Page 2 of Hauling Ashe

I spin to face him, forcing his hands to release me, and my face heats once more at the flirtatious endearment and sensual voice. We stand closer than two people who don’t know one another should. I definitely do not look like sunshine. I’m a forty-three-year-old brunette with hints of gray; a mother of two with a belly scarred like a taxi ran over my midsection; and an exhausted business owner who has bags under her eyes packed with sorrow and stress.

“I was looking for a sign,” I say to him for some reason, as if that explains knocking into him, spilling coffee, dropping my phone, and fumbling—twice—into the street.

He tilts his head, assessing me, perhaps wondering once more if I’d been day-drinking instead of savoring syrupy chocolate mixed with coffee.

He takes a cautious step backward. “Maybe you need some…help.” His tone mocks me a bit, deepening in concern for my mental stability.

Holding my phone in my hand, I swipe the screen against my hip to wipe off the street dirt. “Let me get your number.”

His chiseled face shutters to stillness. “Now you’re hitting on me?” Incredulity fills his voice. His brows arch and the corner of his pale red lips twitch. The grin is more forced than flirtatious. He thinks I’m a nut.

“I wasn’t… I mean, I’m not… I never… I just want to have your suit cleaned.” Well, that pretty much covers it all. In my line of work, a pleasant attitude helps sales. The customer is always right, so I’ve learned how to master words and a wink to soothe someone who is disgruntled. Of course, a little banter never hurt anyone and some of my best customers enjoy the repartee. The innocent jesting might even be the reason they return to my garden center. But in the case of this encounter, I’m surprisingly flustered.

“It’s a thousand-dollar suit. A mere dry-cleaning won’t salvage this mess.” He glances down at the arm of his jacket and at the once-white shirt he wore, now looking like freckles dot the material. The underscore to his statement resonates louder than the hint of his concern I was hitting on him. He’s not joking about the cost and his expression tightens even more. Disgust and disappointment etch his fine cheekbones.

“Made of gold-laden thread?” I joke, hoping to lighten the moment, but in return those silver eyes pinch. His gaze becomes colder, matching the metallic posts holding up a variety of signs along this street.

“Something like that.” His voice is suddenly devoid of all emotion, monotone and dry, which is everything opposite my clothing still soaked with coffee. Absentmindedly, I reach for the middle of my peasant blouse and squeeze the material, which looks like I’ve tried to tea-stain fabric at home. Warm liquid seeps over my fist like I’ve wrung out a sponge. His eyes follow the motion, and narrow when his gaze reaches my chest. I look like I’ve entered a wet T-shirt contest.

Without another word, he reaches into his suit coat and pulls out his own phone. My breath hitches for some reason, momentarily thinking he’ll ask me for my number. Instead, he stabs the device with a forceful finger and lifts it to his ear. His eyes peer upward, locking on mine once more before he abruptly turns and walks away.

“Hope your day gets better,” I holler after him, taking a mental snapshot of him walking away. He shoots me a one-handed wave over his shoulder, then closes his fingers leaving only the one in the middle upright.

Well.

My gaze falls to his backside. The slightly lifted jacket in his single arm salute gives me a clear view of firm globes in form-fitting suit pants. Those thousand dollars were well spent to accentuate him there. However, a man with a fine ass does not make him a fine man. It normally just makes him an ass.

Too bad. He was nice to look at.

On that note, I glance around me, taking in the rush of the ‘L’ down the block, racing over Wabash Avenue. Brakes screech and horns honk as all types of vehicles come to a stop at the red light down the street ahead of me. I scan the tall buildings shadowing the walkway and then I see it.

A brown and white sign marked with the iconic emblem for Route 66.

Underneath the landmark rectangle is another sign with one word.

BEGIN.

2

Playlist: “Julia” - The Beatles

[Tucker]

What is happening today?

I’m definitely having an out-of-body experience. One minute, I’m standing on the sidewalk, checking an email notification on my phone and the next minute, someone slams into me. Something warm and liquid coats the back of my suit jacket and when I spin to bitch out my fellow pedestrian, I’m slammed a second time by incredible eyes.

Blue as a summer lake, the cool color caught mine like a fish reeled in on a hook. Foolish fish.

Yet there I’d stood on the cramped sidewalk during rush hour, shell-shocked by the woman’s innocent look. What was it about her that had me tongue-tied, but calling her sunshine? Where did that even come from? Flirting with a woman was second nature. A soft smile. A teasing wink. Nothing too suggestive. I understood women; they’d been my business for decades. Over the years, I never gave into offers aimed to tempt me. Room keys in my pocket. Phone numbers on a cocktail napkin. Suggestive comments on social media. Never.

Then she’d mentioned looking for a sign, sounding like a nut, before the trigger of all triggers, she asked me for my phone number.

It wasn’t nine in the morning yet and today had already been a shitty day.

As I stand in my office, ripping off my coffee-stained dress shirt, buttons fly across the room like my agitation, pinging all over the place. The shirt is ruined anyway as is my brand-new suit. I’d already tossed the jacket on the couch. The coffee-speckled shirt goes next, and I stalk for the closet outside my private bathroom where I keep a collection of secondary shirts. Tugging on the fresh-pressed material, I continue to chide myself about earlier.

I had just stood there, ready to sandwich that ray of sunshine between the building and my body. Her blue eyes struck me first, sunny-sky bright and eager. The way she looked at me—all apologetic and anxious—as she should be. She’d ruined a thousand-dollar suit.