Poker Posse 1: Looking at Rose (2 page)

Then Ibraham arrived, and her libido hadn’t been the same. Since the day the big vats had been installed and the crusher/destemmer had rumbled to life, Ibraham Rajonovich had been a present and constant distraction to her. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome like Ryan Reynolds or Channing Tatum, but more mature, charismatic, and rugged like Robert Downey Jr. or Daniel Craig. His eyes were a dark honey brown, and his hair was a unique indigo black, which he wore long and pulled back into a ponytail that hung below his shoulders. Most delicious of all, he was tall. Taller than her even when she was in her favorite hooker high heels.

Since they were neighbors in the shopping center on Magnolia’s High Street, she’d chatted with him whenever he’d step outside for a break or those times he’d visited her shop. Over the last year she’d learned quite a bit about who he was and where he was from. Despite the faint accent that flavored his words, Ibraham was second-generation Slovakian-American, born in California and raised on the small vineyard his grandfather, three great-uncles, and four “adopted” uncles had built when they first came to America from a small village in the Carpathian Mountains. He’d teased her during one of their first conversations that he’d been declared the black sheep of the family because of his fascination with muscadines after sampling a bottle of homemade wine made from the hearty Southern grapes.

Back inside her shop, Rose added yellow food coloring to the remaining icing and stirred until it was the deep green of magnolia leaves. While she piped the leaf design onto the cake, Rose forced her mind to stay on task instead of wandering into the fantasy realm it liked to play in when it came to Ibraham. The man was successful, handsome, charming; he could have his pick of women, and considering the ones that frequented his shop, he had no shortage of interested parties. The chance that he’d pick a Goliath who’d never see a size 14 in her closet much less on her body wasn’t likely.

She frowned down at the wind-blown-leaves design taking shape on the top of her cake, despondent at the idea of seeing Ibraham escorting one of the skinny, delicate debutants that were always hovering around him. The poor man would develop a permanently hunched back if he had to bend over to kiss one of the pretty little blondes that buzzed about like bees to honey. If she thought Ibraham would ever see her as something other than a friend or business acquaintance, Rose would be right there with all those other women vying for his attention.

Only problem was Rose was nothing if not honest with herself; there wasn’t much she had to offer a man like Ibraham. Her shop was a small one, barely making enough to pay the rent on the space and keep her in supplies. The online purchases were her biggest draw, but right now Sweet Rose Treats was only known regionally, nowhere near the level of income Slova Wines brought in. If the business and industry magazines were to be believed, her annual profits barely matched what his family’s wineries netted in a week. Heck, as the daughter of a retired school librarian and an auto mechanic, her social ranking put her just barely on the right side of the tracks, while Ibraham had a few blue-blooded noblemen somewhere in his family line. With that kind of background, what possible interest could he have in her?

If that didn’t deflate her aspirations of gaining his attention, there was that other little thing that kept her feet firmly planted in reality. Rose piped the last leaf onto the cake with a scowl. Ibraham was a sophisticated, engaging man who practically oozed experience—of the sexual kind. At twenty-six, she had been on five dates—the last one three years ago—and was still a virgin. She’d been kissed, but never passionately. Although she wasn’t ignorant about sex and had turned down her fair share of offers while attending cooking school, Rose had never entertained thoughts of going all the way with any of the boys she’d known. She was also confident, based on the poor results of her sports career, that any attempts at intimacy would more than likely result in a disaster to rival the burning of Atlanta, if not the entire War of Northern Aggression.

Rose had resigned herself to lusting after Ibraham from afar despite his daily visits and his teasing. Picturing him when she was alone and aching in her bed at night had become a pretty sad but common practice over the last eight months.

With a heavy sigh, Rose eased the cake into a box and moved it into the cooler so it would be ready for her customer to pick up later in the afternoon. Shaking her head, she began cleaning up her work area. No, wanting more than friendship from Ibraham was ridiculous. Rose knew her limitations, and Ibraham Rajonovich fell outside those boundaries.

She grinned, then scooped a bit of icing from the bowl and licked it off her finger. Yes, he was way out of her league, but there was no harm in indulging in a fantasy or three about the man. And Rose had a very vivid imagination. A purr rumbled in her throat as she eyed the last little bit of whipped cream frosting. Images of carefully smearing it over Ibraham’s lean torso, then licking it off had the temperature rising in Rose’s shop.

Yup, she had a great imagination, but the reality was she’d never have the courage, much less the opportunity, to indulge it. Not with Ibraham. Probably not with any man.

“You remind me of Joe.”

Her mother’s comment was a familiar one, especially when Rose had her head buried in the engine compartment of her mother’s Chevy Nova. Grinning over her shoulder, she quipped, “Is my butt that big?”

A slap against her posterior only made Rose laugh.

“Terrible girl. You know I didn’t mean that at all.”

Rose finished checking the alternator and moved to the starter. “I know, but Daddy wouldn’t have forgiven me if I let that opportunity slide.”

A heavy sigh punctuated her mother’s response. “Of course. Joe loved his jokes almost as much as he loved his motors.”

“Which made me very popular with the guys.” Rose could hear the sarcasm in her own voice and hoped her mother didn’t pick up on it.

Viola Whittman didn’t miss a thing. “Your daddy knew who your real friends were, Rose. That’s why he let you take care of running off the fake ones yourself.”

Rose rested her hands on the radiator and looked at her mother. “Really? I thought he only tolerated Nick and Harlen because they were the sons of your friends. And he tolerated Jake because he was Nick’s and Harlen’s friend.”

Viola, perched on the stool near Rose’s father’s workbench in the garage, shook her head, the soft blonde hair curling over her shoulders. “Oh no. Joe could tell those boys kept an eye out for you, honey. Why do you think Judge Hampton only gave Jake eight months in juvenile detention when he stole your daddy’s car?”

Rose looked over at the covered GTO that had belonged to her father. “Daddy loved his goat. I was surprised he let Jake back into his shop when he got out.”

“He was disappointed in him, but he knew Jake looked out for you the most.”

Rose turned back to the car. From the time she was six and they were ten, Rose had tagged along with the three boys on their excursions around Magnolia. They’d been the ones to teach her how to cast a line into the creek and hit dead center instead of bouncing her lure off the opposite bank. And when Rose was twelve and drawn the attention of an older boy on the football team with Jake and Harlen, it had been Jake that had shown her the moves to fend off unwanted advances.

“Until they left,” Rose grumbled. It still hurt, even twelve years later, that Nick, Harlen, and especially Jake, simply walked out of her life.

“But you had the girls.”

Frustration and anger that she’d kept bottled up bubbled to the surface. “By default, Mama. Norah and Ellie accepted me because their brothers liked me. Mirrie and Ari let me hang around because they were friends with Ellie and Norah.”

“That’s not true. They liked
you
, not because of their brothers.”

Wiping her hands on a rag, Rose moved past her mother to the workbench and began rummaging around for the part she needed. “Mama, I’m not saying that they don’t love me and I don’t love them. I do. They’re like my sisters. But I’ve never felt like I fit in with them. I was taller than all of them and more interested in fishing and fixing cars than Barbie dolls and dress-up. When we had sleepovers, I had to sleep on the floor because I was too big for the beds. And being as sweet as she was, Mirabeth always made sure everyone else slept on the floor.

“I could never swap shoes or share clothes with them because everything I had, if it fit, was too long on them or theirs was too short on me.” She slapped the rag on the work top and turned to look at her mother. “I didn’t feel like I fit in. I still feel like a freak sometimes.”

Viola slid off the stool and wrapped her arms around Rose. The warmth and comfort of her mom’s touch, the strength in her arms as she held Rose, settled the jangled nerves and awkward feelings inside Rose. She didn’t return the hug, not with the grease and dirt on her hands likely to smear her mother’s pretty pink dress, but she lowered her head so her cheek rested on her mom’s crown. “I’ll get you dirty,” she mumbled.

An indelicate snort sounded, and Viola pulled back. “Like I can’t wash my clothes and change into something else.” She reached up and cupped Rose’s face in her soft hands. “I wish I could take those feelings away, but I can’t. You’re a strong woman who knows who you are and what you want. But I do understand how you feel.”

Rose shook her head and turned back to the bench. “How can you, Mama? You’re normal-sized. You’re not like me.”

“Rosamund Leigh Whittman, you aren’t the only one who feels like an outsider. How do you think it feels for me when I’m around my friends?”

Confused, Rose swung around and watched her mother tap her foot in irritation with her arms crossed over her ample chest. “But they’re your friends. You’ve known them since you all were babies.”

“And there are times I wonder why I’m with them. I’m nothing like them.”

“But—”

Viola held up a finger as she ticked off each point. “Betty Jo has a PhD from MIT in electrical engineering and worked for NASA. Mabel has law and political science degrees from Duke and was mayor of Magnolia three times. Twice she ran unopposed. Lucy has worked as the nursing supervisor at the county hospital, not to mention being the head ER and Trauma nurse in one of Savannah’s busiest hospitals. And Raelene. As fickle about men as that woman is, she found the time to get herself an MBA and develop and run a premiere marketing and advertising firm. Now tell me, why wouldn’t I feel inadequate next to them?”

Rose was stunned by her mother’s revelation. She’d always known about the accomplishments of her mother’s friends. Norah, Ellie, Mirrie, and Ari had always been proud of their mothers’ careers just like she was, but it amazed Rose how close to her own feelings her mother’s were. “You have a master’s degree in library science and you ran the school district library program for thirty years. I think that’s equally amazing.”

“And you own and run your own store and online catalog business. What I’m trying to say is—”

Rose interrupted. “I get it, Mama. We all feel different, not quite right, sometimes.”

Viola seemed relieved. “Yes.”

With the part in hand, Rose moved back to the car. “I get it, but it’s just a little hard when I tower over everyone.”

“Not everyone. There’s Parker Greene; he’s as tall as you.”

“True, but he’s a guy, and he looked better with Mirabeth when they were married. She’s the closest to my height, but she’s only five eight.”

“Height isn’t everything.”

Rose snorted and worked to loosen the bolts securing the connector to the battery cable. “It is when most guys can’t look you in the eye.”

Viola laughed and settled back onto the stool. “Baby, very few men look a woman in the eye.”

They’d had this conversation a few times when she was a teenager and right before she left for the culinary institute, so Rose finished her mom’s statement for her, “Especially when it isn’t the head on their shoulders they’re thinking with.”

“Exactly.”

Ibraham looked her in the eye. Always. In the year she’d known him, Rose couldn’t think of a single instance when he was talking to her that his gaze ever dipped below her chin. Not that she’d be offended by his attention. Oh no, offended was the last thing she’d ever be if he decided to take his friendly pats or pecks to the next level. Just the thought of doing more with Ibraham had Rose’s temperature rising. Her body ached. While she scraped the corrosion from the battery cable, Rose decided it was a good thing she still had to take her shower before she headed over to Miss Lucy’s house, where Helena was playing hostess for the night. She’d have to take care of that particular ache
after
her mom left.

“Honey, I can call Ray.”

Rose was startled from her thoughts by her mom’s comment. She rolled her eyes at her juvenile reaction, then smiled at her mother. “Uncle Ray had two engines and a transmission to rebuild, not to mention a few oil changes lined up. If you wait for him to take care of this, you won’t make Miss Mabel’s card party this week or next week.”

Viola Whittman nodded. “And you’d miss your own party.”

Turning her attention to the battery connector and cable, Rose shrugged. “It’s not really a party, Mama. We talk about how our weeks went and pig out on pizza or whatever takeout one of us picks up.” Rose looked up in time to see her mother’s face tense and wrinkles crease her usually smooth brow.

Concern and something that sounded like disappointment filled her mother’s voice. “You don’t go out?”

With one hip on the grill of the car, Rose looked at her mother. “Mama, Helena wouldn’t be caught dead in the Fire Hose for fear of running into her daddy, and you can’t tell me you or your friends would be very happy if we decided to go to the Palace for some fun.”

Her mother did exactly what Rose expected when she stiffened and shook her finger at her. “I best not hear that you and your friends are down at that…that…place.”

“But they have an amateur night,” Rose teased.

“I will not have you displaying yourself, prancing around with pasties so some stranger can stuff dollar bills in your thong.”