“I see.” A knowing smile spread over Mom’s face. “He certainly is handsome, isn’t he?”
“You’ve met Xander?”
“Not yet, but Marquetta was in the bakery when he came in. Said he looked so sad and worn down she wanted to hug him.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I’ll bet he’d rather get a hug from you, though.”
“Gah.” Hannah flipped her scarf over her shoulder. “Enough with the matchmaking.”
“All I’m saying is Gus’s nephew is a hunk. What you do with that opportunity is entirely up to you.”
Mom’s not-so-subtle hint landed with a twinge of discomfort. In fact, Hannah did see poor Xander as an opportunity—not to date, as appealing as that idea sounded, but to lure more readers to theBeacon. Cute as he may be, she couldn’t afford to let an inconvenient attraction distract her from that mission.
Last week’s feature on Souvenir Planet had legs. She’d talked Mom into a larger than usual print run in honor of Gus’s passing, and so far, sales were brisk. If Xander would grant an interview about his plans for the shop, she could put a teaser on the paper’s social media and hide the rest behind a paywall—juicy bait for new digital subscribers.
Hannah slid into her lucky blazer, a scarlet classic with a nipped waist and lots of pockets. She loaded it up with her voice recorder, notepad, and extra pens before striding across the street, determined to charm a story out of Xander.
This situation called for the utmost tact. Poor guy had been through a terrible shock and might not be ready to talk about his relationship with Gus or his plans for the shop.
“Please be ready, Xander,” she whispered, eyes on her alien-bedecked prize. “I need this story.”
The interior lights were on, but Xander had pulled the shades, and the front door held a hand-lettered sign:Closed due to death in the family.
Before knocking, she snapped a photo of the impromptu memorial shrine beside the entrance: sympathy cards and handwritten messages tacked to the wall, along with Mylar balloons, supermarket bouquets in Mason jars, and heaps of alien-themed souvenirs, especially the metallic plush aliens Gus sold by the bushel.
Some smart-ass had spray-painted ‘RIP Gus’on the wall. On a poster board, someone more respectful had sketched a caricature of Gus with his trademark mustache and wide grin, dressed like an astronaut and pointing up to the stars.
Tears prickled her eyes. “Aww, Gus. You left us too soon. Don’t you worry. I’m gonna help Xander keep your legacy alive—if he’ll let me.”
She knocked. No reply except the scrape and bang of someone moving around inside. Finding the side door open, she stepped through. “Hello? Xander?”
She followed the distant sound of masculine cursing. On the shop floor, she spied a very fine male behind in the air, the upper half of its owner bent over a cardboard box. Without looking up, he flung a plush spaceman her way, narrowly missing her head. Gu’s nephew had a good arm.
So did she. She caught the next flying E.T. and hurled it back to bounce off Xander’s butt.
He bolted upright, a plastic flying saucer clutched to his heart. “Jeeezus.” He pulled off his headphones. “Sneaky, aren’t you?”
“I called your name twice.”
God, he was stunning. Mussed curls, a smudge on one cheek, and a soft navy Henley shirt with sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair—her kryptonite.
She strode forward, hand extended. “Congratulations. I hear the shop is yours now.”
He eyed her hand suspiciously. “Who told you that?”
“Oh, honey.” She tutted and shook her head. “Have you forgotten how things work in a small town? Mavis from the county records office had breakfast at Cassie’s café. By the time she finished her banana waffles, everyone knew.”
“Super.” He flashed a mirthless smile.
“Looks like you’re dismantling the place.”
“Just trying to find a starting point.” He flapped a hand at the disarray surrounding them—half-emptied shelves, moving cartons and plastic storage bins, tarps and trash sacks.
Maybe the best way to get what she wanted was to pitch in. In her experience, men tended to open up better when engaged in physical activity.
“How can I help?”
He raked his fingers through his dark curls, accenting touches of silver at his temples. “Got any idea where to find the Cosmic Transmitter?”
“It’s right over there.” She pointed to Gus’s most recent art project: an oversize hubcap etched with symbols and welded to a rebar pyramid wrapped in an iridescent metal screen. She supposed it was meant to be some kind of antenna.
