Page 11 of Keepsakes and Kismet

I wouldn’t wish the voice in my head on my worst enemy.

Wrong. An unbidden laugh escapes me. Your worst enemy is you.

I settle into my bed, turn off the light, and hesitantly close my eyes.

But tonight, instead of the usual doom and gloom, I let myself linger somewhere new. A woman with golden hair and a playful spark in her eyes smirks at me. “You would know, Officer.”

And while the cherry blossom scent has been replaced three washes over, everything else about her still feels fresh in my mind.

Chapter 4

Peyton

I’m an early riser, but I like stopping at the cafe on my way to work, so Romy always beats me to the office. This morning, her royal blue hair sways in front of her face as she sits on the stoop outside Good Taste headquarters.

I fumble for my keys and start unlocking the door. “You’re up early, once again.”

“I like the mornings. No one is awake to disappoint me yet.”

And there she is. My Wednesday Addams. I couldn’t do any of this without Romy. When Good Taste started growing, I needed someone that enjoyed staying indoors all day crunching numbers. After interviewing Romy, I knew she was the perfect fit for the gig.

She stands, and her black dress rises to just below her knees. My eyes widen. “Maroon socks? Are you ill?”

Romy never deviates from her classic all-black ensembles. She says she’s forever mourning the person she was before she set up a LinkedIn profile. But today, I clock a glittery eyeshadow on top of her usual black eyeliner and a dark red gloss on her lips.

She pushes her hair behind her ear, and the silver gauge in her lobe sparkles in the sun. “Actually, I have a date tonight. Which I don’t want to talk about.”

“I’m so excited for you!” My enthusiastic expression falters into a frown. “But, uh… this guy. He’s good to you?”

Romy shoots me a sympathetic look, knowing enough of my history to understand the concern behind my question. “He’s good enough, at this point. It’s a small town, Peyton. It’s a miracle I haven’t already kissed his cousin.”

I open the front door and prop it. In true Ohio fashion, the weather has already turned cooler, and a fall breeze sweeps into the shop.

“Well, send me your location just in case.”

“My location? Our date’s in Waterton. My location is always a few miles away from your location at any given time.”

“Fair enough.” I hang up my coat and immediately note a damp odor in our office. “Does it smell slightly weird in here to you?”

Romy sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose, jostling her septum piercing. “I have a cedar bundle in my purse that’ll take care of it. I promise I won’t set off the smoke alarms this time.”

A memory flashes in my mind: our smoke detectors incessantly chirping, followed by me going bananas, removing them in a rage, and never replacing them.

Collapsing in my office chair, I mumble, “To be fair, they, um, might not work anymore.”

I love my modest downtown office, but it could use some TLC. I lucked out on getting it due to a zoning quirk, and until I started renting, there’d been no tenants since before commercials were unskippable. I single-handedly cleaned, painted, and prepared the shop for customer consultations. Good Taste is growing, but paying an employee and meeting overhead expenses doesn’t leave me with much money to spend.

Even though this place has its faults, the location’s premium. I admire the town square from our front window, appreciating the decorations. The annual harvest festival is coming up in November. The town goes all out with the autumn theme—and they start early. Burgundy flowers line the cobblestone path leading to the gazebo, where large squashes and lanterns are thoughtfully placed. Our mayor, Charlene, winds maple leaf garland up the lamp post.

“Now that it’s finally cooling down, we should decorate our window and the sidewalk out front. I think the faux hay bales are in the closet.” I sigh happily. “Don’t you just love this time of year?”

Romy purses her lips, spinning in her chair. “It’s better than summer, I’ll give you that.”

I wrap the plaid cardigan draped over the back of my chair around my shoulders and the corners of my mouth curve up. Not even Romy’s tepid-yet-lovable attitude can dull my autumn glow.

She clears her throat. “So… We need to talk about the golf club gig. We owe them an answer soon.”

I cringe on reflex. Eaglewood’s golf club is trying to revamp their image and appeal to a younger crowd—the next generation. It’s been around forever, and most of the golfers are currently retirees. Management wants a young, vibrant man and woman to attend as a “couple” and rave about their course and clubhouse restaurant. They’re willing to pay a hefty sum, but I’m not psyched about the idea, because posing as a couple will more than likely involve touching. And even if we did find someone who understood my aversion, there aren’t any guarantees that he’d remember, and certainly not enough time to build trust if he happened to forget. After working so hard to grow my business, I don’t want to risk being triggered at a professional event.