Dallas Schulze - Lovers And Other Strangers

“The marigolds or breakfast?” he asked, fascinated by her circuitous conversational style.

“Breakfast,” she said, her eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I knew I liked marigolds but I didn’t know I was going to invite you to breakfast until she annoyed me.”

“So this was all part of a plot to irritate Cacklemeyer?” A more sensitive man would probably be offended, Reece thought.

“I don’t think you could call it a plot.” Shannon’s tone was thoughtful. “If it had been a plot, I would have planned a little better and bought some decent food. Oh, wait!” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “There’s a box of waffles in the freezer, but I don’t think I have any syrup. I have grape jelly, though,” she added hopefully.

Reece barely restrained a shudder. Her idea of “decent” and his were not quite the same. Nothing—not the best coffee he’d had in months, not five feet eight inches of long-legged, blue-eyed, dangerously attractive redhead—could make him eat toaster waffles spread with grape jelly.

Shannon must have read something of his thoughts, because her hopeful expression faded into vague suspicion. “Are you a health food nut? One of those people who only eats roots and berries and never lets a preservative touch their lips?”

Reece thought about the Twinkies lying on the seat of the truck. “No, I’ve got nothing against an occasional preservative.” He finished off his coffee—no sense in letting it go to waste—and set the cup down, trying to think of a tactful way to make his escape.

Seeing his vaguely hunted expression, Shannon felt a twinge of amusement. Not everyone shared her casual attitude toward food. “Not a fan of grape jelly?”

Reece caught the gleam in her eye and relaxed. “Actually, I’m allergic.”

“To grape jelly?” Shannon arched one brow in skeptical question.

“It’s a rare allergy,” he admitted.

“I bet.” She told herself that she wasn’t in the least charmed by the way one corner of his mouth tilted in a half smile. “Fred and Wilma are on the jelly glass,” she tempted.

“The Flintstones?” Reece shook his head, trying to look regretful. “That’s tough to turn down, but my throat swells shut and then I turn blue.”

“Really?” Her bright, interested look startled a smile from Reece.

“I hope you’re not going to make me demonstrate.”

“I guess not.” Her mouth took on a faintly pouty look that turned Reece’s thoughts in directions that had nothing to do with breakfast. He reined them in as he straightened away from the counter.

“Maybe I can take a rain check on breakfast?” he asked politely.

“I’ll get an extra box of Cap’n Crunch next time I go shopping,” she promised, and he tried not to shudder.

“You did what?” Her eyes wide with surprise, Kelly turned away from the pegboard full of sewing notions, a stack of chalk markers forgotten in her hand.

“I invited him to breakfast,” Shannon repeated.

“That’s what I thought you said.” Kelly came over to the cutting table where Shannon was making up color-coordinated packets of fabric and leaned against its edge, her expression a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “You just sauntered up and offered him bacon and eggs?”

“Froot Loops,” Shannon corrected her. She slid a cardboard price tag onto a length of lavender ribbon before tying it around a stack of half a dozen different pink fabrics. “I didn’t have any bacon. Or eggs.”

“Froot Loops? You invited Reece Morgan over for Froot Loops? And you waited until now to tell me?” It was difficult to say what Kelly found most shocking.

“Yesterday was your day off. And there’s nothing wrong with Froot Loops. I eat them all the time.”

“You could have called me at home.” Kelly grumbled. “And Froot Loops aren’t exactly what I’d call company fare.” She shook her head, her dark eyes starting to gleam with laughter. “I’d have given anything to see his face when you put the box on the table.”

“Actually, the box didn’t get that far.” Shannon began folding the next stack of fabric.

It was Tuesday morning, the sky was gray with the promise of rain that probably wouldn’t show up for another month and there were no customers. It was a perfect chance to catch up on a few things around the shop. And to indulge in a little gossip. Glancing at Kelly’s stunned expression, Shannon couldn’t deny that she was enjoying being the one with astonishing news to deliver.

“Apparently, Froot Loops and Pepsi are not among his favorite breakfast combos.”

“Who can blame him?” Kelly pulled her face into a comical grimace. “If he really is a mob boss, he’s probably already put a contract out on your life just for suggesting it.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a vegetarian zombie.”

“That’s Paul McCartney.” Kelly picked up the chalk pencils and carried them over to the notions wall to hang them up.

“Paul is a zombie?” Shannon looked surprised. “He looks so normal.”

“No, he’s a vegetarian.”

“Does that mean he can’t be a zombie?”

“Zombies pretty much have to be carnivores, don’t you think?” Kelly wandered back to the cutting table and reached for the roll of ribbon and began snipping it into eighteen-inch lengths. “I mean, how frightening would it be if a bunch of squash-eating undead were roaming the streets?”

“I guess it would be pretty frightening for the squash.” Shannon tossed another fabric packet into the box.

“I suppose,” Kelly agreed absently. “What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Reece Morgan.” Kelly’s tone was exasperated. “Who were we talking about? And if you mention Paul McCartney, I’m going to brain you with the nearest blunt object.”

“I wasn’t going to mention him,” Shannon lied meekly.

“Good.” Kelly set the ribbon aside, lifted a bolt of fabric from the stack leaning against the side of the cutting table, clicked open a rotary cutter and began slicing off half-yard chunks. “You’re the first eye witness I’ve talked to, so tell me what the infamous Reece Morgan is really like. Did he send shivers up your spine?” she asked, grinning.

“Not that I noticed.” At least not the kind of shivers Kelly was talking about. If there had been a small—practically infinitesimal—shiver of awareness, she was keeping it to herself. The last thing she needed was for Kelly to turn her matchmaking eye in Reece Morgan’s direction.

“Is he mean looking? Does he have a patch over one eye? Antennae growing out the top of his head? A nose ring? Wear three-inch lifts and a girdle? Tell me all.”

“He doesn’t need a girdle,” Shannon said, remembering the muscled flatness of his stomach. “Or lifts. He’s tall. No eye patch, nose ring or antennae that I noticed. And I didn’t think he was mean looking, though I imagine he could be. He has dark hair, dark eyes.”

“Good-looking?” Kelly asked, folding the end of the fabric and pinning it to the bolt.

“I think most women would say so,” Shannon offered, careful to sound neither too interested or suspiciously indifferent.

“Well, who cares what men think? Unless…” The bolt of fabric hit the table with a thud as a possibility occurred to her. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“No,” Shannon answered without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” Kelly shook her head as she began folding the fabric she’d just cut. “Because it seems like every good-looking, single man in the state of California is these days.”

Shannon could have told her that Reece Morgan was more likely to turn out to be the world’s first squash-eating zombie, but she settled for a half shrug and mild reassurance. “I’m pretty sure.”