Kiss Me in the Summer - Barbara Dunlop Page 0,20

the jeans just felt saggy.

I pulled back the curtain.

Josh frowned. “Turn around.”

I did.

“The waist is too low.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“And you were right. See that? We’ve agreed twice. We’re on a roll. Next.”

“This isn’t a fashion show.” I pulled the curtain closed behind me again.

“Sure it is. You’re putting on fashions and showing them to me.”

“You call these ‘fashions’?”

“I didn’t hate the T-shirt.”

“Green’s not my color.” Or rather, lime green wasn’t my shade. I could do an emerald or even a hunter. Seafoam was iffy for me, but I kind of wished I could pull it off. I really liked it on Cecily.

“What’s your color?” Josh asked.

“It’s more a tone thing. I’m better with deeper shades, not bright colors, not pastels.”

“You do know you’ll be wearing this while you set up tables and sweep floors, right?”

His words caught my attention. Sweeping the floor? I could sweep the floor. I was ridiculously happy to hear there was a need for basic custodial work.

“No reason I can’t look decent doing it!” I called back to him.

The next pair of jeans was even worse. The waist was way too high and the thighs were really baggy. The legs narrowed at the calves, but the taper was all wrong.

“I’m not coming out in this,” I said.

“Chicken.” He made a chicken noise.

I pulled back the upper part of the curtain just enough to look out at him. “What are you, twelve?”

His grin was unrepentant as he shrugged. “I work with animals all day long. I listen. I learn.”

I struggled not to smile at his irreverence. “It was a pretty accurate chicken noise,” I said with what I thought was an admirably straight face.

“So, are you coming out?”

“No.” I firmly shut the curtain.

“Third time lucky,” I muttered as I tried the last pair.

Happily, they fit much better than the other two. They were boyfriend jeans, not my usual style. But the legs were narrow enough to look neat. They molded comfortably over my rear, and they had a bit of blue-threaded embroidery on the back pockets that gave them a flash of style.

They were also just the right rise to go with the shirt length. I had decided on the garnet and cream striped tee. It was the best color combination with my hair.

I pulled back the curtain and stepped out to where there was a full-length mirror.

“Those look great,” Josh said.

I turned sideways and backward, looking over my shoulder as best I could with the flat mirror. “Great may be an overstatement.” The outfit looked fine. I was happy with fine.

I didn’t look like my usual self, but then I didn’t want to feel like my usual self anyway. I wanted to feel like Rutter’s Point Laila for a couple of days, the sweeper of floors and mover of tables. Rutter’s Point Laila didn’t have career trouble or public relations nightmares. She did manual labor, and once the dust was gone, her job was complete.

“Well, you look great to me,” Josh said.

Fighting a hormonal reaction to his words, I kept it light. “You think flattery will get me to work harder?”

He held up his palms. “Guilty as charged.”

*

Rutter’s Point Laila arrived back at Madeline’s feeling unexpectedly buoyant with her new jeans, her striped T-shirt, three pairs of cushy socks—the socks only came in multi-packs—plus a pair of gray and seafoam blue runners. I was excited about wearing seafoam, even if it was only on my feet.

Josh had walked me back to Madeline’s, gallantly insisting on carrying the shopping bags. Once there, he opened the front door wide and stood aside for me.

“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.”

“I was really working in my own best interest.”

We both knew he’d gone above and beyond. But I didn’t argue back as I entered the octagonal entry hall. He followed me in, closing the door behind us.

“Oh good, you’re back.” Madeline bustled in from the living room. “Gerry’s been looking for you.”

“He didn’t call,” Josh said, reaching for his phone.

“He’s looking for Laila. I just gave him her number.”

“Is there news?” I asked.

Before Madeline could answer, a tall, fit man in his mid-forties appeared behind her. He wore a pair of khaki-green cargo pants and a steel-gray short-sleeved pullover.

I couldn’t help but notice that his leather boots look serviceable and sturdy—I’d gained an appreciation for practical footwear today, and his looked very practical.

“You must be Laila,” he said, coming forward to shake my hand.

His grip was gentle, but there was an obvious strength behind it. He had a smooth