Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

apologetic. “I bought the newspaper and the building from Mr. Shaw. All part of my plan to save the Informer from drowning then drag it up onto the shore of the digital age.”

“Oh.” No wonder he acted like he owned the place—he did.

The Southern Belle Handbook demanded I sit up and slip my hand into his. But I knew that if I raised up, my sweat-soaked leotard would be see-through, and my braless boobies would point straight at him. Already, I hoped he hadn’t noticed that the floor had a sweat-imprint, an embarrassing chalk outline of my torso, including two tangerine-sized boob prints. But a southern belle is nothing if not polite. I sat up and put my hand in his. “You’re forgiven.”

My breasts were magnets his eyes couldn’t resist. He looked down, a tiny flicker I might have missed, if I hadn’t been so aware of him. Then he turned away and made a big deal of examining the studio, looking at the framed ballet prints on the walls, running a hand along the polished barres. Giving me a chance to recover my dignity, I thought.

Until he spoke. “Nice studio. Lots of natural light, incredibly low rent, utilities included. Sweet deal.”

I wasn’t stupid. I knew where this was headed. My rent was way below the going rate so naturally, he would want to raise it. I hugged my knees to my chest, hoping my leotard would dry sometime soon.

“I realize my rent is a bit on the low side. But this place was a dump when I moved in. It only looks nice because I made it look nice. I cleaned, I sanded, I painted. All summer long.” The brick on the south-facing wall took six whole gallons of paint. All those tiny crevices. I thought I’d never finish.

He shrugged. My elbow grease didn’t enter into his bottom line. His bedroom eyes burned a path from my ratty ballet slippers, laddered tights, and too-thin leotard to my face. “I’m sure you worked hard, lass. But your rent hardly covers the cost of utilities.”

“I’m sorry if the cost of my utilities causes a problem. Not too much of one, I hope, because I just signed my lease for a whole year.”

My polite way of saying F.U.

He squatted next to me, close enough to touch. Jeans molded to muscular thighs. Rolled-back shirtsleeves strained against wide shoulders and powerful arms. I imagined the kind of strength all those muscles indicated.

I imagined all sorts of things I shouldn’t be imagining.

I wanted so much to like him, but I wasn’t sure I could. My body wanted his body, sure. Falling in lust with him would be easy. But I’d need to like him, to have the friend part of friends-with-benefits.

A tiny smirk lifted one corner of his mouth, as if he’d read my mind. He stood. “I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

I struggled with the impulse to leap up and walk him to the door. But my nipples were still trying to pop out of my leotard, and I didn’t want him to think they were excited to see him. So I stayed put.

“It was nice meeting you,” I said, hoping it kept me from seeming completely rude. Polite F.U.’s were acceptable. Bad manners were not.

He gave me a my-work-is-done-here nod. “Feel free to call if you need anything.”

His body, in my bed, came to mind. “I will, thanks.”

CHAPTER THREE

I snagged one of the overfilled shopping bags Melody was about to drop, and tried to remember where we’d parked. I hoped it wasn’t far. “Jeez-o-Pete, Melody, I guess you invited me to go shopping so I could help carry your hundred pounds of loot.” Five dresses from three different boutiques, two nearly-identical pairs of strappy sandals in a Buy-One-Get-One deal, jeans and blouses and chunky jewelry from one store after another after another.

“It isn’t my fault you didn’t buy anything.” Melody pursed her lips in the trademark pout she’d perfected when we were teenagers. “I know you’re mad about the mix-up with Valerie, and I’m sorry. I could have sworn I made that salon appointment.”

Scanning the parking lot in the evening gloom, I spied Melody’s midnight blue SUV parked under a security light that was just beginning to flicker on. I started walking in that direction. “I’m not mad.” I’d just forgotten that I hate shopping, and that outings with Melody were always all about Melody. “I’m sure God wants me to have mousy hair.”

“I’ll make an appointment for you next weekend.”

“Can we forget about it? I’m happy with my hair the way it is.” Not quite blond, not quite brown was fine with me.

It was almost dark when we loaded the shopping bags and secured them behind the cargo net. By the time we reached the twisting highway that had been built-up along the river, the only scrap of light in the universe came from the car’s headlights. The feeble glow swept brush strokes of gray-green onto the forest of pine trees.

Melody turned the lights to high beam. “Have you met Ian Buchanan yet? I heard he bought The Angel Falls Informer from old man Shaw.”

“God, yes.” I pounced on the subject, telling-all about his irate phone call. “I haven’t decided whether he’s an asshole or not.”

“He seemed nice to me,” Melody said in her sweet little Smurf voice. I was one of the few people who knew some of that sweetness wasn’t real sugar. “And besides...” She sighed like a teenage groupie. “He’s so handsome.” As if she didn’t have her own handsome husband waiting at home, keeping their kids so she could spend the day shopping.

“No, wait. I’ve decided. He’s an asshole whose good looks only make him more dangerous.”

Melody glanced my way. “It sounds like you’re enjoying the challenge. It wouldn’t be fun if it was too easy to wrap your sexy new landlord around your pinky finger.”

Says Mel, an expert at wrapping. Such an expert, she wrapped my boyfriend tight enough to turn