“Maybe he just likes you and wants your attention,” I offered lightly, then told her the total before she reached into the endless depths of her oversized purse to dig out her wallet.
Mrs. Winchester scoffed, waving one heavily ringed hand like she was swatting a fly.
“Oh, please. He gets joy from irritating people. You know what they call that?”
I bit back a sigh. Something told me whatever she was about to say was going to be dramatic. Still, I smiled and nodded, because resisting Mrs. Winchester’s brand of wisdom only prolonged the encounter.
“A sociopath.”
A laugh slipped out at her theatrics.
The receipt printed with a soft whirr. I tore it from the machine and handed it over with her carefully wrapped bouquet.
“I really think it’s because he likes you. Let’s not go starting rumors that Mr. Fringle’s a sociopath.”
“It’s not a rumor if it’strue!” Mrs. Winchester’s hand flew to her chest like I’d accusedherof being the sociopath.
Before I could fire back with a response of my own, the sharp sound of a drill sliced through the shop, followed by a series of pounding thuds that rattled the walls.
I groaned, tipping my head back as irritation prickled down my spine.
Here we go again.
The new guy next door wasconstantlyworking on his restaurant. Every day, like clockwork, the hammering and drilling echoed through the shared walls of our buildings. And while I respected the hustle, he seemed blissfully unaware—or completely unconcerned—about how disruptive he was being.
Try chatting with a customer while a damn power drill screams in your ear. And don’t even get me started on the fact that half of Faircloud’s senior citizens already refuse to admit they need hearing aids.
The drill paused—blessed silence—and I took the opportunity to wrap things up with Mrs. Winchester.
She gave a pleased little nod, clutching her flowers as she departed. The door chimed behind her, and I finally exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
And there it was again.
Miles—that was his name, I think—was the man behind the noise. He’d bought The Coffee Cup next door, the old café that had been shut down for the last year. According to the Faircloud grapevine, he’d bought it from the Wilders and was turning it into a fancy steakhouse.
Some hotshot city chef with a dream for a fresh start. I’d heard the story at least three times, each version more embellished than the last, though none of them were from him.
He’d been in town for a few weeks, working almost entirely solo to bring his vision to life. I’d only seen him in passing, usually with a tool belt slung around his waist or a phone pressed to his ear. We hadn’t spoken yet, and honestly, I wasn’t in any rush.
But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed him.
He had short black hair, always well-kept, and a solid, muscular build that said he wasn’t just good with a sauté pan.
Still, good looks didn’t make the noise any less annoying.
With the shop finally quiet again, I turned back to my work. The scent of fresh blooms pulled me in. I spread out the brown paper, lined up the twine, and reached for the next handful of flowers.
2
ELLIE
One thing I loved about living with my parents—aside from the comfort of home—was waking up to my mom’s cooking. Every morning when they were here, she made me breakfast. But more than the food, it was the quiet moments we shared over coffee and eggs that I cherished.
