Page 14 of Spicy Ever After
I forget them all.
Tears streak the perfect porcelain of her cheeks. Pain tightens her full pink lips. Her eyes are squeezed shut, the dark fringe of her lashes such a contrast to her ivory skin.
I don’t know what hits me harder: her beauty or her distress, but it’s a hit. I’m glad her eyes are closed because, just like falling backward off the harvester and having the wind knocked from me, I can’t move. I can’t speak.
And then she must sense me there because her wet lashes bat open, and hazel eyes as rare and striking as the rest of her lock on me.
Two cinnamon-tinted brows draw together. I’m too caught up in noticing their color and the matching thick tumble of waves that crash over her shoulders to recognize that she’s frowning.
By the time I do, it’s too late. Now she’s scowling.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”
Chapter Three
HATTIE
My voice sounds thick and childish, but I don’t care. Maybe he’s staring because I have snot coming out of my nose again.
I don’t care about that either.
But then I swipe a knuckle under my nose because, okay, maybe I do care.
He’s staring, which even I know is rude, but the dirty farm boy holding a giant crate of dirty sweet potatoes is… interesting.
To look at.
His eyebrows are sun-bleached. I notice this when they climb higher on his face.
“I—I—you’re right. I know better.” Farm Boy performs a power squat as he sets down the crate, the move making his faded, dusty jeans squeeze against his thighs in a way that has me blinking and forcing my gaze to his truck.
Because nobody likes a hypocrite.
The side of the truck says, “Olivier Family Farms, Carencro, LA. Proud Members of the Louisiana Sweet Potato Commission.” Below the words is a design, a little cluster of sweet potatoes with the center one halved in two.
I swallow the thickness in my throat because the color of that sweet potato is one of my favorite shades of orange. Rich. Earthy.
Honestly, it’s hard to look at any shade of orange and not feel a little more cheerful. Sherbert. Tangerine. Pumpkin. Marigold.
Orange is the happiest color, am I right?
But then I remember that Margaret is moving away, and she might as well be taking every shade of orange with her.
Another battery of sobs hits, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
She’s kept this from me. Margaret. The one person I can tell anything. And everyone else knew but me.
Even Grandma Eloise.
And what the hell was that about Mom and Dad looking into group homes?
Margaret and Merrick are leaving and Mom and Dad want to send me away?
The betrayal is like a seam-ripper slicing me from navel to neck.
I lean back against the restaurant’s brick wall, not caring that it crushes the tulle against my skin like steel wool. The fabric catches on brick and mortar, rubbing me raw as I sink to the ground. My ass is about to hit cement, but I don’t think I can stand anymore.
“Easy… easy.” Rough hands grip my upper arms, halting my descent.
