The Survivor by Rhonda Nelson Read Free Book Online

had a collection—unless you counted the Playboy magazines he’d hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his room as a teen. But if he did, he’d collect something cool, like vintage Harley-Davidsons or something like that. He’d recently seen a man on television who was trying to sell his PEZ collection and, though Lex knew the iconic candy dispensers had been around a long time, he’d had no idea that people actually collected them.
    He said as much to Bess. “I just don’t get it. Why would anybody want that stuff?”
    â€œWho knows?” she said. “His father might have started him on it, or a friend of a friend. People will collect anything that resonates with them. I’ve never understood the shot glass craze, but there it is. Go into any souvenir store anywhere in the world and you’re going to find shot glasses.”
    That one he understood. They were small and inexpensive.
    â€œWhat about the spoons and the thimbles?” he said. “Don’t leave those out.”
    Another laugh bubbled up her throat. “I do have a few thimbles,” she admitted. “But they’re antiques and don’t have Yosemite National Park across the front. They’re also solid silver with pretty filigree.”
    â€œSo you collect thimbles?” he asked.
    â€œAmong other things,” she admitted, looking out the window. She propped her elbow against the door, then sighed and rested her head against her hand.
    â€œThat sounds intriguing.”
    She turned to look at him, her green eyes sparkling with humor. “It wasn’t meant to be. I just have a little of everything. If it’s pretty or I can find a place for it, I keep it.”
    He studied her again. “Does your house look like the inside of a Cracker Barrel?”
    She chuckled. “Not quite,” she said.
    â€œDoes your yard resemble Fred Sanford’s?”
    â€œNot at all,” she said. “You saw my house. It was right across the street from the store.”
    He blinked, surprised. “The pickle-green house with the red door and white gingerbread?”
    â€œThat’s not red,” she said lifting her chin. “It’s watermelon.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Pickle green,” she lamented. “All that work and you think my house looks like a pickle.”
    He chuckled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s the only frame of reference I have for that particular color.”
    â€œIt’s called Gecko,” she told him with an imperial arch of her brow.
    He grunted. “In that case, I think pickle sounds better.”
    Another eye roll. “You would.”
    â€œIt’s in keeping with your food theme.”
    She looked at him. “Food theme?”
    â€œYou said the door was watermelon,” he reminded her. “And gingerbread trim.”
    It was her turn to harrumph and she glanced over at him again, seemingly seeing him from a new perspective, as though he’d unwittingly handed her the secret to his brain. “You know, in a twisted sort of way that makes perfect sense.”
    He grinned at her and arched a brow. “Logic is twisted?”
    â€œYours is.”
    He gave his head a baffled shake. “Interestingly enough, I actually think you mean that as a compliment.”
    â€œI do,” she said. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”
    Oh, man, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to let that go. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI can’t put my finger on it exactly,” she said, pursing her ripe lips in brooding consideration.
    He waited, and when she didn’t respond, he prodded her again. “Would you try?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, her gaze thoughtful. “I think I expected someone like Payne. Cool and autocratic, convinced that his way is the only way.”
    He hated to tell her this, but if she hadn’t