Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé by Jennifer L. Hart Page B

Pops need a place to stay, and I don't need the distraction of a relationship right now."
    "Don't do this," he said quietly. "Don't shut me out."
    I almost sniped that I was only following his example. That he'd shut me out first, and Kaylee was the one who'd pay for it if we couldn't fix this. But I couldn't get involved in an emotional public spat for the second time in a week, especially not in my place of business. My reputation was already a disaster—I didn't mean to give the town gossips any more fat to chew. "I'll be by after work to get my stuff and pick up Roofus."
    "So that's it then?" Jones stared at me for a full minute. He didn't telegraph his emotions at all, but I knew him well. He'd been afraid that this was a deal breaker, which was why he'd kept the information from me for as long as he could. I understood the why of it, but if I couldn't trust him, I couldn't hope to have any kind of a future with him.
    "I won't accept this." He said it quietly but firmly. His stubble-covered chin was set in a stubborn angle. "I will find out who hired Rochelle, and I'll fix this. Fix us."
    I wanted to believe him, badly. He'd been my emotional crutch for months, and I didn't know what I'd do without him. That was the trouble with crutches though—you fell when they got yanked away. My head shook back and forth. "I can't trust you."
    "You can," he insisted as he rose from his seat and towered over me. "And you will again. I won't lose you."
    He pulled me close, and though I tried to push away, his grip remained firm. My back arched, and he slanted his lips over mine, stealing the kiss I refused to give.
    I held out for all of ten seconds before I melted against him, leaning on him, into him. His heat seeped into me the way it always did, warming my cold places, thawing the permafrost that settled on my heart.
    Outside there was a wolf whistle and a few jeers from passersby. I pushed him away, eyes bulging.
    "This isn't over." He let go and turned away, exiting through the gathered crowd. Applause followed him to his SUV.
    My body swayed, and I felt as though someone had scooped all my insides out, sautéed them in garlic butter, and stuffed them back in willy-nilly. Nothing fit the way it had before. Everything had turned all shriveled and gooey.
    I dug out my cell phone and called Donna. "I want the A-frame. And I want to move in as soon as possible."
    Being the stellar friend that she was, she asked, "How does tonight sound?"
    "Perfect," I said, picking up my roses and bringing them outside to the Dumpster.
     
    *   *   *
     
    "It will do," Aunt Cecily said as she set her purse down on the kitchen counter. "Plenty of room to make the pasta."
    Pops was busy poking through the fully furnished living room. "This is a bit much for the two of us."
    "The three of us," I corrected as I set down the box I was carrying. "Don't forget—I'm living here too."
    Pops eyeballed me. "That all you got?"
    I nodded. Sadly, my worldly possessions fit in the backseat of Mustang Sally, which had barely made it up the icy driveway. Four boxes marked Kitchen and one marked Clothes, plus one smelly old hound dog. My life had turned into a bad country song.
    With my laptop and purse, that was six trips to make the move official. I'd stop by the storage unit and grab a vase and a few other tidbits from the Grove Street house to round it all out tomorrow.
    Jones hadn't been home when I'd gone there to pick up my relatives and possessions. Something had torn in my chest when I'd shut and locked the door, leaving my key under the mat. It was over. The best relationship of my life had come to a screeching halt. Part of me couldn't believe it, like it was some kind of dream that I'd wake up from any minute.
    "I think it is good." Aunt Cecily nodded with approval. "Woman should not live with a man and give him the pasta for free before they are wed."
    I rolled my eyes. Talk about your pot and your kettle scenario.
    Aunt Cecily caught the gesture