“Hey, are you the lawyer guy?”
I pause behind my Skippy pilgrimage just outside of a bookshop—the only shop that’s apparently forgotten it’s Christmas. Not a decoration in sight.
A bespeckled teenager steps outside looking warmer in her wool-knit sweater and jeans than I feel in my GQ-worthy cashmere crew neck and trench.
Before I can form a response to ‘lawyer guy’ that won’t have me more hated than I already am, the teenager presses a tin of shortbread cookies into my hands. “That was super nice of you to take Skippy to the vet.”
If I ever needed a weight to replace my kettle bells, this tin would be it. “How do you know about that?”
She scoffs, sounding very much like the teenager she is. “Welcome to small-town America.”
“Ah.” My mind tracks back to the vet’s office, where the secretary behind the desk seemed unusually interested in my impromptu walk-in appointment with the town stray.
“Yep.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “I even know you paid for his visit—even though the town has a Skippy-fund.”
Not wanting to dim her friendly attitude toward me, Idecide not to mention I had fully intended to bill Felix for Skippy’s medical expense, plus my hourly rate.
“Hello!”
In unison, the teen and I turn toward the greeting to find a petite woman in a Nordic beanie and a puffer jacket two sizes too cheerful waving.
My cookie dealer waves back. “Hi.”
“I’m Ida,” the woman, now huffing and puffing in front of me announces. “Just wanted to say that it’s such a pleasure for Hideaway to welcome such a lovely and caring man such as yourself, Mr. Lourd.”
I glance behind me, sure she’s addressing someone else. No one’s there.
The teenager laughs.
“To check up on our poor Skippy like that.” Another gust of wind whips around the corner, causing Ida to reach for her hat, securing it in place.
A hat I would pay serious money for right about now—despite how badly it would clash with my coat. Though it couldn’t be any worse than the turbulent shade of red I’m sure my frozen ears are turning.
Ida leans in conspiratorially. “Never would’ve guessed a lawyer would do something like that.”
Not wanting to speak on common decency for the entire population of people with law degrees, I make a noncommittal sound.
She pats my arm. “The town appreciates it.”
Her sincerity hits in a strange, not-altogether-unpleasant way. “Well, if he was hurt”—I turn, directing the woman’s attention down the road to where Skippy is making yellow snow a few shops down—“which he isn’t, itwould’ve been my fault. Only right I made sure he was okay.”
Ida shimmies her shoulders and titters, looking pleased at my words.
The teen next to me excuses herself and heads back inside the bookstore. I have a feeling she was fighting a laugh.
“Yes, well…” The older woman clears her throat, once more leaning in. “Now that it’s just the two of us, I was wondering…”
I brace, weirdly worried I’m about to be propositioned.
“Do you know anything about property lines?”
I blink, my mind obviously not quite as nimble in frigid temperatures to shift from canine health hero to land dispute consultant. “Uh, a bit.”
Cut to me, ten minutes later, with a hand-knitted scarf wrapped around my neck given as legal tender for having listened to an epic tale of garden gnome warfare over a very disputed hedge.
And that’s just the beginning.
By the time I catch up to Skippy—now dramatically flopped outside The Sweetest Thing candy shop—I’ve answered five legal questions, been greeted and thanked by a dozen people, given a sex shop gift certificate, an invitation to dinner from a peppy older couple on a late-morning walk, and am now the proud owner of a lobster Christmas ornament that was pressed into my hands by a woman who wanted to trademark her residential holiday décor “to keep looky-loos from copying my unique style.”
