Always and Forever Read Online Free PDF Page A

right
     off the bat. Jeez.
    He’s decked out in his firefighter uniform, the blue cargo pants and all, but he’s
     also wearing the blue jacket that goes with it and, damn it, why does it all have
     to look so good on him? He’s standing by a firetruck that’s got its lights going talking
     to a man while a little boy, who I’m assuming is the man’s son, tugs on Brody’s pants
     leg. I watch as Brody squats down on the balls of his feet to get eye level with the
     little guy then engages him in what looks like a serious conversation as the child
     points to the truck several times. Brody suddenly scoops him up and places him inside
     the cab of the truck and I can’t help but smile at the pure glee that shows on the
     kid’s face as he bounces in the truck seat.
    Brody then makes the mistake of showing the boy the rope pull for the horn which the
     kid grabs and yanks on several times which startles the people nearby and one little
     girl jams her fingers in her ears because it’s very loud. I giggle when I watch as
     Brody tries talking the kid down, giving the father a sheepish grin as he attempts
     to grab the kid and get him the heck out of there. It’s no easy task, but he finally
     succeeds in getting a hold of the boy then places him on the ground in front of his
     dad. The kid immediately tries getting right back up in the truck but Brody’s faster
     and nabs him before he can make his way inside again. I can tell the boy’s about to
     cry but any boohoo’ing is stopped when Brody pulls what looks like a small fire engine
     from his jacket pocket and hands it to the kid who’s now in seventh heaven and immediately
     drops to his knees to zoom the truck several times over the street.
    Father and son finally walk away and I watch as Brody puts his hands on his hips,
     his shoulders moving up then down as he sighs in what I assume is relief. Then I get
     caught. Before I can move away, he looks over at my store and sees me standing in
     the window. He grins his beautiful grin and gives me a small wave. I suck in a quick
     breath, wave at him then hastily turn on my heel and head toward the back seriously
     baffled by his sudden interest in me.
    As I’m retreating, the bell on the front door jingles and I turn to see Elise Powell
     who owns the clothing consignment boutique across the street come in. She and I have
     gone to a couple antique shows together and she’s as sweet as can be. Now her hair
     is half red and half green in honor of the Christmas season (she’d told me this last
     month) and she’s wearing it in what I’d call a bird nest bun, messy and teased within
     an inch of its life. She has on a long, black leather duster that’s a gothic version
     of coat and tails, double-breasted and buttoning high on the left side of her neck.
     It’s very Prince Purple Rain -y and it looks good on her. Completing her outfit are white leggings and black thigh-high
     lace-up stiletto boots and she just looks totally cool.
    “Happy Hullabaloo!” she announces, smiling big with her green lips and waggling her
     eyebrows over eyes lined in red. A few of my customers check her out, but upon seeing
     her infectious smile they smile right back and continue shopping.
    I laugh. “Back at you. How’s it going over there?”
    “Pretty well, actually. I’ve sold over two grand today! That last batch of Versace
     dresses I snatched up from Williamsburg have sold like hotcakes!”
    “Awesome!” I reply, genuinely thrilled for her. She’s been in town for going on four
     years and we’ve become good friends but it seems some people are just now warming
     up to her. It was mostly the older folks who’ve had a tough time accepting her wardrobe
     choices but whatever. She owns every look she wears.
    I look down and watch as she picks up a cookie, her alternating red and green polished
     fingernails making me smile then she takes a bite. “Oh, God, these are even better
     than last year’s. What’d you