“Well, if you’re not too far, you could always bring them back for her, as long as they are unworn and it’s within our thirty-day return window,” I say.
“Thirty days!” he exclaims. “That’s awfully generous.” And then he takes another look around at all the stuff in the shop again. “Seriously, thirty days? For everything?”
“We want our customers to be happy and feel confident about their purchases.” I fold my arms across my chest and raise my eyebrows. What’s his problem with our return policy?
“That’s definitely generous for pet supplies,” he says. His eyes are twinkling, but there’s no mistaking the strong note of judgy mc judgment pants from him. He walks over to the wall and examines Joan’s face in the moon.
“Is this Joan?” he asks. “She looks so familiar. I think I remember her. She was nice to me when I came here as a kid.”
“You came here as a kid?” I ask. This is surprising. I certainly would have remembered if a teenaged Ragnar had walked into the shop while I was on duty. He has to be what, mid-thirties?
“Yeah, when I was a preteen. I grew up in Ephron for a bit.” He smiles. “We didn’t have pets, but when my parents first split up, my mom got a dog. I thought I won the lottery.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, further studying his openly handsome face and dreamy eyes. I try to imagine his younger self coming in for dog treats, and Joan extolling the virtues of pumpkin purée and coconut oil for a dog’s digestive tract.
“Not really. They sent me off to boarding school a couple of months later. So … no pets for me!” He holds up his hands, empty palms, to the ceiling for emphasis.
“You can still always adopt,” I point out. “There are plenty of animals around here that desperately need good homes.”
“I prefer to keep things uncomplicated,” he says. “But it’s nice to see the shop is still here. How’s business these days?” There it is again, that slightly calculating, stocktaking interest. Not like a normal customer. He places ten outfits on the counter, along with some freeze-dried salmon nibbles. Ten outfits! Who buys ten fifty-dollar pet outfits all at once?
Then again, who am I to question a massive sale? Mama needs rent money. Literally.
“We do okay,” I say. “You do know these treats are supposed to be for cats?”
“Yeah, but they say right on the package that dogs love them, too, right?” He holds up the package. It says that the treats are beloved by dogs as well and are safe for human consumption, but I’ve never been tempted to try them.
“True.” I nod slowly. Ragnar picks up a Lucite standee from the counter. It’s a permanent display detailing the importance of our work with the Kismet Shelter.
“So, a little shop like this must make a decent profit in order to be able to do such significant charitable work,” he says, making a question sound a lot more like a statement. He is still looking around the place like he’s planning a heist, but then his eyes shoot back to mine and he smiles quite warmly and genuinely, as if he actually cares. It disarms me.
“I think it’s amazing that you’re doing this,” he says. I feel a sizzling sensation in my belly, like I’ve just swallowed a scoop of pop rocks. My hands shake a little as I remove the hangers from the costumes.
“It’s always a struggle being a small-business owner,” I admit. “Our rent is going up at the end of next month, and we’ll have to hustle a bit. But this place is practically a landmark. We have a loyal customer base. Good people who know we support good causes and who believe in shopping local.”
“Shopping local …” He nods and repeats. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. I guess it’s nice if you have local options and can afford them. But you know, some people can barely afford the cost of regular kibble, let alone vegan dog biscuits. What about them?” he challenges, a hint of disdain in his tone. It’s as if he thinks vegan dog biscuits are the most ridiculous idea in the world and shops like mine are frivolous. But then, why is he even shopping here?
He pulls out his wallet and counts out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Cash okay?”
Seriously? Who the hell walks around town looking so damned hot, then ambles into a pet boutique and peels off six hundo, all the while acting like he’s the Robin Fucking Hood of dog snacks?
He shocks me—literally—when he hands the money to me. There is an actual spark of electricity that travels between us. I jump back. He laughs.
“Damn, woman.” He shakes his head with a wry smile. “You okay? That’s some high-voltage carpet you have in here. Or maybe it’s just you?”
Okay, I totally hear it now. The voice sounds similar. I really think it might be the same guy from The Onion. I wish I’d gotten a better look at him. All I’d really clocked was his height. I’d been too amped up after hitting Bryce to notice much else.
I raise a brow, starting to get suspicious. Had he come in here looking for me? “So, what brings you back to Ephron?”
“Work. Probably be here a few months at the very least,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Maybe we’llrun intoeach other again?”
He continues to look directly at me in a way that’s giving me thrills, and then chills. I’m having temperature regulation issues. Is he or isn’t he that guy?
“Maybe.” I tear my gaze away and shrug, doing my best to look noncommittal.
As I wrap his pet costumes in tissue and place the rest of his goods in a gift bag, he peruses assorted flyers on the counter and bulletin board. I steal a few more quick looks at him, doing my own stock check. He is not merely handsome. He is also well put together. I watch as he takes one of the flyers that Kenna made for the masquerade planning committee meeting on Friday. He folds it carefully, tucking it into the back pocket of his well-tailored pants.
Everything he is wearing is expensive. There’s no obvious labels or brands that tell me this. It’s all about the materials. Even as an amateur designer, I can spot this. His shoes are high-end leather, probably Italian. The sweater has got to be merino or cashmere. And all credit to his perfect ass, his pants fit like they were made for him. Then again, given his height, he probably has to have all his pants custom altered.
