Part 6 (2/2)
”Oh. Ow. Ew. Ahhh.”
I repositioned the bag of frozen peas cus.h.i.+oning my tender bottom, hitched the temperature up a notch on the heating pad resting against my back, and prayed I wouldn't somehow electrocute myself.
I eased back against the sofa and flipped my laptop open, pulling up the web browser. The laptop was a hand-me-down from my bookkeeper/CPA mother. When she upgraded her home office equipment, I became the grateful beneficiary of her old lappy toppy.
Okay. So I also pirate her Internet service. Don't judge. You were probably a struggling young professional once yourself.
I keystroked Keelie Keller and hit enter.
Keelie's claim to fame was dubious at best. Her parents didn't own a large hotel chain. Her daddy wasn't a high-powered attorney or financier. She didn't hold a royal t.i.tle and wasn't heir to one. Her sleuth series ending and acting roles drying up, Keelie's career seemed to be circling the drain until she started a highly publicized, on-again-off-again romance with rising country-pop heartthrob, Jax Whitver. That notoriety helped her nab a spot on a matchmaking reality TV show. She hadn't received a proposal of marriage, but her performance on the show got her an offer for her own reality gig. Since then, her popularity had skyrocketed. She boasted an army of social media followers, a handpicked, fame-obsessed clique, and a legion of paparazzi on her trail.
Keelie and her BFF, Tiara Fordham, had partnered up again for the reality TV gig and enjoyed frequent-and highly publicized-nights on the club circuit, partying along with third musketeer, Langley Carlisle III.
Langley, or ”Lang” as his BFFs called him-a pale, wiry, flamboyant blonde with strawberry highlights-was perfectly cast as sounding board, therapist, and-mediator/referee for two gal pals who often found themselves at odds over boys, booze, and big bucks.
Between Keelie's ”It's all about me” airs, Tiara's ”Poor little me” boo hoos, and Lang's ”You can talk to me” a.s.surances, the threesome made a colorful trio-which translated into an impressive ratings leader.
I shrugged. What did I care about the Tinsel Town Trio? The likelihood that I'd ever be within a TribRide mile of the threesome was roughly the same as me completing the rigorous course without one hint of a hemorrhoid.
Yes. That's right. Slim to none.
The doorbell dinged. I set my computer on the coffee table, inched my f.a.n.n.y off the front of the sofa, and pushed myself to my feet. I sucked in a painful breath and attempted to straighten my stiff back, gave up, and shuffled to the door, acquiring a whole new empathy for my slightly stoop-backed gammy.
I pulled the door open.
”This better be good,” I mumbled.
Rick Townsend stood on my porch, fist raised, apparently ready to rap on my door.
”I've been told I'm good,” Townsend said, with a lift of one eyebrow. ”Very good, in fact.”
I felt the telltale warmth of a betraying blush. It seemed all it took for my blood to boil was for Rick Townsend to c.o.c.k a ”come hither” eyebrow at me.
Who was I kidding? All I had to do was think about the roguishly handsome ranger and the s.h.i.+ver-me-timbers night we shared on the Epiphany, and I got all sea legs s.h.i.+very and quivery.
”Well, good for a laugh at least,” I said, determined to keep things light and loose with the man who could turn what good sense I had into cannon fodder.
”Isn't that what all women say they want?” The ranger asked. ”A guy who makes them laugh?”
I couldn't speak for all women, but what this ranger-type made me feel was no laughing matter.
”I do like a man who loves to laugh,” I responded. ”At himself as well as others.”
”Absolutely,” Rick said. ”No sense taking oneself too seriously.”
I nodded, uncertain of just what Rick Townsend was doing on my doorstep and equally uncertain as to whether I wanted him there or not.
Yeah. I know. I'm an idiot.
”Can I...come in?” Townsend asked.
I hesitated long enough for him to notice.
”Tressa?”
”Sure. Of course, you can come in. Why wouldn't you come in? There's no reason why you shouldn't.”
Babble. Babble. Babble.
d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n.
I stood to one side to let Townsend in. A potent whiff of his cologne, coupled with his own unique ”Ranger Rick” scent, hit me with the force of a ”snap out of it” slap to the face. My house suddenly smelled better than the movie theater on free popcorn refill Wednesdays.
I closed the door and followed Townsend into the living room, rubbing my lower back as I limped along behind him.
”What the heck is this for?” Townsend asked, and picked up the bag of frozen peas and the heating pad. ”You do know there are easier ways to cook peas than with a heating pad.”
”Really? I wondered why it was taking so long,” I said, grabbing the frozen veggies out of his hand, longing to put it back where it belonged: on my aching heinie.
I moved toward the sofa, trying my best to cover the distance without looking like an arthritic octogenarian.
Townsend's next words told me I'd failed.
”What's wrong with you?” Rick said. ”You move like one of the walking dead.”
Kind of the way I felt.
”I'm fine,” I said. ”In fact, I'm better than fine. I'm fabulous. Better than fabulous. I'm...I'm...stupendous.”
Blither. Blither.
”You're in pain, that's what you are,” Townsend said, and took my hand and led me to the couch. ”Give me that.” He reached out and took my peas and dropped them on the sofa cus.h.i.+on. ”Sit,” he instructed.
I dropped to the sofa.
”Ahhh.” I sighed. ”That hurts so good.”
Townsend took a seat beside me. ”What the h.e.l.l am I going to do with you, Tressa?” he asked, and I frowned, trying to select what had prompted this latest query from a list longer than the list of slights (both real and imagined) my gammy swears have been perpetrated upon her by old foe and new neighbor, Abigail Winegardner.
”What do you mean, do with me?” I hedged.
”Why do you insist on keeping things from me?” Townsend asked.
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