Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,16
possible. Another lie, maybe? Like her name? But that wouldn’t explain her knowledge of the term herps. A troubling coincidence. His behavior had been equally as bothersome. He’d been embarrassingly rude to her. Sure, he was sometimes abrupt with women. When struggling with his childhood stutter, he’d kept his sentences as short as possible. The affliction no longer twisted his tongue, but some habits were harder to break. This wasn’t about awkwardness, though. This was about keeping Clementine—festival judge and name-fabricator—at a healthy distance.
As he stood there, though, he couldn’t move away or look directly at her. She was only a head shorter than him, tall for a woman. Her slender fingers drifted along his skin, lower until they slid off his arm. He ached to pull them back. Lucy. Bearded dragon. What were the odds?
“I think we should reintroduce ourselves,” he heard himself say.
Not the thing he should have said. Goodbye. See you around town. Those rebuffs would have been smart. Her judging could interfere with his plan to win this year’s contest, and he wasn’t sure Clementine was being forthright. The fake-name/job explanation had some merit, but she seemed to be guarding secrets. He’d sensed it in her hesitancy the day they’d first met, her quick departure from the diner yesterday, her flawless name story now. He should be wary after his ex-girlfriend’s lies, but there was no fighting this strange connection.
He forced his eyes on her, breathed through the need to glance down. He held out his hand in the small gap between them.
Her lips parted slowly, but she didn’t reciprocate. She grazed her teeth over her lower lip and ducked her head. The same behavior as on the highway. He turned his hand up slightly, like he’d done that day. Her shoulders trembled. Was she distrustful of men? Or of him, specifically?
She finally slipped her hand into his.
His stomach hollowed at the contact, a diving swoop like a kingfisher plunging in mid-air. He couldn’t be sure she felt the same sweeping rush, but he pressed the pads of his fingers to her wrist, felt the jump of her pulse. Yes, Clementine. I feel the same.
“I’m Jack,” he said quietly, as though too much sound would send her scurrying away, “but I also go by Maxwell, and I own a bearded dragon named Ricky.”
Her eyes cut to him, accusing almost. “Ricky?”
“Ricky Ricardo.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Afraid it is.”
“But…” Her breath shuddered.
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to.”
It really didn’t make sense, meeting this mysterious woman out of the blue. Yet here they were, shaking—no, holding—hands, both with dragons named for the I Love Lucy duo who’d charmed a generation of TV fans. Doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, but it was less persistent.
Clementine shook her head and snatched her hand back. “I totally forgot, but I have somewhere I have to be. Can’t believe it slipped my mind.” She moved as she spoke, walking backward, away from him.
She couldn’t go too far. Not in a town this size. But he had a way to see her sooner. He wanted to see her sooner. “I can help you.”
She kept backing up, fast enough he worried she’d trip. “With what?”
“Anything.” He cringed, unsure how that had snuck out. “Your father, I mean. Anything you need for his birthday present.”
She stumbled slightly as she stopped. “How can you help?”
“I know a tribute artist. Meet me at the diner at nine tonight and we’ll get that photo for him.”
A white lie, considering he was the tribute artist, but showing his passion was easier than explaining it. Performing had changed his life. It connected him to his granddad and had allowed him to be someone other than a stuttering kid with lanky limbs. It made him fearless, bold, seductive. He lost himself on stage, absorbed the bass and lights and applause. When discussing it, he often mumbled and waited for ridicule.
No. He wouldn’t try explaining it to Clementine, but she didn’t seem keen to jump on his offer.
Marvin’s mower whizzed in the distance. Imelda’s dog menagerie yipped and yapped. Another man walked by the pond, enjoying the view. He wasn’t a local, but his thick beard looked familiar, his dark complexion—he was the man who’d snubbed him at the diner. Not the sort he liked invading Whichway, but Elvis fans helped support businesses and filled motels.
The visitor’s aggressive knife tattoo wasn’t visible and he seemed pleasant enough now, busy watching the ducks, while Clementine was busy not replying.