I must have spent longer than the appropriate amount of time debating his corporeal state because his smile grew, and he spoke first into the soft, quiet atmosphere that surrounded us.
“Hi,” he said, and one of his dimples popped up to punctuate the greeting.
“Hi,” I said. And then cleared my throat and tried again because disuse made my voice sound all phlegmy and strange. “Hi. I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s okay, I can see you’re really into that.” He gestured to where my sticking tool remained, death-gripped in my other hand, like the world’s least effective defensive weapon.
Stay back, intruder, lest you get bedazzled!
I unfurled my fingers with some difficulty and set it down.
“Oh, that’s—I just—wasn’t really expecting—I probably shouldn’t even—” I sputtered incoherently and wasn’t even listening to myself at this point, so I shut my mouth and stopped.
I had to get myself under control or risk looking like an absolute idiot.
More of an idiot.
He came forward and tried to pick up the spilled gems.
“You don’t have to—” Our hands brushed as I reached for the mess. I pulled them back into my lap and twisted them together as he insisted on helping.
I watched, outside of my body, as his thick, strong fingers deftly scooted the tiny pieces back into the tray. I looked at him, so close, his clean, manly scent in the air, and just stared.
“There you go, all cleaned up,” he said with an intensely charming smile as he straightened and stood back.
Sounds came out of my mouth that I hoped portrayed gratitude.
This wasn’t ideal. I should have minded the door better, but nobody could have anticipated Pace Leigh having hobby needs this late on a weekend evening. Shouldn’t he be at the bonfire charming up the tourists and, like, cuddling puppies or whatever he did when not being a literal hero?
At least he was notoriously kind. As far as unexpected customers went, it could be worse. It could have been Vicky Lambert, the resident gossip’s daughter, notorious mean girl, here to give backhandedcomplisultsabout my body.
It’s not like I sat here in my oversized blanket and ridiculous glasses, blinking up at him like some bog creature from a high fantasy. Boy, wouldn’t that be embarrassing. He was a normal human customer—in theory, yet to be proven—and he must have a need. I just needed to figure out my approach with him.
“Can I help you?” I asked, settling onprofessionally aloof while incapable of making direct eye contact.
“I hope you can.” He brandished a piece of paper from behind his back, and I felt the floor disappear from under my feet. “I think I found your list.”
The world tilted to the side, and I gripped the edge of the workbench to keep from falling off the planet and into the abyss of shame.
I was so,sovery wrong. It could definitely get so much worse.
8
Pace
Though it wasoff the main touristy section of Cozy Creek, it had been easy enough to find Hooks and Grannies Hobby Shop. Located on the southern half of Main Street and on a catty-corner side street, this area of town was not immune to the fall festivities that engulfed Cozy Creek as soon as the August heat melted into September.
The display window made me laugh. Even though it was over a month before Halloween, there was no doubt that fall was in full force in this town. The storefront was decked out in jack-o’-lanterns and cobwebs that fit right in with the knickknacks and stacks of board games in the window. But the best feature of all was propped in an old whitewashed wicker rocking chair. Half sprawled, head lulled to the side, was a skeleton dressed in an oversized floral nightgown. The lopsided skull had its jaw hanging open, wore a wig of tight white curls, and wore glasses on a chain. Of course, part of the joke of Hooks and Grannies was that you would never find alessstereotypical grandma than you would with El Kincaid, who owned the shop. She was one ofthe sporty silver-hairs who flirted with me on my morning runs and eyeballed me as I got smoothies from Gigi’s.
I didn’t even know she was a grandma until I put two and two together at this very moment.
Sophie Kincaid was her granddaughter. Of course she was. Literally, how had I never realized that? Maybe because Sophie was never around town—the opposite of her social butterfly grandmother.
The turtle-shaped person blinked up at me with eyes as large as the antique silver dollars that they sell at the tourist-trap shops. I watched in real time as the color drained from her face.
This must be the owner of the list I held in my outstretched hand because she hardly even looked at it before she went ghosty.
Tension relaxed out of my shoulders. It had taken me a second to even register the huddled mass of human in the corner. Sophie hadn’t heard me when I’d come in. She was so focused on her work that my attempts to say hello were missed.
