Page 89 of Falling Back to You

Ignoring my niceties, she went straight for the jugular. “The prodigal has returned! Let me hug you, dearie.” And without a by your leave, I was swallowed into the bone-crunching hug of a septuagenarian woman whose cloying aromatic cloud of gardenia rivaled a perfume shop.

My eyes watered with the overwhelming scent of her, but I patted her back lightly.

“We’ve been praying for your wayward ways, and here you are.”

I barely refrained from snorting. Mrs. Gulliver had such a way with words.

She shifted, holding me at arm’s length, which allowed me to read the T-shirt knotted at her waist. The woman had more style than I did. I blinked and reread the shirt. Or maybe not?

In the same font and fashion as the I Love New York tees every tourist and their pampered pooch wore, I Love Jerry was sprawled across the front, along with a picture of said feline menace.

“Um . . . nice shirt.”

She beamed. “Isn’t it? We’re selling them now that our little town earned its place on the map thanks to my sweet Jerry.”

Only she would ever call that fiend sweet. The rest of us preferred spawn of the underworld.

And Serenity Springs was already on the map as a popular tourist spot thanks to our proximity to nearby hot springs. All without Jerry’s help, I might add.

Mrs. Gulliver’s bright smile morphed into a frown while she ran a hawklike eye over my person. “You’ve let yourself go.” She tutted. “How are you supposed to catch a man with that expression? Wait, do you have a man? Your father didn’t mention it, but you know how men get over things like that. No father wants to think about his little girl dating. But if you are looking . . .” She trailed off, expression hopeful, like she expected me to confirm or deny the idea. No doubt so she could herald the information all over town. When I didn’t take the bait, she sighed. “Well, you know what they say, cheeriness is next to godliness.”

And she went there. I tacked on my professional, the-customer-is-always-right smile. Where did I even start this conversation? Ignoring the subtle probing in my love life, I went with, “Silly me, I thought it was cleanliness.”

Mrs. Gulliver waved a hand. “Naturally, but after that.” She tugged one of my loose curls. “You should do something with this. The Snips and Curls ladies—”

The café door swung open. Hallelujah!

Dallas popped his head out. “Excuse me, ma’am”—he nodded to Mrs. Gulliver—“but I need to have a word with Miss Shepherd.”

Mrs. Gulliver’s eyes widened, placing a hand to her chest. “Of course, Detective. I wouldn’t stand in the way of the law.” She shot me a look of pure horror and disapproval.

Great, now I was not only the black sheep of the town but a delinquent one at that. But maybe it was worth it. Anything to stop Mrs. Gulliver from pulling out her phone and calling Ms. Cheryl to set up a salon appointment for me. If I stepped into Snips and Curls, that was as good as broadcasting my personal life on the news. Hairdressers—particularly of the small-town variety—were wizards at drawing out your life story and childhood trauma. You went in for a trim and a style in exchange for your darkest secrets. It was a regular black market of information.

Mrs. Gulliver patted my arm. “We’re so glad you’re back, dearie. Do come to book club next Thursday.”

I pasted on a fake smile and offered a noncommittal grunt. Book club was code for a gossip meeting where me and my life story could be picked over and deboned like a roasted chicken. No thank you.

Dallas tugged me inside as Mrs. Gulliver toddled down the sidewalk.

“What were you doing?” I hissed. “She thinks I’m in trouble with the law now!”

“I could have left you to the wolves. I can call her back if you prefer.” Dallas’s lips twitched.

I smacked him. “Don’t you dare.”

“Assaulting an officer, Miss Shepherd? A simple thank-you would do.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist to keep from smacking him again. “If my alleged lawbreaking streak is front-page gossip on The Vine tomorrow, you are dead to me.”

He chuckled. “You’re welcome, kid.” And with a salute of his to-go cup, he slipped out to patrol the streets. Or whatever a detective did in a small town. We hadn’t had a murder here, but that might change any day now.

I growled and stalked towards the counter, donning a yellow apron. A fraction of the tightness in my chest eased. I could reintegrate into the community I’d left behind. And I would, even if it killed me.

I earned my fair share of stares as I served up drinks. According to Mrs. Klein, I was good for business because everyone wanted to see if the news was true. But I kept my head down, ignoring their less-than-subtle jabs, and served coffee with a practiced smile. I had a lifetime of practice.

At least, until the shenanigans picked up midafternoon, right before my shift ended. The front bells jangled fiercely, followed by a yowl.

A lanky teen pelted across the shop like Dracula was on his heels and vaulted over the counter to join me.