“Leave me out of this, and stop making excuses. So tell me again why a man like that wouldn’t let a woman like you have her way with him?”
“Because he’s just too much incredible. Incredible men look for incredible women.” At least, that’s the experience she’d had since they’d begun girls’ night. A man like that wouldn’t be interested in her. He’d want a woman who was dynamic, worldly and far more interesting than a woman who’d rather stay at home and bake apple pies while she sipped grape Kool-Aid from a wineglass, fancying herself a real academic because she read mystery novels by the dozen.
She was simple, in taste and in her way of life. He looked like he should drive an Aston Martin and call some elderly woman Miss Moneypenny. He might appear big and gruff, but there was a primal elegance to it—a Daniel Craig air about him that left her knees weak.
Dixie rose, holding out her hand to Em, who took it, moaning when the motion of merely rising unsettled her precarious stomach. “The not-hungover Dixie is going to tell hungover Em to stop being so maudlin and more important, stop talking about yourself like you’re not just as incredible. Because that’s just plain not true. Now,” she said, tucking her gloves inside the pockets of her sweater, “why are you here again? I forgot in light of the hunky man.”
“Tile. I need to pick out some new tile for my bathroom. But first, I need you to take a peek around that corner and be sure he’s gone. Please.” She pointed over her shoulder.
Please let him be gone, please let him be gone.
Dixie poked her head around the tall steel shelves, housing smaller cuts of wood. She gave Em the thumbs-up, holding out her arm to her.
Em hooked arms with Dixie, forcing her shaky legs to keep up. “I warned you you were headed for a hangover, didn’t I?”
“You bein’ the expert, and all,” she remarked dryly, using all her energy to focus on picking new ceramic tile for her bathroom. Since Clifton left, she found herself itching to change the things he’d once loved but she’d hated about their small house. Seeing as she was good with a band saw—or almost any saw—and Dixie had afforded her a generous paycheck, she could do it.
Dixie grinned. “Hangovers and a little sleepin’ around were my specialties. Don’t take from my résumé, Em. It messes with my street cred, lessening the value of all my hard work all those years. It hurts.”
Em giggled. “Stop chattering. It makes my head swim.”
Dixie rested her arm high on a rack holding row after row of colorful tile. “That’s because you’re hungover. A swimming head’s a sure sign.”
“Hush, and help me pick out some new tile, would you, please? I don’t want to waste a Saturday doing nothing while the boys are away.”
“Are you really going to tackle this project alone? It’s a lot of work. Why won’t you just let me pay someone to do it for you?” Dixie’s face had skeptical all over it.
“It’s called Em’s big, fat pride. If I let someone do it, I won’t have done it myself. There’s a certain sense of self-satisfaction in remodeling an entire house all on your own. It’s not like I don’t know my way around a wet saw, Dixie. I mean, I did spend the first months of my divorce watching nothing but the DIY channel and YouTube. It gives me something to do while the boys are off at Mama’s, or when Clifton finally gets around to bringing them to Atlanta for his visitation. It’s clean, hard work—and it’s good for the soul. But also because I don’t want these busybodies to start talkin’ and saying I’m just your person because of all that money you have now. So let’s be clear.” She raised her voice a decibel so there’d be no mistake about whether Emmaline Amos took handouts. “I don’t love you for your mountains of money.”
Dixie held up a blue ceramic square with a yellow sunflower on it for Em’s inspection. “Then why do you love me, Em?”
Em shook her head when she peeked at the tile by lifting her dark glasses. No sunflowers. “I love you because lovin’ you is like havin’ an in with the devil’s head playmate. I’m always guaranteed an invite to the exorcism.”
Her phone buzzed against her hip, cutting Dixie off. She dragged it out of her pocket, frowning when she saw it was Nella, Call Girls’ receptionist.
Em held the phone up to Dixie so she could see who was calling. “My work never ends, does it? Sure, let’s give Em a job, you said. Let’s give her a juicy paycheck to match, you said. Let’s give her a title like general manager to match her big paycheck. I should have known there’d be Saturday strings attached with you in charge, Dixie,” she joked, scrolling her phone’s screen. “Nella?”