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That’s a good middle ground, isn’t it?
Rory nods. “Good night, Chaplin.”
I go back inside and lean up against the door until it’s closed, my whole body tensing. If I’m going to be working with Rory McEvoy, I’m going to have to make sure I don’t get too close.
Otherwise, I might do something I regret.
8
Rory
Brewed Perfection is on Main Street, the busiest road in Horace, which isn’t saying much considering the only traffic light is a blinking red and there is always more than enough parking.
Although I am a little surprised by the foot traffic. For a sleepy little town, everyone is up bright and early, frequenting the bakery, the diner, the newsstand. There’s already a gaggle of women waiting outside the salon.
Horace is alive and well, that’s certain.
I amble into Brewed Perfection at ten past eight and give the woman behind the counter, a petite redhead with a face full to the brim with freckles, a courteous nod. Over her head hangs a menu board with lists and lists of teas and various delights. I don’t know where to begin.
“You’re late.”
My attention shoots to Constance, who sits in a table by the window. Her eyes are focused on the tea bag she’s dipping into a steaming cup of hot water, lips pursed with concentration, or perhaps disdain.
Why do women have to be so beautiful when they’re withholding? I’d love to see her smile, but her serious expression still manages to invite me in. Dr. Constance Chaplin is an enigma, and while I might not be the person to solve it, I’d like a chance.
“I said eight-oh-three,” she says, then removes the bag and plops it onto a small dish. Finally, she lifts her eyes.
Yeesh. Bluer than Neptune, those eyes. No wonder she’s terrifying. Space is the great unknown, the final frontier. And at the same time, we can’t look away from it.
That’s Constance Chaplin in a nutshell.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you meant ‘let’s meet at eight-oh-three,’ I just knew yougothere at eight-oh-three.”
“Hm.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I was going to buy your drink, you know.”
“I can buy my own drinks, thank you very much,” she mutters before blowing over her cup of tea and then sipping carefully.
“I know you can,” I say. I thought women always appreciated being catered to. And a cup of tea is no skin off my back. “But it’s the principle of the thing.”
Constance puts her cup back down. “I guess our principles conflict then.”
The redhead pipes up from behind the counter, “Oh, lay off him, Con.”
I turn back to her with a grateful smile.
“Sorry for my friend. She takes everything a bit too seriously,” the woman says, her voice as petite as her frame.
“I don’t believe we’ve met yet,” I say, approaching the counter. “I’m Rory McEvoy, I’m the sheriff.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you plenty, Sheriff.” The redhead waggles her eyebrows.
“Mostly bad things,” Constance calls out from the front of the shop.
I blow out a breath. Gonna take a while to get back into her good graces, huh? “She always like this?”
The redhead grins. “Always.”
