Читать книгу The Prodigal Valentine - Karen Templeton - Страница 8

The week following New Year’s passed uneventfully enough, Mercy supposed. Decorations came down and got put away, and life returned to its usual post-holiday stuttering, sluggish semblance of normalcy. Mercy sometimes saw Ben coming out of his parents’ house, and they’d wave and say “How’s it going?” and the other one would say, “Fine, you?” but that was pretty much the extent of their interaction.

All things considered, probably a good thing, she mused as she leaned heavily against one of the shop’s glass counters, her head braced in one palm, morosely leafing through a display catalog. Since Ben—despite his showing up on her doorstep on New Year’s Eve in a cloud of super-saturated testosterone—still clearly wasn’t interested in starting something nobody had any intention of finishing. Nor, apparently, in a friends-with-benefits scenario.

She slapped to the next page. So why, exactly, was she morose again?

Other than the fact that it had been far too long since she’d gotten naked with anybody, that is. Or that, now that she’d done the kissy-face thing with Ben, Ben was the only “anybody” she cared to get naked with.

Sometimes, life was just plain cruel.

The bell over the door jingled. Mercy glanced up as a young mother with two very small boys in tow pushed her way inside. “Timmy, stay with me,” the mother said to the older boy, an adorable curly-headed blond, then smiled her thanks when their part-timer, Trish, helped the mother settle her youngest into a collapsible stroller before leading them back to the baby and toddler section.

“So what do you think?” said Cass, one of Mercy’s partners, leaning her tall, Eddie Bauer-ified frame against the case. Cotton sweater, cord skirt, shades of beige. Her feathery blond hair swept over her shoulders when she pointed to one of the photos. “Those heart-shaped balloons would look great tied in bunches in the centers of the displays, wouldn’t they? We could give them away to the kids when they came in.”

“Valentine’s Day sucks,” Mercy muttered, slapping down the next page.

“Hey. You’ve been grumpy all week. What gives?”

“PMS?” Mercy said without looking up.

“Nope, your chocolate binge was two weeks ago. Try again.”

“Yeesh, you keeping track of my cycles now or what? So I’m just in a weird, rotten mood, okay? And sure, the balloons are fine.” She flipped another page, keeping half an eye out for the little blond dude, who’d wandered back out to the front and was now holding a low, intense conversation with a panda bear in the stuffed animal display.

“And how about,” Cass said, “a bunch of large foil hearts on the wall behind the cash register—”

“Don’t press your luck. I’m having enough trouble with the balloons. What?” she said when the blonde poked her arm.

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s brought on this sudden, rabid hatred for Valentine’s Day.”