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I nod at her, feeling a twist of guilt because I’m the reason she doesn’t have the free time to socialize.
“Yet you have time to stalk the boss,” I say, trying to brush it off.
“Someone has to keep you in line and Wyatt’s a busy guy,” she says with a nod at my friend.
Damn her, I laugh.
“Yeah, speaking of busy, I was just getting to the good part so pipe down and listen,” Wyatt says, shifting back into full bard-mode. With his wide eyes and grizzled beard, he certainly fits the part. “So everybody had stories about the mine, especially this cool old lady who owned the inn, Miss Wilma...”
We listen as Wyatt drones on about getting pumped up on local legends and pushed into mischief by his friends. It won him a close encounter with a mountain lion who decided to settle into that old mine and came flying out after him when one of those late-night contractors started running a jackhammer somewhere deep in the old mine.
All this time on the street may have made him more dramatic, but I’ve got to admit, it’s hard not to wrap a protective arm around Dakota by the time he’s wrapping up.
I also know there’s a darker edge to his story.
That Sweeter Grind place was founded by a couple sisters from Heart’s Edge, and their locations have partly taken off thanks to the notoriety of that little town’s craziness in the national press.
“Linc, you disappoint me,” Wyatt says. “With Dakota being new and all, why don’t you take her for a ride in that fancy car and show her around? Like I said, I’ve gotta hit the hay. Oh five hundred and all.” He stands and lumbers back to his tent.
I watch him unzip the flap, crawl inside, and zip it back up, blotting out the world.
Don’t get me wrong.
I wouldn’t ever wish for Wyatt’s anguish, but there are times when I envy him for being able to disappear at the flick of a zipper.
Also, I make a mental note to kick his ass for egging on Dakota the next time I visit.
“Now that you’ve had your ghost story, guess that’s our cue to go,” I say.
“Your friend has a knack for storytelling. He sucked me right in. Umm—what should we do with the cups?”
“You have any coffee left?”
She nods and hands me a lukewarm cup that’s still half full.
I gulp it down—one more caffeine hit for the road never hurt—and stack her cup inside mine.
“It’s dark, so stay close,” I say, reaching for her hand.
It’s raw instinct. I’m not sure how she’ll respond.
She laces her fingers through mine, twining our hands together with a tightness that surprises me.
“You know what I hate about you stalking me?” I ask as we walk through the cool, oddly quiet night.
“What?” she clips, already over my crap.
“You had fun so you’ll keep doing it,” I say with deadpan delivery.
“Oh my God! Stop. I am not stalking you. I don’t stalk anyone, especially not you. I wouldn’t even stalk you if we had a zombie apocalypse and you were the only person left alive who I could trust not to eat my face.” She makes a frustrated sound. “Get over yourself. I just wanted to see what you were doing with the flowers...”
“I gave them to a homeless person just like I said, didn’t I? And I still haven’t acquired a taste for human faces. Sorry, that’s a deal breaker,” I tell her, fighting back a smirk.
“You’re so dumb sometimes.”
I lash her with a look. “And you could learn to take a joke, Miss Tight-ass. I’m in charge of a forty-year-old fashion powerhouse and I still ham it up.”
“Oh, what-the-hell-ever,” she whispers. “You did surprise me playing matchmaker. Who knew?”
She’s right. It is out of character, but I couldn’t resist.
Besides, Wyatt got even without knowing what I did, so I’d say winning him a little attention from something that isn’t a cinnamon roll is fair game.
“Did you have fun, Nevermore?” I ask her more seriously.
“Yes! Thanks for letting me hang out. You could’ve just run me off.”
“Purely for Wyatt’s sake. The company is good for him,” I tell her, frowning because I’m barely a better liar than she is. “It’s still early. Should I show you around Seattle or have you seen most of it already?”
For a moment, she hesitates, looking at me like she wonders if I’m setting her up for another kiss neither of us can bear mentioning.
“Fine. What can it hurt? Let’s cruise.”
Her smile hooks my gaze as we walk. I quicken our pace, leading her closer to Louis and the waiting car.
“Damn you! I told you for the last shitting time—” A huge guy in a stained wife beater shirt comes barreling out of the last tent before the sidewalk, swinging a bottle of whiskey and waving his arms at someone else still inside. “I’m tired of this shit, you bitch. Try me again and I will burn this whole fuckin’ place down.”
