That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (6 page)

"That'd be great," he said, gracefully rising to his feet. "I'm looking forward to this."

She nodded, trying to sniff discreetly. "Thanks, Aaron."

"I have a feeling I'm going to be the one to thank you." He squeezed her shoulder and walked out ahead of her.

Dazed, she gathered her mat and stumbled into the changing area. She'd dawdled long enough that everyone had cleared out, except one mousy woman who stood there in a towel, freshly showered.

The woman glanced at her, her cheeks pink, and pulled her towel tighter. "Hey, Dana."

What was her name? She'd chatted with her a few times after class—she should remember. "How was class?" Dana asked, reaching for her shoes.

"I almost died. Aaron looks easygoing and nice, but he's all intense in class." The woman—Betty?—put a hand to her face, her eyes wide. "Is his class always that tough?"

"Pretty much. I think he does it to discourage the women mooning over him." Not that that ever stopped any of them. He was the only reason she tried this yoga studio even though there were ones closer to her apartment. One of her former workmates had insisted she come check it—and him—out.

The thought of her old job made her wilt a little. She'd loved working at WL&W.

The woman—Beverly?—leaned forward, concern sobering her face. "Are you okay?"

"If you count being aimless and without means okay."
Oh my God
. Dana clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified. "I didn't say that."

The woman frowned. "I'm pretty sure you did."

She shook her head, her hand still covering her mouth. "I really didn't. I think I'm dehydrated or something."

"Then come have a drink with me."

Dana wasn't sure who looked more surprised: her or the other woman.

"I didn't mean it like that." Now the woman—Barbara?—looked equally horrified. Her towel slipped, and she scrambled to keep herself covered. "I mean, I did want to get something to drink, but not like a date. I like men. FYI. I wasn't hitting on you."

She grinned for the first time all week. "Bummer."

"Not that you aren't pretty," the woman stammered quickly. "You really are. The brown shade of your hair is like, um, a tree. A pretty tree."

Dana burst out laughing. Beth! The woman's name was Beth. "I'm sold. Let's get a juice, Beth."

"Really?" The woman looked miserable but hopeful. "You want to even though I handled that so clumsily?"

"It's not every day someone tells me my hair is like a tree." She slipped on her shoes and picked up her things. "I'll wait for you in the lobby."

"I'll be fast."

She was—a couple minutes later, Beth joined her in the lobby, bag and yoga mat under her arm. Dana opened the front door and followed the woman outside.

"This is nice," Beth said as they walked around the corner. "I haven't gone out with another woman socially in a long time."

"Why not?" Dana asked, coming to stand in the line at the juice shop.

"I just moved here, and all my friends are in Seattle." She looked a little wistful and lost as she played with the zipper on her Lululemon jacket. "I'm an engineer, and my coworkers are all men."

"You can't be friends with them?"

Beth shook her head. "It's not the same as talking to another woman."

Dana guessed that was true. She stepped up to the window, about to order a juice when she remembered that she was on a tight budget and juices weren't a part of it. She froze.
Damn it
. She'd gotten used to not thinking about spending money.

She felt a hand settle on her harm and turned to see Beth looking at her.

The woman seemed hesitant. "Can I buy you a drink? I'm not trying to have sex with you or anything."

She burst out laughing. "My loss, I guess."

Beth looked perplexed. Dana almost asked what the woman was obviously puzzling over, but the juice girl asked for their order. They got their juices and went to sit at a small café table on the sidewalk.

"This is so much nicer than going straight to work," Beth said as she sat down. "Are you going back to the office?"

"No." She sighed. "Can you keep a secret?"

"I'm excellent with secrets," the woman said earnestly.

"I just agreed to work as a receptionist a couple times a week at the studio so I can drool over Aaron."

Beth's eyes widened. "Really?"

"No. Not really." Male perfection wasn't her type. "It's the only way I can afford to take classes right now."

"Oh."

Beth sounded so disappointed that Dana had to add, "On the bright side, it means you can have a shot at Aaron."

"Right." Beth rolled her eyes.

"Why not?" Dana frowned. "You're pretty and have everything it takes. In fact, the more I look at you, the sadder I am that you don't want to have sex with me."

The woman's face flushed. "I know you're joking, but I'm sorry that came out the way it did. I'm so awkward."

"Everyone's awkward."

"Are you starting a new business?" Beth asked, playing with her juice lid. "Is that why you can't afford classes?"

"I just got fired," she said bluntly. She still couldn't believe it.

"Because they were laying off people?" Beth asked with a sympathetic wince.

"No. Just me." That was what pissed her off most.

Beth leaned in, eyes wide. "What happened?"

"They fired me because I was the straw that broke the camel's back. They wanted to save money, and I was the last person they hired."

"So they fired only you? Can they do that?"

"They can, and they did." She felt the burn of betrayal rise up her throat, threatening to choke her. "The thing is, I was their most successful salesperson."

Beth shook her head. "How does that make sense?"

"It doesn't."

"Wow." Beth sat back. "So much for job security, huh?"

"The only saving grace is that I have a bonus coming to me. I'm supposed to go in tomorrow to finalize everything with HR." She shrugged as she played with the lid on her juice. "Maybe I'll start my own business with the money."

"What sort of business?"

"No idea." Dana smiled. "I haven't really thought that far ahead."

Beth held up her juice. "Okay then. Good luck tomorrow."

Dana tapped her bottle against Beth’s. "I won't need luck. It's in the bag."

George hadn't gotten his name.

She wiped her hands on a rag, shaking her head. When she'd looked at him, she could barely think.

Which was weird, because she saw plenty of men in her line of work and never reacted that way. She wanted to crawl into his lap and cuddle there forever.

She wasn't a cuddler—not even when she was a kid. Whenever she dated someone, she always went home instead of staying the night. She couldn't bear the thought of someone having a vise grip on her. She wasn't that kind of girl.

Her cellphone rang, and by the nuclear alarm ringtone she knew exactly who it was. She debated not answering her mother's call, but putting her off never ended well. Sighing, she pulled out her phone. "Hey, Siobhan."

"Has Remy Savage been by?" her mother asked as a greeting.

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Oh, you will,
mi corazón
," her mother purred.

George rolled her eyes. She could guess exactly what he'd be like, because her mother had a history of trying to set her up with greasy tango dancers. "To get in touch with your emotions," her mother always said. The only thing she got in touch with in their presence was her gag reflex. Tango brought out the worst in a person.

As if hearing her thoughts, her mother said, "I'm only worried about you, Georgina. All you do is roll around in oil all day. It's not good for you. A woman needs to express herself and be seen."

"I'm seen all the time," she said, checking her watch. Usually this conversation was over in three minutes.

"Not the way you should be seen," her mother insisted. "Did you get the shoes I sent?"

"All of them."

"Wear the red ones for Remy."

"Like that's going to happen," she mumbled. Oddly, she pictured the unnamed muralist and wondered if he liked women in red shoes.

Her mother heaved a sigh. "Georgina, I just want you to have what your father and I have."

Drama? Tears and broken glass and heartache? Feeling like you were caught in an endless earthquake, with everything crumbling around you? "No, thank you."

"You can't be happy in that drafty garage."

She tugged at her hair, frowning, hating that deep down she wasn't. Poppy had given her everything: a quiet, calm haven in the face of her parents' tempestuous lives. She
liked
fixing cars.

Mostly. At least, she used to.

She glanced at her Black Shadow, partially disassembled at the edge of the repair bay. She definitely enjoyed restoring that.

"Really, Georgina, I don't understand why you stopped dancing," her mother continued. "You used to love it."

She had. She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of being swept away by the music and the connection between herself and another person. She'd loved the passion and fire of the dance.

Only she'd seen people get burned, and she wanted no part of that. Hurting people for the sake of
feeling
was wrong.

Sometimes she did miss it, though. She'd never admit it to her mother, but she missed the closeness and the flirting. At sixteen, she'd loved the excitement and promise of passion.

The artist popped into her mind again. She suddenly felt a wave of passion course through her body, but she quickly stifled it. Passion had a cost, and it was much more than she wanted to spend. "I have to go, Siobhan."

"Wear the shoes when you go out with Remy," her mother repeated. "And, Georgina, brush your hair."

"It's been real, Siobhan," she said, hanging up. Undoing her ponytail, she flipped her head down and tangled her hair more. Childish? Sure, but it made her feel better.

"Hey, George." Alex came around the car she'd been working on. "You got fleas you're trying to shake off?"

"Or something." She pushed her hair out of her eyes and pulled it back again. "What's up?"

"You good if I take off early today?"

"Yeah." She studied him, frowning. He was attractive, she guessed, but when she looked at him he didn't make her want to tear off her clothes and offer her body as a canvas the way her artist did. Why was that? "Alex, you're hot, right?"

His eyes widened. "Um . . ."

"Because you seem hot." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe."

"Are you propositioning me?" he asked, taking a step back.

"No. You're not my type." The artist's face flashed before her eyes.

"Good." He slumped like his entire body was exhaling with relief.

She frowned. "You don't have to sound so relieved. I wouldn't be that bad to date."

He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything.