who thought climbing mountains or biking through a desert was a vacation. She preferred mouse ears and Dole pineapple whips. Nothing wrong with a little Fantasyland.
Ellery signed the pad he flipped over with her finger. The wine was more expensive than she expected, but pride kept her from asking him to take a bottle off. Faux-Hawk flipped the pad back and handed her the receipt. “Thank you for your patronage, Ellery.”
“You’re welcome.”
The two older guys looked at each other. Then one of them looked at Faux-Hawk. “You should get her number, Gage.”
Ellery’s eyes widened, and she stepped back.
Gage shook his head. “Ignore them. They’ve had samples of everything, which means”—he turned to the two guys—“they’re buying at least a case.”
“No worries,” Ellery said, lifting the carrier. “I don’t live here, anyway. And I’m engaged, so there’s that. Not that your whole gruff, bossy wine-pourer thing isn’t attractive.”
“I’m not bossy,” he said, his dark eyes drilling into her.
“It’s okay. I’m not, either,” she said.
The smile that curved Gage’s lips changed his entire face. He had green eyes, a scruffy jawline, and the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. He could do toothpaste commercials with that smile. “Yeah, you don’t seem bossy at all, and don’t worry, I wouldn’t have asked anyway. It’s obvious you’re not my type.”
Ouch.
The two businessmen looked like Bambi in headlights. One lifted his eyebrows and looked away. The other picked up his cell phone and pretended to check messages.
Ellery felt the heat rise in her cheeks. This arrogant ass had just shoved her into a slot. “I’m assuming your type is someone similar to yourself? And since I’m not an asshole . . .” She shrugged one shoulder and turned away.
She crackled with outrage.
How dare he assume she was a type? He knew who she was by five minutes of her tasting wine? Ha. She didn’t think so.
What an insufferable, pompous jackass. She knew who she was. Yeah, she liked nice things, as evidenced by the Lanvin bag she’d scored at a bargain basement sale in New Orleans. And maybe she spent too much on her hair products and the lash extensions. Hey, she had stubby lashes. So she wore expensive perfume and got pedicures? That made her discerning, not a type. And who didn’t like Minnie Mouse?
A terrorist, that’s who.
But whatever.
She pushed out into the Texas heat and stomped down a winding set of steps toward the gravel parking lot where she’d left the cute white Lexus RC 350 her daddy had bought her for college graduation. And though she loved the clean, sporty lines and the shiny chrome, the sight of her car made her stutter-step and her thoughts flash back to the lean smart-ass who’d just stereotyped her. She drove a luxury car her daddy had bought to make her feel better about failing at getting the internship. She worked a job her mother had given her so she could pay her half of the rent on the town house. She’d spent forty dollars on a blowout with money she needed to pay off the loan she’d taken for the furniture she’d bought for the guest room. She was a walking stereotype of a spoiled southern debutante with no responsibilities.
And, yeah, she’d even been a stupid debutante.
At that moment she despised herself, because maybe Faux-Hawk had seen exactly who she was. And maybe she didn’t like who she was but didn’t know how to change. Because that would mean admitting that all she’d so carefully planned could be totally . . . wrong. She felt shaky and afraid to let go of the life she’d always clung to.
Ellery sucked in a huge gulp of humidity and unlocked her doors, shoving the box with the wine into the narrow back seat. Then she climbed in, cranked up the AC, and rolled back the sunroof. Better Than Ezra, a vintage Baton Rouge rock band, poured through the speakers. She shifted gears, wishing she’d never driven west toward the high sun in order to escape her life. Wishing she’d not been so . . . curious about Evan. She hadn’t even seen him, which was probably a good thing because her fascination with him was wrong. All she’d gained in the process was being insulted by a glorified salesclerk, three bottles of a good white blend she could barely afford, and guilt over not being able to run her own damned life.
As she rounded a large curve, she came upon a redheaded girl riding a bike. She wore