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She’d spend a few hours there earning some money before heading home, and then she could take some more Madam Fleur calls.
Birdie went back to the cottage and collected her backpack, then started cycling into town. She loved this part of her day or would if she didn’t have big bad Sawyer Duke lodged in her head.
Would he tell anyone about Madame Fleur’s Flirt Line?
Lyntacky had a mountain range in the distance that in winter saw it capped with snow. It was a town that survived on tourism year-round. They offered fishing, camping, skiing, ATV tracks, and other activities that the more adventurous enjoyed.
Birdie was rarely adventurous. Her siblings were, but they’d always said things like, “you sit over there, Birdie, this is too hard for you.” Soon she’d stopped trying to join in and found somewhere to read, which she’d always loved, but a small part of her had wanted to be a rebel.
Entering the outskirts minutes later, she pedaled down Main Street. It was getting busier as they reached the height of summer. She might be biased, but it was a cute town. A little overcrowded but cute. Store owners made sure the place always looked clean. Hanging baskets cascaded with flowers. Flags fluttered, and signs out front announced what visitors would find in their shops.
“Morning, Shelly,” she said to the statue of a woman wearing her favorite square-dancing dress. She stood at the beginning of the patch of grass that housed the rotunda, often a gathering place for local events. Shelly’s relatives, who had a long history of running the town of Lyntacky, had become obsessed with honoring her memory. Square dancing was considered the town’s main entertainment, even if some of the locals weren’t on board with that.
“Morning, Birdie.”
“Morning, Mayor.”
Tripp Lyntacky was two-stepping down the street with Cal Twyford, Sal Chen, and several others. Not an unusual occurrence, considering the mayor’s fixation with dancing and keeping his late aunt’s legacy alive.
They wore their black dancing uniform pants and red silk shirts with black beaded sequin patterns over the shoulders and chest. Next month was their annual convention, and practice had amped up over the last few weeks.
“Looking good,” Birdie called, before she cycled past.
She turned left and into the residential part of town. Homes ranged from two or three stories to a single level. Some gardens had more statues, others flags, and all were neatly lined with rows of flower beds.
Turning right this time, she headed down past schools and parks, then the fire station. At the end, she came to another street. This one running parallel to the river. Birdie cycled along it until she reached a long, low wooden building. After racking her bike, she headed to the door.
The sign said Box The Gnat Boutique, which told you absolutely nothing about what went on behind the doors but was in line with the town ordinance. Business owners must have something in their title relating to square dancing.
Those who named theirs before Shelly Lyntacky had unexpectedly died while competing at the national Square Dance championships could keep them. But after, the ordinance must be adhered to.
Using her key, Birdie let herself in. Hitting the buttons to deactivate the alarm, she turned on lights as she walked through the building.
J.D. Hopper had a vision when he’d bought this old, run-down warehouse that sat on poles hanging out over the edge of the lake. He’d turned the building into a place that offered tattoos, piercings, waxing, haircuts, massages, and facials. A one-stop beautifying shop, he’d called it.
Lyntacks had said he didn’t have a brain cell to think with, but Birdie thought he was a genius. There hadn’t been enough clientele for just one of those businesses, so he’d set up the lot of them under a single roof.
Rooms had been walled off and spaces created to add the seamless flow that was The Gnat, as locals had nicknamed the place.
An eclectic mix of artwork hung on the walls, and the floors were polished wood and had coverings ranging from cowhide to old-fashioned rag rugs. Birdie had been working here for four months now, after Tabatha left to have a baby, and she loved it.
As the building office manager, she oversaw most things but was also pretty good at assisting where needed. The days were never boring and suited her.
Birdie put the coffee on and opened the blinds so the customers could see the lake and mountains. She was at her desk when the main door opened and in staggered J.D.
Tall, with a big, muscled body, he had a head of dark brown hair, and a full beard he’d been trialing this year to see if women liked it. His jeans were designer and his white button-down the same. On his feet were boots that would likely be worth more than her entire salary for two months.
Ink snaked down both arms, and there was no doubting the man was nice to look at. His eyes were a deep blue, and he spent more time and money on grooming products than she’d ever done in her lifetime.
“Make it stop,” he rasped.
“What?” Birdie didn’t look up. J.D. liked to party and came in at least three out of five days with a hangover. She wasn’t sure where he went, but if anyone could find a place to enjoy himself it would be J.D.
“The sun.”
The son of a family that had, in his words, too much money, the Hoppers had a financial management business in LA. J.D. wasn’t big on sharing his personal details, but she knew he’d worked with his family briefly before following his dream.
He and Sawyer Duke were friends, which was weird when she thought about it. Sawyer didn’t like people, and J.D. did. Birdie was sure they’d gotten to know each other when he’d tattooed ink onto the eldest Duke’s body.
