hotter because I shouldn’t even be thinking about that chair in Jase’s house in a reading nook he’s planning on building for me with his very capable hands, because he remembered I like to read up there.
I stop myself from lingering on that thought too long because I could get to watch him build that reading nook, watch those very talented hands build bookshelves from scratch. I’ve always loved to watch Jase work with his hands.
I grab two new bookish coffee mugs and when my total is rung up, there’s exactly fifty dollars left available on the card.
Jase appears beside me and is gathering up bags of books.
“Can I buy a smaller gift card with what’s leftover?” I ask.
“You can just leave the balance on this one and use it later,” she tells me.
“How many kids do you have, Marla?” I ask.
“One. A little girl. She’s three.”
“Then you keep the gift card. Here,” I say. “Buy some new books for her.”
“Oh my goodness. You don’t have to do that!”
“I insist.”
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to accept it,” she says.
“Get the manager,” I suggest.
***
“That was sweet of you, Bay,” Jase says, pulling out of the parking lot.
“It was you that paid for the gift card,” I remind him.
“It was sweet ofyou,” he repeats.
I gave the manager a rave review of Marla, telling her she knows her stuff and asking if I’m allowed to give her the balance on my gift card as a tip. Marla’s manager agreed it was no problem and thanked us for our patronage. Though the manager was near retirement age, it didn’t stop her from eyeballing Jase appreciatively.
He loaded up the back seat with many bags of books along with my bougie blanket and new mugs and now we’re pulling in to the parking lot for the steakhouse down the street.
“Mom and Dad bring me here for my milestone birthdays,” I say, staring at the building.