The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,32

they thought was teasing “Ah, those Gamble Brothers” fun (and most of that “Ah, those Gamble Brothers” was about how solid Johnny was, and what a good-natured, ne’er-do-well bad boy Toby was, and I had to admit it never failed to rile me), when it was still judgey and gossipy, even if they didn’t exactly (maybe) intend it to be mean-spirited.

Bottom line for me, I knew Toby dipped in and out of Matlock since he’d graduated high school.

But he wasn’t forty, married with children and playing around on his devoted wife.

He was a young, insanely handsome guy who some considered a player because he played.

I’d played too.

You did that if you were unattached and enjoyed getting yourself some.

It didn’t make you an asshole.

And one thing I knew, Tobias Gamble was no asshole (notwithstanding him getting in my face the day before, but that wasn’t about assholery—even I had to admit that was about worry).

But I really needed this job, so instead of saying any of the fifty words that rushed to my tongue begging to be let out, I just scanned the case and reached for one of the six huge bottles of smart water she’d put on my belt.

Mean Girl did not seem to mind that I didn’t take the bait.

She kept fishing.

“You aren’t the first one he’s got all wound up about him,” she shared. “And don’t take all that Gamble Guy goodness for granted, you know, like thinking he cares enough to get in a huge fight with you on the street about whatever. Tobias giveth, and then without a thought, Tobias taketh away.”

I was about to say something to her, like, “Did you know we have a new line of frozen yogurt?” (when we did not, but I wanted to make her go look) when I heard, “No, that’s just you, Jocelyn.”

This came from down my belt.

I looked there to see next in line was an attractive woman around Jocelyn’s (and my) age who I’d also checked out dozens of times in the last months, and she did buy ice cream, so I knew she was my people even if she hadn’t been nice to me (which she always was).

Jocelyn turned to the woman and the gleeful, I’mma-gonna-fuck-with-you mean girl morphed into the bitchy, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-shit-when-you’re-fucking-with-me-fucking-with-somebody mean girl took her place.

“You aren’t in this conversation, Lorraine,” she snapped.

“Neither is this poor woman who you decided to aim your venom at this Saturday night, during which, I’ll point out, you’re grocery shopping and not out on a date, so you’re in a crappy mood. Put the fangs away,” Lorraine retorted.

I scanned some zero-sugar granola that cost more than a car (exaggeration).

“What I do with my Saturday nights is none of your business,” Jocelyn hissed.

“And what’s going on with Toby Gamble and your checkout person is none of yours. Keep your trap shut, pay for your groceries and move along,” Lorraine bit back.

I scanned some pretzels and a bag of chips made of lentils that probably tasted like dung and totally forgot my feet hurt, my back kinda hurt too, and I did this since it took all my attention to press my lips together in an effort to fight smiling.

“You’ve always been nosy. Careful, Lorraine, you’re gonna put that nose somewhere it isn’t welcome one day and get it bitten off,” Jocelyn warned.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Lorraine replied airily. “What I know is, being how you are meant Toby Gamble scraped you off. Everyone in Matlock knows he’s got the patience of a gnat with women who aren’t worth it. Now others who don’t act like trash by treating people like trash,” Lorraine’s eyes slid to me before going back to Jocelyn, “well, they seem to be in it for the long haul.”

Hmm . . .

This might explain why this Jocelyn chick was always such a bitch to me.

“Not sure that haul is gonna be that long, he’s shouting at her on the street,” Jocelyn returned.

“He ever care enough in the nanosecond you two were together to fight with you about anything?” Lorraine drawled.

It was too hard.

I couldn’t fight it.

I made an abbreviated snort sound.

Jocelyn turned her head and glared at me.

“That’ll be eighty-nine, twenty-four,” I informed her.

She bent her head to dig out her wallet, which also had some designer logo stamped obtrusively all over it, pulled it out, unsnapped it, and as she was shoving her credit card in the machine she said cattily, “Nice smock.”

Lame.

“Do you have a Matlock Mart card?” I asked. “You might have