And touchy, it seemed. This next bit called for the utmost delicacy. “Hannah, could I ask one more favor?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Shoot.”
He laid his hand over hers—partly to soften the request, but also because sitting this close and not touching her was an impossibility.
“If you do any more articles on Gus, could you tone down the alien angle? Our family is kinda… Let’s say they’re not exactly open-minded.”
She took another sip but didn’t pull her hand away. “Everyone here knows he believed in aliens. So what? He was a good man. He wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“Yeah, Uncle Gus was a special guy. I’m glad he landed here, where people are allowed to be…eccentric.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “But it’s hard to imagine him resting in peace while his family tears his memory to shreds.”
Her dark eyes brimmed with sympathy. “Xander, he’s beyond needing our protection.”
She was right, but he couldn’t shake this need to protect his uncle’s reputation—a gesture of love from second son to second son.
“If you won’t do it for Gus, do it for me—a hard-working entrepreneur who’s trying to make a fresh start in your town.”
Her expression shifted to a sly smile, her thumb teasing his palm in slow arcs, back and forth. And damn if his long-neglected dick didn’t perk right up.
“I won’t make any promises. You’re not the only one fighting for his business. But I am on your side. I want the shop to succeed. I wantyouto succeed. See you at the sale tomorrow.” She released her hold on him, and immediately, he missed her warmth.
When she left, he draped his napkin across his lap and thought hard about baseball and bugs and ugly little aliens—but his body remained unconvinced.
He wanted Hannah all the way to the marrow of his bones. But he didn’t dare trust her.
“Will you look at that crowd.” Mom stood at the window, staring across the street at Souvenir Planet’s overflowing parking lot. “Guess I should go over there and get some photos.”
Hannah’s head snapped up from the letters to the editor she was screening. “I’ll do it. The last thing you need is to wade through that mob.”
Besides, she wanted to make sure Xander had enough helpers—and perhaps indulge in a tiny inner gloat over the success her publicity push delivered.
Maybe public relations could be her next line of work?
With a grimace, she quashed that irksome thought. She didn’t need alternative career plans because she was going to spend the next two decades, maybe three, right here running theBeacon.
She snatched up her best digital camera, a freshly charged voice recorder, and her lucky purple pen, then trotted across the street to photograph the crowd streaming in and out of Souvenir Planet, its entrance embellished with a huge ‘Prices Slashed. Everything Must Go’banner.
Before Xander asked her to tone down the alien angle, she’d already called in favors to get her story about the close-out sale in newspapers as far away as Seattle and Portland. How could he object now, with all these people showing up?
Inside the shop, she was swept up in happy chaos: shouts of delight, jostling bodies, laughter over the oddball merchandise. At ten past noon, the shelves were already half empty. Arms loaded with plush little green aliens, a woman in a “Keep Portland Weird” T-shirt nearly stomped on Hannah’s toes. “Sorry, hon. My grandkids will love these.”
Deploying her elbows, she made her way toward the counter, past the bench with the cloth alien, now wearing aNot For Salesign around its neck. Grinning, she gave its head a pat and muttered, “What do you know? Our Xander has a soft spot for aliens, after all.”
She spotted anotherNot For Salesign on the Cosmic Transmitter, but almost everything else appeared up for grabs, from tacky taxidermy to dusty mermaid-shaped bath bombs.
At the register, a frazzled Xander rang up purchases, his long fingers flying, his dark curls mussed, his sleeves rolled up.
Thank you, Jesus.
Hannah slipped behind the counter and grabbed a paper bag. “You’re doing great! Where’s the wrapping paper?”
He pointed, and she got to work wrapping up a dozen alien-themed mugs.
Xander wiped his glistening forehead and flashed a tight-jawed smile. “Didn’t realize you were setting me up for a mob. Sir. Sir! That’s not for sale.”
“Aw, come on, man.” A fuzzy-bearded guy yanked the handle of a penny arcade moving picture viewer. “It doesn’t even work. I’ll give ya fifty.”
“Not. For. Sale.” He rang up a heap of rubber snakes and reptiles.
