Shine and Shimmer (Glitter and Sparkle #2) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Epilogue

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Shine and Shimmer

  Glitter and Sparkle, Book 2

  Copyright © 2017 by Shari L. Tapscott

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Patrick Hodges and Z.A. Sunday

  Cover Design by Shari L. Tapscott

  Cover Photography - © photoagents/Fotolia, ©kolotuschenko/Fotolia

  For Weston

  Now you have a building, a potato slicer, and a book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’m thinking navy with yellow and hot pink accents,” I say in lieu of a hello.

  Lauren, my best friend for the last ten years, doesn’t miss a beat. “Awesome colors. For what?”

  I adjust the cell phone at my ear and peer at the guy across the park, the one under the black fabric canopy. “My wedding.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lauren says, “but I think you might have forgotten to mention you have a boyfriend, much less a fiancé.”

  “I think I should tell him first.”

  The day is the epitome of the perfect Montana summer Saturday. A few wispy clouds roll over a bright blue sky, and the mountain air is warm without being sweltering. It’s my first summer spent apart from Lauren, but she and her new boyfriend, Harrison, are too mushy to be around right now, so I feel this will be good for our relationship. She can be starry-eyed, and I don’t have to pretend I’m not green with envy.

  Not that I’m jealous that she has Harrison—scrumptious as he is. It’s just that I want what they found. I want over the top, “no you hang up first,” new love. Or a slightly less gooey, possibly more romance novel, version of it.

  And luck is with me because less than twenty-four hours after arriving in my aunt’s hometown, I’ve found my Mr. Right. He’s an artist—an actual, honest-to-goodness artist.

  His thick brown hair is on the long side, much longer than the jocks I typically date keep theirs. It’s wavy and messy, like he’s just begging for someone—namely, me—to run her fingers through it.

  He wears a T-shirt so tight he might as well have painted it on, and his arms are covered in more tattoos than a rock star with a red-lipped, wannabe pinup girl on his arm. But they’re nice arms, tanned and toned under the ink. The rest of him isn’t bad either.

  “What’s he play?” Lauren asks, bringing me back to the present. “You still on a soccer kick?”

  “Oils? Acrylics? I’m not sure.”

  There’s a long pause on the other side of the line. “Riley, those don’t pertain to any sports.”

  From the shade of the gazebo, inconspicuous in the crowd, I give him another once over. “I don’t think he’s a sports kind of guy.”

  “Well, look at you, branching out.”

  I smile, ready to branch out a little more. “I’m going to introduce myself.”

  “You haven’t even met him yet?”

  Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “I’m about to remedy that.”

  She laughs. “Call me later.”

  “Will do.” I slide my phone into my back pocket, give my hair a toss, and stride forward, onto the grass where the vendors have set up their tents.

  The Artisan Festival runs weekly in the summer months. Every Saturday, people come from all over Montana to hawk not only pieces of fine art but other crafts as well. There is a plethora of scrap metal sculptures, sliced sandstone plaques, hand-wrapped fine jewelry, and batik-dyed fabrics. There are even some cotton ball sheep and crocheted toilet paper cozies.

  On the edges of the park, food vendors have set up their trailers, and families wander about, drinking lemonade, eating funnel cakes, and directing their small children away from the lady who sells hand-blown glass.

  With the wildflowers, fresh cut grass, and the scent of sunscreen hanging in the air, it smells like summer.

  I’m weaving through the crowd, halfway to the artsy Adonis’s canopy, when a guy backs right into me. He stops and jumps forward, craning his head backward, apologetic. “Oh, sorry…”

  He trails off as he likely realizes I’m not a thirty-something woman towing about a passel of children. The guy’s good-looking enough but has “small town” written all over him. With floppy, sandy hair and nondescript eyes that might be blue or gray or even light brown, he could get lost in a crowd of five.

  “Sorry,” he says again, and this time his mouth stretches into a smile.

  I stand on my tiptoes, looking over his shoulder, and try to step around him. “No worries.”

  “I’m Linus.”

  A girl with an enviable hourglass figure sidles up to my artist. She’s pointing at his work, and he’s lapping up her attention.

  Oh, great. Now she’s touching his arm.

  Irritated, I glance back at the guy who’s watching me. He’s waiting for me to do the polite thing and introduce myself. On any other day, I’d smile, maybe flirt a tiny bit just for the fun of it, but now my tall, dark, and handsome is reaching for the girl’s phone.

  “No!” I say under my breath, horrified.

  The guy in front of me raises his eyebrows and glances over his shoulder. When he turns back, a wry frown replaces his smile.

  The artist calls for his neighbor to watch his stand, and he walks off with the girl.

  With a huff of defeat, I cross my arms and finally turn my attention back to the-boy-who-doesn’t-know-when-to-move-along. “Riley.”

  “You new here?” Apparently not the type to give up easily, he’s like one of those scrappy dogs used to working for attention.

  “My aunt lives here,” I say. “I’m visiting for the summer.”

  He nods, and his smile slowly returns. “I grew up here.”

  “That’s…” I have nothing. Lamely, I finish, “Awesome.”

  After a moment, he rolls his eyes, lets out a mirthless laugh under his breath, and jerks his chin toward the deserted art stand. “His name is Zeke.”

  “You know him?” The words come out way too excited, and I attempt to school my features so I don’t look quite so interested.

  “Sure.” Linus clasps his hands behind his head. “Small town. We all pretty much grew up together.”

  “So, he lives here?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but he comes back during the summer for the festivals.”

  I process the inform
ation, and my eyes drift to Linus’s T-shirt. It’s gray, skims over his lean-muscled shoulders and chest, and a pixelated, blocky green character stretches across the front.

  “Creepers gonna creep?” I motion to the block print over the image. “What does that mean exactly?”

  A quick smile flashes over his face. “I’m going to take a guess and say you’re not a video game kind of girl.”

  “Ew, no,” I say before I can stop myself, and then I cringe.

  He only laughs and waves to a shop across the road from the park. “I’m working at the video game store this summer.”

  I eye him. So, he’s a geek.

  He doesn’t exactly look geekish. He’s not scrawny or awkward. But facts are facts.

  “Sorry,” I apologize, hoping I didn’t offend him, though it comes out sounding more like I’m sorry he’s such a loser.

  Linus shrugs. “I’ll see you around?”

  “Sure.” I’m barely able to pay attention because Zeke has walked back—and he’s alone. Just to be friendly, I flash Linus a quick smile as I hurry past him. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” he calls, but I’ve already moved on.

  As I make my way toward the canopy, I straighten my posture and put on a serious look. Without even glancing at the impossibly handsome, dark-haired artist, I browse his paintings.

  They’re bold, thoughtful…have a brooding vibe to them. Honestly, they look a lot like the finger paint masterpieces a preschooler I used to babysit would ask me to hang on her parents’ fridge.

  But that probably means something. Something deep—something I’m gonna need to figure out real quick, because out of the corner of my eye, I see Zeke walking my way.

  Once he reaches me, he crosses his arms and studies a painting right along with me. “What do you see?”

  What I see is a glob of red plastered over a lake-like splodge of blue. There’s some yellow in there that looks like it was splattered on with a toothbrush. What I say is, “It’s raw, emotional. The primary colors make me think of the elementary basics of life.”

  Lies. All lies.

  Zeke looks my way and studies me with an intent expression on his face. “That’s amazing. I was in a vulnerable state while painting this, but I haven’t been able to peg the emotion behind it—it was just this ache, you know? And you just…” He shakes his head, and an approving smile tilts his lips. “Awesome.”

  Vulnerable state.

  Okay, I’m going to be honest. I don’t know what to do with that statement. I shrug, trying to look modest when, really, I hope he doesn’t see right through me.

  Now would be a good time to explain something about myself. I’m not exactly an artsy kind of girl. In high school, I steered clear of the art room unless Lauren dragged me in there. The closest I’ve ever been to fine art is those reproduction prints they hang in hotels.

  I’m art inept, and for the last eighteen years of my life, I’ve been happy to be that way.

  That’s why, when Zeke says, “So are you an artist yourself?” I freeze.

  “No.” My voice goes up an octave. But he looks so disappointed, I blurt out, “I’m more of a crafter.”

  No. No, I’m not. I can’t even work a glue gun.

  Zeke leans against his table and crosses his arms. His tattoo-covered muscles bulge—actually bulge. “Yeah? What do you craft?”

  Subtly, my eyes dart around for inspiration. Quilts?

  No way—I accidentally sewed over my finger when Grandma tried to teach me how to make a pot holder.

  Doll clothes? Paper mache? Gum wrapper origami?

  What am I going to say?

  “Soap.”

  Soap?

  It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Lauren’s made it a few times, but I’ve never actually watched the process.

  He nods like it’s a reasonable answer. “I’ve known a few people who make it. Do you process it? Or do you prefer the melt and pour?”

  He says “melt and pour” with such disdain that I answer, “Um…process?”

  “Do you do candles too?”

  Sure, why not.

  I give him an easy smile. “Of course.”

  After all, if you’re going to dig the hole, you might as well make it a deep one.

  “You should talk to Linda.” He nods toward a woman at the booth toward the front of the event. “See about setting up a table.”

  Never going to happen.

  “Yeah?”

  He jerks his chin up in a nod, and there’s a wolfish glint in his eyes. “Absolutely—though my motives are fairly selfish.”

  I cock my hip, pleased. “Why’s that?”

  Zeke gives me a slow-burning sort of smirk. “If you’re working alongside me, I might look forward to getting up early on Saturdays.”

  And like an idiot, I lean forward, look up at him from under my eyelashes, and say, “Well, then…I’d better go talk to Linda.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’ve spent the last hour on my laptop, reading horror stories about sodium hydroxide—the chemical that makes soap, well, soap. Lye, as most people call it, is the scariest substance ever. If you’re careless with it, it will literally melt the skin from your bones.

  Melt your skin.

  With a shaking hand, I dial Lauren. Thankfully, she’s not too busy cooing over Harrison right now and answers on the second ring.

  “I did something stupid,” I say.

  “What did you do?” It would be nice if she’d sound surprised, but she doesn’t.

  “You know the guy I was telling you about?”

  “The non-soccer player?”

  “I told him I make soap. Like…from scratch.”

  Silence.

  “Lauren?” It’s sad how desperate I sound. “I’ve been doing some research…is it as dangerous as everyone says?”

  “No,” she automatically answers, but then she pauses. “I mean, it can be.”

  After flipping the phone to speaker, I bury my head in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

  It’s raining, as it often does on summer afternoons in the mountains, but even the soft patter on my aunt’s flowers does little to soothe me.

  “I guess you’re going to have to learn to make soap.” She clears her throat. “Or, you know…tell him the truth.”

  “Soap it is.”

  She sighs. “Please be careful.”

  After I promise I will be, we talk for a little bit longer about how wonderful Harrison is…and the funny thing Harrison said the other day…and how smart Harrison is.

  Honestly.

  By the time we’re done, I want to smother myself with a pillow. Not that I don’t love Lauren—I do. But, I had the tiniest crush on Harrison, and listening to her go on and on about him is like pouring salt and lemon juice on a very small, but very angry, paper cut.

  I’m glad she’s happy—I really am. And the more I’ve gotten to know Harrison, the more I’ve realized we wouldn’t have been good for each other. He and Lauren are a little, well, boring. On his days off from school and work, he sits in the garage for hours, sanding things like cutting boards and spice racks. She hangs out with him, drawing or painting or working on projects for her job assisting an event coordinator she met right before we graduated high school.

  I need someone exciting. Someone unconventional. Someone with sultry eyes and tattoos and a Harley. I don’t know that Zeke actually rides a motorcycle, but he sure looks good on one in my daydreams.

  After we hang up, I lie on the quilt-covered bed that’s mine for the summer and stare at the droplets running down the window pane. I debate picking up my book, one of my usual romantic stories that Lauren teases is nothing but intellectual fluff. I must eventually be lulled to sleep by the rain because I wake to my aunt closing the front door and calling my name.

  Bleary-eyed and yawning, I wander into the kitchen.

  Aunt Marissa’s already turned on the radio, and she’s singing along with a song that seems a little to
o new for her to know so well. When she sees me, she pushes her short, nutmeg-colored hair behind her ear, grins in greeting, and continues pulling various ingredients from the cupboards in a practiced and knowledgeable manner.

  This domestic scene, if witnessed by a stranger, would automatically make them think Aunt Marissa’s an awesome cook.

  That would be a grave mistake to make.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask as I warily take a seat at the counter.

  The entire kitchen is done in sixties-style red and green campground plaid—the curtains, the dish towels, the oven mitts. My aunt’s framed a vintage state park poster and placed it over the coffee maker. It hangs in the same spot my mother keeps a bulletin board to keep track of all our family’s activities (and with two girls and a set of seven-year-old twin boys, there’s a lot to keep track of). Various-sized moose, squirrels, and black bear figurines dot the counters and others hang as magnets on the fridge.

  True, my aunt’s small town is tucked into a valley in the heart of the mountains, and it’s pulling for alpine adventure-seeking tourists, but Marissa’s taken the whole thing a little far. We’re minutes away from a Starbucks, for goodness sake.

  “I’m going to try to make enchiladas,” Aunt Marissa proudly exclaims.

  Try being the key word.

  My hair’s all lopsided from my nap, so I pull out the elastic and twist the whole thing up on top of my head. “I can help.”

  She sets down a container of sour cream and narrows her eyes. “You don’t trust me.”

  Grinning, I ignore her and wash my hands. “Dad has a great recipe. We could call him for it…”

  Like her sister, my mom’s not a great cook, so Dad does most of the cooking when we’re home long enough to actually eat together. Between my older sister’s track meets, my cheer practices and competitions, and my brothers’ little league games, when I was in school, we weren’t home a lot in the evenings.

  In fact, it’s a little weird to have so much time on my hands—a whole summer with nothing to do. Maybe starting a little soap stand will end up being a better idea than I originally thought.