That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2)
Read That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) Online
Authors: Kate Perry
Tags: #San Francisco, #sexy mechanic, #paranormal, #award-winning romance, #romance, #heroes, #beach read, #falling in love, #alpha male, #contemporary romance, #family, #love story, #friendship, #widower, #sexy sculptor, #sexy romance, #best selling romance, #sweet romance, #second chance, #bad boy, #psychic
That Kind of Girl
A Fillmore & Greenwich Novel
Book Two
That Kind of Girl
© 2015 by Phoenix Rising Enterprises, Inc.
Cover Graphic ©
Salty Olive Designs
ISBN: 978-1939102386
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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For
Hemingway and
Henry Miller and
Anne Frank,
for showing me the way.
And for Aunt Gladys,
who assures me that wearing pajamas in public
is perfectly acceptable
as long as you wear red lipstick, too.
Being a psychic is like being a therapist. I guide people into solving their own problems.
Of course, I'm not the person to come to for financial guidance, or for help in getting over childhood traumas. I only facilitate love. (That means love is my jam.)
Sometimes helping someone find love is easy. Usually it's not.
Not because love is hard to find. Love surrounds us—you just have to know what to look for. It's in the look a child gives his mother, and in the kindness of a stranger helping when your grocery bag breaks in the middle of the street.
Love is particularly prevalent in my neighborhood. That means it's everywhere in Fillmore and Greenwich.
It's why I moved here to begin with: the potential of what could be. The molecules in my body start to quiver just thinking about it. This is my purpose: to bring love to this little corner of San Francisco.
Well, I also moved to Fillmore and Greenwich because it's funky. It's unexpected. On the surface, it looks like the land where frat boys and sorority girls come to roost. But there are pockets of individuality, like the optometrist who decorates his window with avant-garde art (he still has Barbie dolls hanging by nooses). Or the wine shop, where the proprietor always has a glass ready for you, even if it's what she wants rather than what you'd prefer.
And then there's the automotive repair shop, which is a whole other story, one that we'll get to later.
Guiding people to love isn't easy, because some people have walls so thick that a jackhammer wouldn't break through.
Like George, owner of the aforementioned garage.
Only love doesn't strike when you're ready—love strikes, period. Whether you accept it or not is your choice.
I don't know what kind of choice George is going to make, but I'm on the side of hearts and roses. I do know one thing: I've got my job cut out for me. It's not going to be easy, because she's that kind of girl.
George stood in the threshold of her closet and stared. It was filled with shoes.
But not just any shoes: rows and rows of tango shoes. Pink, gold, silver, blue, green . . . Some elegant, some whimsical. Ribbons and lace. Leather and flowers. Feminine and sexy.
She'd never worn a single pair, and she never would. Her mother just didn't seem to get that.
She should just throw them away.
Later, though, because now she had to get to the garage to open up. Sighing, she grabbed a tank top and a pair of jeans that was mostly clean. She ponytailed her hair, picked up her bicycle helmet, and ran out the door.
The ride to work was short, and she'd lived in the city long enough to know which streets to take to avoid the steepest hills.
Her grandfather used to live in the apartment above the garage. Poppy always said it made the commute easy. She supposed she should have moved in after he'd passed away, but she couldn't do it. Of course, she'd taken over the garage—that was logical. But she couldn't make herself move into his place. She'd rented it to a private investigator instead.
Lately even running the garage didn't really feel right, and when she thought about fixing Toyota Priuses for the rest of her life, she wanted to take a drill to her head.
Wincing, she pedaled faster and sailed past a stop sign.
Sorry, Poppy—I didn't mean that.
Revamping the garage was going to help a lot. She had a plan to make it all better. New furniture, a new hire, mural on the building outside . . . She'd make it her own.
Her stomach clenched. The thing was, she wasn't sure the changes her friend Sebastian had recommended were enough.
It'd all come together—it had to. And then she'd be satisfied.
George skidded to a stop in front of Poppy's garage and hopped off her bicycle. She heard the screech as she took off her helmet.
"
George.
"
Even at top volume, the cheery tone identified the person yelling at her.
"Frickin' hell," George murmured, closing her eyes. She tried to think of an excuse to ignore Esme, but she couldn't, so she turned and yelled, "
What?
"
Esme half-dangled out of her window, just below her neon PSYCHIC sign that was already blazing. Her head was covered in the most god-awful yellow scarf, and her smile was too bright for so early in the morning. "I've got a package for you."
"That's what he said," George shouted back.
"I'll bring it down now," Esme called, extricating her body from the window.
George sighed as she unlocked the garage door. If she went in and locked the door, Ariana wouldn't be able to deliver coffee to her. George paused. Coffee and deal with Esme? Or no Esme
or
coffee? Sighing again, she shoved the metal door all the way open.
True to her word, Esme showed up moments later, a brown shipping box in her hands and a determined look in her eyes. "The FedEx driver tried to deliver it after you were gone last night, so I accepted it for you," she said, setting the box down on George's desk.
The
thump
it made on the metal desktop sounded ominous, and then she saw who it was from. "You should have returned it to sender."
Esme ignored her, leaned over her shoulder and pointed at the label. "I didn't know your name was Georgina."
George narrowed her eyes with intent at the woman. "Repeat that again and you may lose a limb."
"What? Georgina?" She blinked innocently. Then she smiled like she was missing a couple of screws. "Aren't you going to open it?"
She faced the package, her stomach twisting with nerves. She didn't have to open it to know what it was.
"Well?" Esme poked her in the back. "Do you need help? I've been dying to know what's inside."
"You can't tell? You're the psychic." George heard her tart tone and winced. Esme was a fruit loop, but she was really sweet. She didn't deserve to be bashed just because George was pissed that her mom was relentless.
"Of course I can't tell." Esme looked puzzled. "I deal in love, not shipping."
"Right."
The self-proclaimed love psychic looked her in the eye and pointed at the box. "Open it."
The command wasn't lost on her. Normally, she'd have flipped the other person off and gone about her day. But something in Esme's body language said that she wasn't kidding, so George bucked up and grabbed the scissors on her desk. "I already know what it is," she mumbled as she sliced open the packing tape.
"But I don't," the other woman said cheerily.
Cursing under her breath, George opened the package and took out the shoebox inside. With a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, she opened the lid.