Read Online White Lies by Jeremy Bates - Free Book Online Page B

smoke her out, so to speak. And although she had yet to buckle and confess, there was now no longer any doubt about it. She
had
lied. Not only to him, but to everyone who’d been at the pub. This certainty lifted his spirits tremendously.
    Katrina pushed open the door to the small hardware shop. An electric chime announced her entrance, though nobody called out to greet her. She took three steps inside, then stopped. In places like this—men places—she always felt uncomfortable, out of her element. Like she was allowed to be there but wasn’t supposed to be there. Even the smell of paint, metal, and wood seemed suddenly alien. It was the same feeling, she supposed, men had when they accompanied their girlfriends or wives into Victoria’s Secret.
    She glanced tentatively around, wondering where the nails would be located. Unlike in a supermarket, the aisles were not labeled. To the left of her was a pair of pumpkin-orange Black & Decker lawn mowers, their prices slashed, likely to move them before the snow started falling. In front of her were several pyramidal arrangements of paint cans. She stepped around the display and peered down the first aisle she came to. The eight-foot-tall shelves were lined with power tools and hand tools and other such equipment that looked like kitchen utensils on steroids.
Garlic press? Sorry, but why don’t you try my deadhead mallet. Don’t forget the safety goggles!
The next aisle was crammed with coils of wire and small plastic bins, each brimming with nuts, screws, nails, and a number of other gizmos.
    She bent down in front of the nails, thinking she had done quite well, finding what she needed in less than two minutes. She was trying to figure out what size nails would be best when someone asked her if she needed a hand.
    Katrina looked up and was surprised to see a tall, broad-shoulderedman smiling down at her. She stood, smiling back at him. He was handsome in an almost exotic sense of the word. In place of a neatly trimmed haircut and clean-shaven face was raven-black hair pulled into a loose ponytail and about two days of dark stubble. He looked partly Caucasian, but his black eyes and high cheekbones and strong chin reflected his Native American heritage. He was wearing a short-sleeve button-down cotton shirt that revealed thick forearms covered with green-and-black sleeve tattoos. Physically, he was the antithesis of the pretty-boy, suit-and-tie power-broker look—Shawn’s look, really. But Katrina found she was instantly attracted to him. His presence exuded a strength and attraction to a degree she’d rarely experienced.
    â€œI need some nails,” she told him. It came out a little rusty and she cleared her throat. “To hang some pictures.”
    â€œYou’re new to town?”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œThought so,” he said, nodding. “I’ve only been here a short time myself. But I would have remembered seeing you around, someone as pretty as yourself, no question there.” He winked. It wasn’t sleazy; combined with his smile, it was charming.
    Katrina’s mind went blank. Horrified, she tried to think of something to say.
    â€œDrywall?” he said.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œThe walls you’re hanging your pictures on. Are they drywall?”
    â€œYes, they are. I think.”
    â€œI know just the thing then.” He led her a couple aisles over and pulled a small package off one of the racks. Through the clear plastic she could see a bunch of bronze-plated thingamijigs that looked like large fish hooks. He handed it to her. “Much better than nails,” he explained. “You don’t need to hit a wall stud. You don’t even need any tools. Just stick one of these puppies into the drywall and give it a twist. They transfer the weight from the hole to the wall and can hold up to fifty pounds.”
    She examined the package. What could she say to impress him? “Monkey