Can't Hurry Love (Sunshine Valley #1) - Melinda Curtis Page 0,118

me what Drew said earlier.” Bitsy knelt in front of Lola. She wore a little black dress with a little black jacket and black kitten heels. Her trademark black bow sat at the base of her neck. “He didn’t mean it.”

Lola sniffed.

“Who?” Edith demanded, turning to face Lola.

“Drew wanted to know what your plans were.” Bitsy ignored Edith. “He wasn’t saying he wanted you to leave town.”

Tears pressed at the backs of Lola’s eyes.

“Are you talking about the sheriff?” Edith asked in a demanding voice.

Avery came to sit next to Bitsy and tossed down another shot. “Drew dumped you?”

Lola sucked in a breath that got stuck in her throat, and then she sobbed, “He said he loved me.”

Arms encompassed her. Tissues and drinks and advice were offered. It was the first time Lola felt she truly belonged in Sunshine.

And yet she couldn’t stay.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Drew hadn’t seen Lola for nearly two weeks.

He ached for her.

He’d tried to talk to her after the play but she’d slipped away in the crowd.

She hadn’t come to the farmhouse.

She never answered the door at her home.

But Drew kept busy making things right in his life—rehiring Gary and signing a custody agreement with Jane, who’d taken a job with her father at the feedstore.

He’d been preparing for the day when he’d see Lola again. Sunshine was a small town. She couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Daddy-O, I was the star of the play,” Becky said from the back seat of the cruiser. She’d pulled out her Halloween costume this morning—black leggings, a black-and-yellow striped T-shirt, golden wings, and green antennae.

“You were, Sunshine.” Drew caught sight of her wobbly antennae in the mirror. “You know, I love you no matter what you wear or what you sing.”

“I know, Daddy-O.”

He’d apologized to Becky for hindering her self-expression—not that she completely understood his apology, but she understood he loved her and always would.

There was a new sign in Lola’s yard: FOR SALE. Her drapes were closed.

Drew’s chest squeezed. He couldn’t be too late. She hadn’t even talked to him yet. He kept on driving toward the Saddle Horn, gripping and regripping the steering wheel.

When they entered the coffee shop, reactions were mixed.

“Still no word on Rosie?” Norma Eastlake asked. She sat with Drew’s mother in the first booth.

Drew shook his head. The judge had been right. Tom Bodine was claiming possession of Rosie. Eileen was in for a fight, and Drew was backing her all the way, going so far as to pay Rupert’s legal retainer.

He and Becky took their usual seats at the counter.

“Darcy won’t see me,” Jason was saying to Iggy.

Drew could relate.

“Dude, you kissed another woman on national television.” Iggy elbowed his business partner. “Of course Darcy isn’t going to talk to you. You’re scum.” Iggy turned to Drew, pushing his straw hat back. “Anything I can do to help you get that pig back?”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I hear the Bodines don’t just shoot cattle rustlers.” Drew nodded his thanks to Pearl for a cup of coffee. “They also shoot pig poachers.”

Pearl set a mug of hot chocolate with mile-high whip in front of Becky. “Let the judge handle this one.”

“Words of wisdom, Pearl.” Drew glanced over his shoulder to the street. It was empty of long-legged women. “Words of wisdom.”

“Would you like to hear my words of wisdom?” With a soft touch to his shoulder and a softer voice, Bitsy sat next to Drew. “When you see Lola—”

“If I see Lola.” She’d been avoiding him. She might go back to New York without saying goodbye. The thought had been keeping him up at night.

“—build up to the question.” Bitsy cupped his chin, and then she shook it as if she were pulling on an imaginary beard. With a private smile, she returned to the corner booth and the Widows Club.

“Look, Daddy-O. Look.” Becky lifted her face. She’d managed to get a thick layer of whip on both cheeks, which was more than her usual pointy beard.

“That’s awesome.” He’d had that skill once.

Color in the street caught Drew’s eye. Lola. His heart started to pound.

Ninety-year-old Jorge De La Cruz had passed in his sleep at the retirement home on Friday. Augie had assured Drew that Lola would be working on him today, which meant she’d be stopping in for a carafe of coffee.

Lola wore the blue leggings he was so fond of and a black T-shirt and carried her thermos. Her hair was in a messy ponytail that looked no better than what Drew