Page 66 of The Frog Prince
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes—no.” I swipe the rest of my tears away. “I mean, that’d be great.”
He sits, and he’s even handsomer up close. His eyes are really blue, Hollywood blue, and I’m reminded of that actor, the one who played the southern hunk inSweet Home Alabama.
“Where’re you from?” he asks, leaning toward me, one hard thigh jutting out from beneath the table, the shape of a strong knee just barely outlined against the faded denim.
“Visalia,” I say, knowing he won’t have a clue.
“Exeter,” he answers, and we both grin.
Exeter’s just nine miles east of Visalia. You take Highway198 toward Kaweah Lake, jog right off the highway before you reach Badger Hill, and there it is.
I can’t believe he was raised nine miles from my hometown. He’s too good-looking to be from Cowville. “You moved away from Exeter when you were a kid, right?”
His eyes crease. “Sometimes I wish I did, but nope. Graduated from Exeter High School. I’m Alex.”
“Holly.” I shake his hand, and I’m tempted to ask what class he was in, but I hold back. I know he’s older than I am; I peg him to be early, maybe even mid-thirties, as his bones are settled, his frame big, solid, and there’s something in his eyes that indicates he’s comfortable. Relaxed. He knows who he is.
Instead I point to his feet, “So those are real boots?” I ask. “Not just Needless Markup wannabes?”
He laughs low and husky and, stretching one leg out, lifts the hem on his jeans, showing the genuine stitching on the leather. “Real boots.”
“You were an aggie?”
“Yep. You, too?”
“Nope.”
“No Four-H? No FFA sweetheart queen?”
I shake my head as the knot inside my chest eases. I can already breathe a little easier. I feel a little better. Just knowing that Gorgeous Guy is from my neck of the woods makes everything okay. “I lived in town. I left the ag stuff to my friends.”
“Smart girl.”
“You’re a country boy.”
“Citrus.”
“You must love fog.”
He laughs, and it’s deep, sharp, distinctly male. “Far better than cold snaps.” And we both know we’re talking about the cold, clear winter nights that send farmers rushing through their orchards, lighting the oil smudge pots to keep the fruit from freezing.
“So what are you doing in the city?” he asks, changing the subject.
“I’m in PR.”
He lifts an eyebrow, so I hurriedly add, “I work as an event planner.”
“That’s great.”
And then I blurt things I shouldn’t. “I can’t believe you’re a teacher. I thought you were a model.”
He laughs again, a great big belly laugh, but before he can answer, I hear a voice. “Holly?”
I recognize the voice, even the incredulous tone, and immediately flash back to my freshman year of high school.
I turn around, and it is Katie. Katie. Katie from freshman PE, Katie from honors English, Katie from AP history. Katie Robinson. For a moment I do nothing but grin like an idiot, and then I’m launching myself up out of the chair and I’m hugging her. “What are you doing here, Katie?”