The two were crazy about each other. Just like Willow and Corbin and Nora and John. Britt had been an early proponent of each of those romances. Now that they were all so disgustingly moony over each other, though, she sometimes had to indulge in hidden eye rolls. “I refuse to pay my employees to be sidetracked by their boyfriends,” Britt said.
Maddie sighed and sailed toward the kitchen. “She’s a brutal taskmaster,” she told Nikki before vanishing from sight.
“You haven’t met any handsome new bachelors in their fifties or sixties lately, have you?” Nikki asked Britt.
“No, I—”
Sweet Art’s front door opened to admit a long-haired, six-foot-tall man.
“Clint!” Britt called happily.
“Hey there.” He wore a leather vest sans undershirt, a cowboy hat decorated with a peacock feather, jeans, and boots. The getup was purely an expression of taste since he’d never lived in a cowboy state, only in a cowboy state of mind.
Nikki slid her the evil eye. “I just this minute asked you if you’d met any handsome new bachelors,” she accused.
“Clint’s not new to town. He works at...” Britt raised her voice to include Clint in their circle of conversation. “I was just going to say that you work for my parents at Bradfordwood as landscaper.”
“Don’t forget that I also work as the inn’s maid.”
“You mean to tell me,” Nikki said, “that you’ve been keeping a man who knows how to garden and how to clean all to yourself?” She managed to look both outraged with Britt and appreciative of Clint simultaneously.
“I didn’t know I was keeping him to myself,” Britt shot back. “I assumed you two had met.”
“Are you single?” Nikki asked Clint.
“I am.”
Nikki whistled. “Today is my lucky day.”
“I’m Clint Fletcher.” He proffered his hand.
“I’m available. So nice to meet you.” Nikki preened as if she’d said something terribly witty while they shook hands.
Despite the bravado that Clint’s clothing and hair suggested, his personality could be described as tentative. He was sometimes unsure of himself and always eager to please. He appeared to be taking Nikki in with a combination of interest and naked fear.
“Clint,” Britt said with a grand hand gesture, “it is my very great honor to present Nikki Clarkson to you. I thought you two might know each other because Nikki works for Nora at the library.”
“Do you come to the Historical Village often, Clint?” Nikki asked.
“Not often at all. This is probably only my second or third time here.” He slid a paper from his back pocket and handed it to Britt. “Casey would like to give chocolate to all of the inn’s guests on Easter Sunday. I volunteered to stop by with his order form.”
Casey worked as innkeeper at the Inn at Bradfordwood. “Awesome. Thanks.”
Nikki rested her arm against the top of the display case and swept out an imposing hip. “How old are you, Clint?”
“Sixty.”
Her heavily made-up eyes enlarged, and Britt almost laughed. Watching Nikki in action had long been the best entertainment in town. “I’m the same age!” Nikki exclaimed. “When’s your birthday?”
They exchanged birthdays and realized that Nikki was just twomonths younger than Clint. “Well, that’s perfection right there, that’s what that is,” Nikki said. “How do you stay in such good shape?”
“Well, I was once a professional performer—”
“What kind of performer?”
“An actor,” he answered shyly. “But interpretive juggling paid the bills.”
“Interpretive juggling,” Nikki said, awed.
