The True Garza by S. Ann Cole

Author:S. Ann Cole [Cole, S. Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: S. Ann Cole
Published: 2022-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

I’VE JUST FINISHED whipping up something to eat with what paltry ingredients I could find in True’s scanty fridge and pantry when I hear the front door open. Seconds later, True emerges from the narrow foyer drenched in sweat.

Late-night running, I can understand. But who goes running when the sun is glaringly bright and blazing hot in the sky? LA sun is no joke.

“Hey,” he says, removing his ear-pods.

“You run an awful lot.”

“Still not as much as I used to. I did track in high school and college.” He jerks his chin to the counter, where I’ve plated some toasted bread with turkey slices, potato wedges, and cherry tomatoes. “Where’d you find food?”

“You’ve got a right to ask.” I can’t help laughing. “Not even one of your many women bother to keep your pantry fresh and stocked for you?”

The potatoes I found were sprouting, and the turkey slices had less than a day before expiration. But I made do because I’m starving.

“I only need them to keep their panties fresh, not my pantry.” He shrugs. “And I mostly eat out, at my brother’s or my mom’s.”

“Well, there was hardly anything, and I threw out all the stuff that’d gone bad.” I get a bottled water from the fridge for him. “Here. You must be parched from that hot sun.”

He strides over and takes the bottle, leaning against the counter.

“Do you eat breakfast?” I ask. “Or are you a protein-shake kind of man?”

“Shake.”

“Figures. I’ll make you some.”

I get the whey protein from the cupboard where I’d seen it earlier, and one of his five shaker bottles. From the fridge, I fetch the single carton of almost expired oat milk, then pause to ask, “With milk or water?”

He’s watching me with a strange expression. “Milk.”

I whip up the shake and hand it to him so he can refuel. Then round the counter with my plate of poor-man’s breakfast and sit on the stool next to him.

After downing several mouthfuls to appease my grumbling stomach, I ask, “Are you screwing the woman from the house at the cul-de-sac?”

He hikes a brow at me. “You saw her?”

“Yeah. When I went outside to get my bag from the SUV.” I take a sip of coffee. “I gave her the finger.”

He chokes on his shake. “You did what?”

“She kept staring at me. It was rude. Shouldn’t she be used to seeing women streaming in and out of here?”

He asks, “You’ve never seen her before?”

“I thought so. But I couldn’t place her.” Another sip of coffee. “So, are you screwing her?”

Instead of answering, he jerks his chin downward and asks, “What did I say about wearing jeans?”

Mouth full, I glance down at my jeans. “You’ve met me, right? Jeans, slacks, and sweats are what I wear. The dresses I wore to the meetings were bought specifically for that purpose.” On your card.

“Take them off.”

“What?”

“Jeans. Take them off.”

“I’m not—”

“Off.”

Jeez, why does he have to be so hot when he’s bossy? And why does my body have to be

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