Just Flirt by Laura Bowers Read Free Book Online Page B

have you ever noticed how Jell-O Pistachio Pudding is made with mostly almonds and only two percent pistachios? If it’s made with mostly almonds, why didn’t they call it almond pudding?”
    Ivy contemplates this, the muscles in her jaw tensing as I shake a few nuts onto her palm. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says after a few moments. “Maybe some male corporate hotshot at Jell-O thought pistachio sounded better. And who knows, maybe a female co-worker suggested they call it Almond Pudding, but noooo , Mr. Hotshot trashed her idea.”
    Her hands twitch as she angrily crunches on a nut. “And then Mr. Hotshot told Miss Almond Pudding that perhaps it was time for her to retire, even though she had dedicated her entire life to the firm. But when she said no, I’m not ready for retirement, Mr. Hotshot pushed her out anyway and replaced her with a busty twenty-nine-year-old, that’s why.”
    Oh, my.
    Remind me to never bring up Jell-O around her again.
    Thankfully, a trio of girls burst into the store to pay for a round of putt-putt before Ivy can crack a tooth on a shell. As they fight over the pink golf ball, Ivy sulks by the window until they leave—with three pink balls. She softens, though, when she sees something outside. “Well, well, well, and here comes another Miss Almond Pudding now.”
    Huh? The only person I see is Roxanne Swain meandering down the stone-lined path, kicking stray rocks and going about as slow as a blood-filled tick. “Who, Roxanne? Yeah, right, how is she a Miss Almond Pudding?”
    Ivy studies Roxanne with laserlike intensity before glancing at the clock hanging above a display of handmade pottery. Eleven-twenty. Roxanne is late. “Hmm,” Ivy says. “Maybe because she’s being forced to do something she does not want to do.”
    What, work? Oh, boo-hoo, I work every day. And it’s hard to muster sympathy for someone who—no matter how nice I am to her—only speaks to me when necessary, like during our brief Hey, I need to buy a bag of ice and Okay, they’re two dollars each conversation.
    However, her mother, Victoria Swain—a woman whose idea of dressing down is wearing Liz Claiborne casual wear—loves to talk. While spending a fortune yesterday on wind flags, awning lights, and tiki torches to liven up their sterile site, she told me all about Dr. Martin Swain’s position at Johns Hopkins Hospital. And how it was her idea to rent a motor home for the summer after their house in Baltimore sold faster than expected, leaving them homeless until Rex is finished building their new house. I forced myself to nod politely after learning that— fabulous —Roxanne is going to live on what used to be our beautiful land, but when Mrs. Swain said how nice it would be if Roxanne and I became friends?
    Yeah. I don’t exactly see that happening.
    The bell above the door jingles as Roxanne steps in, letting the screen slam shut behind her. She shoots me a bored look that makes me feel both awkward and stupid at the same time and then cringes when she hears the cowboy Celtic. “Uh, are you serious? I have to work and listen to that?”
    Ivy ignores Roxanne’s rebel angst routine—maybe because of her Miss Almond Pudding theory. “Welcome! I’m Ivy Neville, but you can call me Miss Ivy. Now, why don’t you come here and Dee and I will show you how to use the register?”
    Roxanne cracks her gum. “Fine, Ivy , but I’m going to the bathroom first.”
    Big mistake, girl, big mistake .
    Pudding or no pudding, Ivy doesn’t negotiate with attitude. She frowns, straightening her spine to her full height—all five feet, eleven inches. “By all means, go ahead,” she says, her voice like candy-coated barbed wire. “In fact, why don’t I grab the cleaning supplies and show you how to freshen the ladies’ room while you’re there, how would that be?”
    Give it up, Roxanne, you will NOT win this battle!
    She must not realize this by the patronizing way she says, “Fine, Miss Ivy.”
    Oh,