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This time an eye roll was not only appropriate but unavoidable. "First of all, Patty, you know how much I hate to be referred to as Lucky Thirteen. Secondly, I would have to work very hard to get hit by a car in a town where three cars on Main Street is a traffic jam. And lastly, not every stranger who rolls into town is a serial killer. In fact, I'll bet with the few strangers we get driving through Butterfield, that none of them are serial killers."
"I'm sure you're right. My gosh, I'm sounding more and more like my mom. I need to find a man and blow out of this town for good before I lose my mind."
"You're not losing your mind, and you'll find someone soon." I worked hard to sound confident, but the truth was, Patty's OCD kept her from any real social life. That and the fact that we lived in a town with only eight hundred people. Boyfriend prospects were severely limited.
Patty shuffled on her sandals to the backroom to put away her purse. She'd been thrust rather unexpectedly into the role of store manager when her dad injured his back trying to dig up a tree stump in his yard. I'd been working for the Harrolds for three years, after deciding that I would stay in Butterfield. It wasn't much of a job but then exciting career choices didn't really abound for someone who barely graduated high school and who lived in a small town where the closest thing to big business was the hardware store that took up not one but two whole blocks on the corner of Jackson Road. My teachers had all insisted that my art talent would make me famous one day, but my mom was always quick to remind me that only a few people earned a living 'making pretty pictures'.
I stepped back to view my newest masterpiece, my Twinkie tower, when the cowbell hanging on the front door clanged. I circled around the display.
It was hard to pinpoint what struck me the most, the almost unearthly amber eyes, the extra wide, intimidating shoulder span, the mosaic of black ink running up and down his arms and legs, or the fact that he was wearing a charming smile that was in complete contrast to all the aforementioned details. Or maybe it was because he seemed to have the same profound reaction to me.
"Can I help you?" As I asked the question a movement behind him brought my attention to the glass door. A fawn colored dog, complete with rolls of chub and a smashed in nose, sat in front of the shop, his tail spinning in anticipation.
The guy pointed back over his shoulder. "That's Boone. I promised him a treat if he sat out there nicely and didn't bark."
"Then you'll want aisle eight, pet food. We've got a few boxes of bones there, but I'd avoid the rawhide ones. I think they've been there long enough to be classified as fossils." A smidgen of sound from the backroom assured me Patty was watching our exchange from a safe distance. Not because the stranger seemed the slightest bit serial killerish, especially with a chubby, happy dog waiting for him at the door, but because Patty was, for lack of a better phrase, boy crazy. And this was a crazy cute boy. Although, aside from a mischievous glint in his eyes, he was much more man than boy. I knew Patty well enough to know she was ogling our new customer from the backroom and at the same time kicking herself for being too shy to come out and talk to him.
The guy nodded approvingly at my display. "Guess the people in this town really like Twinkies."
"An apple can be too sour or a banana too mushy but you can always count on a Twinkie being just right."
His laugh was short, but I heard enough to like the sound of it. "Never thought of it like that. Aisle eight?" I nodded as he pointed toward aisle eight, exposing the treacherous looking sword drawn on the underside of his forearm. Maybe the cute pudgy dog was just a front, I thought wryly. But somehow I was sure a creepy ax murderer wouldn't have a disarming smile or a likeable laugh.
I walked to the counter while the new customer picked out a treat for his dog. I could see just a flutter of movement at the rear of the store. Patty was peeking around the backroom door, watching the man in the mirrors her dad had set up in each corner, his idea of high tech security.
I straightened up the candy bars at the front counter while the customer picked a ready-made sandwich out of the refrigerator. "Chicken salad?" he called across the store.
"Nope. Tuna salad is better unless you don't like tuna, then I'd go for the roast beef."
"Roast beef it is," he proclaimed triumphantly. He walked up to the counter with the sandwich, a bottle of soda and a bag of dried chicken jerky for his dog. He smiled at me as he pulled out his wallet.
I rang up his items. "Where are you headed?"
"Headed?" He dropped a twenty onto the counter. The unusual amber color of his eyes darkened to deep gold topaz in the sunlight coming through the window.
