Over Easy: (Santa Lena Sizzles, #1) Read online

  “It was alternating vanilla and chocolate layers,” I told her as my voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears again.

  Her delicate hand swooped down to grab one of the cut-up photos. “Although,” she tapped the picture with her professionally manicured finger, “that’s a bit more glitter than I’d personally put on a wedding gown.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled at her through my tears. “Isn’t it great? The bridesmaids had matching iridescent glitter on their dresses.” Her sharp eyes took me in and assessed. My legs wobbled from my emotion overload, and without warning, she stepped in and grabbed me in a tight hug. It was incredibly weird but incredibly comforting. I held on for dear life and continued sobbing. I was embarrassed for the tears and snot I was likely getting all over her expensive suit, but I couldn’t stop. It was the most secure I’d been in ages. Maybe ever.

  My tears slowed, and my sobbing stopped when a loud, “What is happening?” boomed from the doorway. “Some kind of raid?” The “r” in “raid” was rolled in a beautiful accent. I looked over to see my other neighbor in a blue, white, and green striped brunch coat. We represented the entire spectrum of fashion—angel in her high-class white suit, me in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, and the old woman in...pj’s.

  I stepped away. “Oh, no, sorry. I got mad and smashed my TV to smithereens,” I tried to explain, pointing at the TV and sounding like a complete moron.

  “Good.” Her arms went up in the air. “Anger is the first step to getting over these things. You got lots more to go, but this is good start. I’ll go get garbage bags and gloves to pick that up.” She motioned to the glass with her pointy, red polished finger. “Nobody touches nothing until I get back,” she ordered and turned to walk away.

  “I’m Riley and that was Roza. We’ll be helping you clean up this evening whether you like it or not,” she said with such sweet, sincere, hopeful eyes.

  For some reason, we both burst out in laughter.

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER…

  There was knocking at my door, followed by a loud voice yelling, “Hello? Harper, open up.” I’d know that voice anywhere.

  Stepping over the few shoes I kept in the entryway, I opened the door. “Hi, Roza.” Since the night she and Riley came to my rescue, we were all pretty tight.

  “Harper,” she bellowed, even though I was right beside her. With her Czech accent, it sounded more like, “Harrrrrpurrr.” She had two levels on her voice volume-o-meter—loud and burst-your-gosh-darn-eardrums. I loved her, but sometimes she made my ears bleed.

  I wished I could rrrrrrolll my r’s like her. Sometimes I practiced in the shower. Roza must be in her mid-seventies by my best guess. She was sweet as heck, once you got past all the layers of gruff and bossy.

  Roza pointed at me. “Go outside, my love. What you think, man of your dreams will pop out of window?” She swung her long arm out toward the big window where the morning sun streamed in. Her arm stopped moving, but the skin under her arm took a few more seconds to come to a complete halt.

  Today’s brunch coat was bright yellow. You would think that someone who wore pajamas all day would look like a slob, but not Roza. Her blonde-gray hair was always styled in an immovable high bun. I had no clue how she achieved that incredible feat. It could be windy as hell outside, but Roza’s hair wouldn’t budge. Perhaps it was too scared?

  “Do you want coffee? I made a pot.” I walked to the kitchen and grabbed two mugs from the top cabinet. “It’s seven a.m. I’m sure all the available bachelors are still sleeping. Most mornings I try to wait until at least nine to pounce on my unsuspecting victims.” What a joke that was. I hadn’t pounced on anything besides my battery-operated buddy in well over a year and a half.

  “Am I still breathing? Of course, I want coffee,” she said and frowned at me. But it wasn’t a real frown. “And don’t blame me for you not having a man. You need to start early in day if you want to find good one this time. Not another skinny little wimp like last one,” she said, sucking in her cheeks and squeezing her arms to her sides in an attempt to make herself small. This did not work. Roza was not and would never be small. She was built like a brick shithouse. “I’ll pick good man for you. Nice and strong. Big hands,” she said with her hands stuck out in front of her. “Yes, yes, nice big, strong hands.” She looked off into space as if imagining what this strong man would do with his large hands. So, I left her to it. Far be it from me to take away a woman’s fun.

  “Gabe wasn’t a tiny man,” I said for the thousandth time. Just because he didn’t measure up to her late husband’s height, Roza pegged him as small.

  “He was. You just forget,” she said and shuffled over to the stools in her pink slippers that had seen better days. She grabbed the island with both hands and hefted herself up onto one of the wooden stools. I handed her the steaming black cup of daily hope and took my first sip out of my “Gymnasts Do It Better” mug. Ah, a reason to live.

  Never in my life would I understand people who didn’t add crap to their coffee. On the other hand, if I didn’t make my coffee like a dessert, I wouldn’t have all this booty to contend with. My behind wasn’t huge or anything, but I was curvy. Besides, it all evened out with my cleavage on top.

  “What’s up today? Any plans?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “Maybe I will go to grocery store. We’ll see,” she said as she avoided my eyes and pretended to study the ugly abstract art picture on my wall.

  Yeah, “we’ll see,” my ass. Today was Tuesday, and everyone over sixty-five knew what that meant—Senior Appreciation Day at Pat’s Grocery Store. And that meant free cookies and coffee and enough gossip to sink a small ship.

  “Yoo-hoo! Knock, knock! What in the world are you doing up this early, Roza? I heard a commotion over here.” In walked Riley. She was five foot ten inches, one hundred twenty-five pounds of class on heels. Her blonde hair was streaked to perfection, and I liked to stare at it in wonder. Flawless makeup, flawless skin, always in the perfect outfit, which today was a beige skirt with the cutest white blouse I had ever seen.

  I raised my eyebrows. “It’s Tuesday. She’s killing time until the main event.” I nodded my head in Roza’s direction where she sat giving me the evil eye.

  “Riiight.” It dawned on Riley. “Pat’s doesn’t open until eight.” She winked at Roza and sat down on the other stool with all the grace and practice of a trained supermodel.

  “Coffee?” I asked, raising my mug in the air.

  “Nah, early meeting. I’ll grab something on the way. But thanks.”

  “Riley, you have talk with Harper. I keep telling her and telling her she needs to go out, meet nice, strong man with big hands. Take Harper with you and find one for her. You meet big, strong men with big hands all the time.”

  Gulp. This was true. I’d seen some of Riley’s exploits. They were always big men, but they never lasted more than a night.

  The pain must end. “Roza, I’ve only been divorced for six months, and I’ve been...busy,” I said, lying my ample ass off.

  “Yeah, but that dick left you a year and a half ago for that Jenny? Janey?” Riley frowned, trying to remember the home-wrecker’s name.

  “Mary-Jane.” Thanks for the reminder.

  “Right, Mary-Jane. Anyway, Roza’s right. It’s time for you to get back on track. We should go out. How about tomorrow night?” She tilted her perfectly coiffed head and blinked her perfectly made-up eyes at me.

  “Harper, tomorrow night. It’s decided.” Riley swung her purse over her shoulder in one flawless move and turned like she was at the end of a runway, then reached to open the door. Why couldn’t I do classy stuff like that?

  I shook myself out of my Riley stalking behavior and put my cup on the counter in front of me. “Riley, my marriage ended six months ago. I’m not ready yet,” I repeated and glared at Roza, who was clearly happy she got her way.

  “Ha! Darling, your marriage was over long before your divorce was finalized. We all know that. Time for yo
u to move on now.” She opened the door and her perfect hair swung behind her. “Bye, ladies. Have fun today, Roza. Save me a cookie.” She grinned at both of us and did a cute little finger wave and left.

  It looked like I was going clubbing for the first time in ten years. Sigh.

  2

  Harper

  I made my way to work and pulled into a parking spot. Vivienne, my work BFF, was pulling in at the same time. After doing the mandatory makeup check in my visor mirror, I grabbed my bag and reached for the door handle, but Vivienne beat me to it. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, opening the door for me.

  Even at this early hour, the heat of the day quickly stole into my air-conditioned car. That was what you got for living in California. July in Santa Lena was hot. All the time. We were close enough to Bakersfield to be sisters, but just a tad north.

  “Lookin’ good, Harper. What’s shakin’?” she said as I shoved my legs over to step out of the car and slammed the door. I towered over Viv’s tiny frame. She was definitely not skinny, but I wouldn’t call her fat either. She was plain old voluptuous, even more gifted in the cleavage department than me. Her clothes were always daring and fun. Full of personality. Just like she was. Today’s blue-striped fitted blouse had one too many buttons undone as usual.

  “Everything’s shakin’ today. How’s it going with you? Have a good weekend?” I asked as I hauled my workbag over my shoulder.

  “Dean and I had a food producer banquet to go to. Boring as heck, so we ate too much, drank too much, and then ended up calling for a car on some driving app. OMG, our driver was smokin’ hot. What did you do?”

  We got to the front doors of Brentford Organics and I opened the door for Vivienne. “Not much.” Which we both knew meant zippo as usual.

  Vivienne strutted her fabulous self in front of me and into the foyer of the building, her curly blonde hair swaying behind her. I turned to my desk and sat down at the computer and pushed the on button while she walked into her office.

  She was the sales rep for Brentford Organics, the produce/food distribution company we worked for. Dean Brentford’s office was beside hers. He was the owner. On the opposite side was the manager, Murray Lewis. Behind all this was the huge warehouse of organic fruits, veggies, and fine foods that farmers supplied us with—we in turn provided restaurants and grocery stores with their products. I loved my job as an admin assistant. My desk was front and center of the lobby. I met with clients when they first arrived, answered phones, emails, and caught whatever Dean, Murray, or Vivienne threw at me.

  The office was decorated in various shades of dull. Dean’s a guy’s guy and his focus had always been on the business side of things. He couldn’t be bothered by redecorating an office he spent little time in. For now, the beige walls and practical white tile floors ruled the roost. I’d managed to sneak in an office plant or two on occasion without him noticing to give the place some color.

  In walked Mr. Dean Brentford. Dean was a tall guy with a lean build. He looked like he was a runner or quarterback in a former life. His dark brown hair was cut short, but stylish. He generally dressed in nice jeans and a button-up shirt of some kind. You’d expect that the boss of a successful company would wear a suit and tie to work, but Dean liked to keep it real. He was out in the warehouse often throughout the day, and that got his big hands—yes, I looked. Damn Roza anyway—and his clothes messy.

  “Morning, Harper. Morning, Vivienne. How are things today?” He adjusted his briefcase from one hand to the other.

  “I’m on the Anderson account today, Dean. Headed out their way soon.” Vivienne straightened her back and stood taller. “Just have to go over a few things with you before I leave, if you have time?”

  “Sure. Harper, hold any calls until we’re done, please.” They both walked toward his office, while Murray walked in, frazzled as usual. He was a middle-aged, African American man with a bit more of the middle-aged spread showing every day. He threw his bag onto my desk and shared his weekend.

  “Do not have children. You know what happens when children go to kindergarten? They meet other children. Children with birthdays, thus birthday parties. I thought birthday parties were only for the kids, like a dump and run venture. But Audrey says,” he imitated his wife in a nasally voice, “‘no, Murray, we have to stay and chat with the other parents. Get to know them, so people will ask the twins on playdates and stuff.’” Murray ran his hand over his bald head as he recounted the weekend’s party horrors.

  “I asked her why I needed to stay. Well, that just made it worse,” he said, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “So, I shut up and sat down.” Wise move, Murray. Happy wife, happy life. “Do you know how many birthday parties ‘we’ attended this weekend?”

  I shook my head and shrugged. “Three, Harper. Three birthday parties,” he said and held up three fingers on his angry hand. “In one weekend. The first one was at that trampoline place on Baltimore Avenue. What a madhouse! Bloody noses, screaming and, my God, do you know what a code yellow is?” I could take a wild stab at that one. Poor Murray, he looked like his head was ready to explode.

  “Sounds like you had an eventful weekend, but I’m sure you guys had some fun?” I forced a smile and tried my best to sound convincing.

  He wasn’t biting. “Fun? Harper, bloody noses and code yellows are the opposite of fun. And the cake. God, there was cake and icing everywhere.” He teared up slightly and said in a quiet voice, “Listen to me, girl. Do not have kids.” He shook his head, still rubbing it. I wasn’t going to have kids, so his advice was unnecessary.

  Don’t get me wrong. Children were great. Other people’s children. But when you’re a once divorced, barely getting by kind of woman, your view of the world changed.

  On the back of his suit, I saw a blob of what looked suspiciously like blue Play-Doh. I opened my mouth to say something, but thought better of it. I’d tell him later, after he had coffee.

  Once in his office doorway, Murray twisted back around and said, “Do you know how many kids are in their class, Harper?” he asked as he undid the buttons on his brown jacket. “Thirty. And they all have birthdays,” he said dryly. “Twenty-seven more parties to go.”

  Again, I tried my hand at comforting him. “Well, more like twenty-six because the twins share a birthday.”

  That did nothing to help. Instead, he shook his head and groaned, sulking away to find solace in his office, where bloody noses and code yellows didn’t exist.

  The California sun blazed down my back as I locked the car and walked up to my nothing-special apartment building. Marching on the in-questionable-repair stairs to the second floor, I barely took two steps in and closed the door when I heard Roza behind me, knocking frantically. “Open up. Open up. I know you’re there.”

  I did as ordered. “Hey, Roza, I just got home,” I told her as if she didn’t know. My feet thanked me as I peeled off my shoes.

  “Eat, my darling. Sit down.” She pushed all the way in and handed me a bright yellow margarine container. Only I recognized that there was no edible oil product in that baby. It had to be soup. Roza took off down the hall like she was on fire, I assumed to use the facilities.

  The container was almost melted, as were my hands. I strode in careful triumph to grab a spoon, then gingerly placed my treasure onto the counter. “Ow, ow, ow!” I whispered and waved my fingers around to cool them.

  Carefully, I opened the lid and inhaled the spicy, steamy aroma. Ah, heaven. Without waiting, I dove in for my first taste and, son of a biscuit, it was hot. “Ouch!” My burnt tongue lamented for a quick moment before I continued to scoop up another mouthful. Mmm, divine. You did not waste time when awesome soup was at hand.

  Never having been much of a cook, my culinary skills comprised of boiling pasta, opening cans, and thawing frozen dinners. So, homemade cooking was a special treat.

  When I finally emerged from my soup coma, I realized that Roza still hadn’t come back yet. Uh-oh. Panic overtook me as I
raced down the hall, spoon in hand.

  The bathroom was dark, but oddly, the light was on in my bedroom. I peeked in and there was Roza with half the contents of my closet on the bed. Dark blue dress in one hand, hanger in the other, she seemed visibly frustrated. “This? Where you wear this? A funeral? I don’t think so.” She threw the dress onto the ever-growing disposal pile, and it commiserated with the rest of the other banished clothing.

  “Uh, what’s your deal?” I questioned and remained frozen in shock in the doorway, more than a little freaked out. Had she ever been in my room before?

  “You have nothing to wear to trap a man. All of this is,” she waved broadly with her arms to the reject pile, “sad. Sad clothes. You need sexy clothes to trap a man. Look at that body of yours and you hide under funeral clothes.” She shook her head and tsked at me. “Those legs. How many women I know would kill for your legs?” Even I had to admit my legs were awesome. But I didn’t think I owned “funeral” clothes, did I?

  As I pondered this, Roza shuffled up and barked, “Move. This won’t do.” Afraid of getting hit with all the angry arm movements, I stepped out of her way. Bewildered, I stared at her as she stormed out in complete disgust of my gloomy threads. The door slammed behind her.

  Okay then. Coming out of my stupor, I walked to my “sad clothes” and looked at them. Really looked at them. Was she right? Were my clothes depressed? I picked up my long blue skirt and rubbed the material carefully, trying to get a read on it. “Talk to me, skirt. Are you sad?” Hmm. No answer from the ankle length, sensible, polyester-blend maxi. Perhaps it wasn’t the sexiest thing around, but it was a dream to wash.