Page 30 of Small Town Boy

The idea of having a new ritual feels good. It’s the first major “settled in” thought I’ve had since arriving here, and pairing that with the warmth from the Kellers, I think I could get used to this. Maybe it is time to plant a few roots as they say—no pun intended—and make someplace home. Leave everything that happened—Marie, Coffman Witte, everything—back in Boston.

“Local honey?”

I turn around to find a leggy blonde holding out an itty-bitty sample spoon with one hand and a jar of honey in the other. She’s dressed a little…seductively, I think is the word I’d go with…for the event. Her short skirt barely covers her ass, her long legs made to look even longer by the black lace-up wedges, and her neon pink tube top shimmies its way down her breasts with every breath. If she’s not careful, she’s going to be offering up a whole lot more than local honey to this market.

“Sure.”

As she scoops the sample spoon into the jar, her boobs jiggle, and for a second I’m sure this is the moment they’re going to choose to make their escape. They don’t though—much to my relief. She must have some serious double sided tape magic going on in there.

I take the spoon from her, gently licking off the sticky goodness. Holy shit. This isn’t just good—it’s fantastic. Perfect for my morning cup of tea. Which means I need a jar. ASAP.

“That’s delicious! I’ll take it.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She leads me over to the booth, grabbing an unopened jar and a mini wooden honey dipper. “That’ll be fourteen dollars. Say, you’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I answer. This is only the umpteenth time I’ve answered this question since the Kellers first asked me. Each time it gets a little more grating, but I remind myself that after this, I shouldn’t have to answer it. I hope. “Bronwyn Ainsworth. Nice to meet you.”

Pulling out my wallet, I slip my debit card from its spot and hand it to her. At least I try to hand it to her. Blondie here sneers at the card, recoiling as if I tried to hand her Medusa’s head.

“I’m Kitty Cattaway. And that,”—she points to my card—“isn’t gonna work. We only take cash.”

Cash. They only take cash. What kind of place doesn’t take cards? This isn’t 1964. It’s the twenty-first century. Every company in the world accepts cards. Except here, apparently.

“Oh, well, I don’t have cash. Is there an ATM around?”

“Over at Wright’s. Only one in town since the bank moved closer to the interstate.”

Wright’s Grocery—that one I knew. I’d finally made it there Monday evening after work, once I had a fully functioning vehicle. A vehicle I’d also need in order to get over there to visit the ATM, since it wasn’t quite within walking distance of the town square. Damn it.

“That’s the only one? In the whole town?”

Kitty nods, her unamused scowl cementing in place. “Well, if the bank hadn’t moved…”

Yeah, yeah…

I nod along with her mini rant, having already heard the saga from Willa earlier this week when she had me over for dinner. The bank consolidating its local branches as it moved to online and mobile systems had made sense when Willa was showing me around her gorgeous third-floor apartment in the old bank building. I’d chalked the tizzy it had apparently left the town in up to the community not wanting to embrace change.

Of course, now that I realize there are merchants in this town that don’t accept cards, I’m inclined to agree with the outrage.

“And there’s no way you can take the card? I have absolutely no cash.”

“Who doesn’t carry cash?” she exclaims, her voice shrill.

Most of America…

“Me, for one.” I try to laugh it off, but she doesn’t seem amused. Can’t blame her there, because if the roles were reversed, I probably wouldn’t be either.

“You should fix that.”

“Fix what?”

“Not having cash. You’re not going to get very far. Is it a Yankee thing?”

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, someone else does.

“I got you.”

The deep timbre rumbles through me like thunder, igniting my insides like a bolt of lightning. A warm, sticky feeling, much like that honey, seeps through me, a blush creeping up the back of my neck. Seriously, that voice. It’s going to be the fucking death of me.