The warmth hits instantly, along with a familiar voice.
“Well, look who the snow blew in.”
Clara Jenkins stands behind the counter wearing a red apron and a smile that could cut diamonds. She’s been the town gossip since I was old enough to ride a bike. Sweet, but nosy enough to make the FBI jealous.
“Morning, Clara.”
“Morning?” She raises one eyebrow. “It’s nearly noon, sweetheart. You sleeping in since Christmas, or did something, orsomeone, keep you busy?”
Oh, for the love of…
There really is no privacy in this town.
“Just ranch stuff,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Gonna grab lunch for the family.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, not believing a damn word. “Funny thing, I heard the McCoy place had an extra guest this week.”
I go still.
Her eyes sparkle. She can smell blood in the water. “A young woman, wasn’t it? Pretty thing. Hair like honey. The runaway bride, if rumors are true.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know, Clara, the New Year’s coming. You could try resolutions. Maybe resolving not to torture innocent people with interrogations.”
She gasps theatrically. “Dallas McCoy, are you calling me a torturer?”
“I’m calling you curious.”
“Same thing.”
Before she can push harder, I order four turkey sandwiches, two cinnamon rolls, and a box of assorted cookies. Clara packs them up cheerfully but keeps shooting looks at me, storing questions for later.
I grab the bag, thank her in the least inviting tone possible, and step back out onto Main Street… and slam straight into someone.
Someone soft.
Someone warm.
Someone who smells faintly of vanilla from her mom’s cocoa.
“Dallas?”
Faith.
My hands go to her arms automatically, steadying her. Her eyes lift to mine. Wide, surprised, green as the first leaves of spring.
The world goes quiet in a way Main Street has no business going quiet.
My pulse goes straight to my throat.
“Faith,” I say, because apparently that’s the only word left in my vocabulary around her. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t paying attention either. Wehaveto stop crashing into one another like this.”
She’s bundled in her denim jacket, curls pulled back, cheeks pink from the cold. She looks better than she did two days ago. Rested, warm, calm.
“What’re you doing in town?”
She lifts a takeout menu. “Mom said I should go see Jet at Spurs Diner. Said she’d be working lunch shift today and I should ‘say hello.’ Which, I’m pretty sure, is mom code for ‘go reunite with your bestie, will you?’”
