“So do I, but it still takes me a second to get my bearings whenever I walk in. Delish used to be my home away from home in high school. My friends and I would nurse our coffees for hours until Amy and Jodi shooed us off home at closing.”
“I remember.” Hope laughs, then her eyes shoot to mine. “I mean, I hung out here too. With my friends. Obviously not with you.”
All of her protesting today isn’t boosting my ego.
“Gotta say, I don’t care for the ‘obviously not with you.’”
“Don’t pretend we hung out together. You were the big-name baseball player, the guy who wanted to debate everyone, the…” She gestures at me but swallows down the rest.
“The arsonist?” I supply.
Her full-throttle smile shines on me. “Something like that.”
“It wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be. A total accident, and stupid for sure, but it got a lot more play around town than it warranted. I planted trees with a forestry crew that summer, so I think I’ve made restitution.”
“Oh. I never heard about that.”
“You probably shouldn’t listen to gossip anyway.” Itskas if I’ve got a leg to stand on.
She frowns at me for teasing her, but I just chuckle.
“When my dad found out what I’d done, he signed me up for the work crew the same day.”
He hadn’t been angry, exactly, but he’d always believed in making up for our mistakes. Words can be empty, but follow-through means everything. So—I’d planted seedlings for six weeks.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” she says gently. “He was a really good man.”
“Yeah, he was.” I love hearing that, but I hate it, too. Soft little cuts that make me miss him even more. “Tell me about your store.”
She watches me for a second like she sees the change of topic for the ruse it is. Thankfully, she doesn’t push it.
“You should stop in sometime, it’s just up the street next to the bakery. I sell all kinds of handmade things like soaps and lotions, jewelry, handbags, and clothes.”
“I could use a new handbag.”
Her smile has me grinning at her like a fool. A dangerous game in a place filled with so many prying eyes.
“Why’d you decide to start that up?”
“The store? I was nosing around at the farmer’s market stalls talking to artists and realized a lot of them don’t have many other places to sell what they make. A lot of businesses don’t want to work with small vendors, and some have such high wholesale requirements, just one contract would turn into a full-time job. I figured I could open a shop that only sells local art.”
“So you did.”
She shrugs. “I researched and planned for several months while I got ready, but yeah. Think of it as a really specialized boutique store.”
“What do you make? Aren’t you in there somewhere?” I can’t think of another reason she would set up a shop with all that handmade stuff if she doesn’t have a part in it.
“No, not really. I paint, but I don’t sell my stuff in the store.”
“Why not?”
Twining her fingers, she looks out the window to the gray day outside. “My paintings aren’t ready yet.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
Her eyes snap back to me. “There’s nothingwrongwith them, geez. Why do you go straight to that? They’re just…”
She spreads her hands, and the puzzle pieces click together.
