“Well, like I said, leave Bristol alone. Let’s go see what romance novels are available this week, shall we?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll leave Bristol alone. For now.” She does that whole thing where she points at her eyes then back to me, exactly like‘I’ve got my eyes on you.’
As she heads toward the new-releases display, I can feel her still watching me. Plotting.
I mouth a silent ‘thank you’ to Emmy the minute Evie turns her back.
And force my mind, and my heart, not to drift back to thoughts of Rhett all over again.
four
. . .
Rhett
I slipmy phone into my back pocket like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Which is stupid
Talking to a woman on a dating app isn’t a crime.
Smiling at my phone because of said woman also isn’t a crime.
Feeling whatever that flutter in my chest was when I saw Bristol’s profile picture pop up?
That might be.
The heater hums behind the counter, the familiar scent of cedar, soil, and motor oil lingering in the air. This place has always been my anchor. My routine. My world in neat aisles and labeled drawers.
But right now my brain is still tangled up in the way Bristol tried to be casual but maybe wasn’t. Or the way she admitted—without meaning to—that she signed up partly out of obligation, and not because some lonely part of her might’ve been hoping for a nudge.
Not that I’d knowanythingabout that.
I wasn’t lonely. I had plenty of friends. And family.
So why did I really sign up for the dating app?
Maybe because it felt like everyone in this town was falling in love around me.
“Morning, Rhett,” calls Mr. Willis, shuffling in with a busted snow shovel and a look that saysdon’t you dare upsell me. “Got anything that won’t snap in half the minute it touches ice?”
I move into autopilot— pointing out the reinforced models, and carrying one down from the display wall for him. We talk about the storm coming in and how long it will take the town council to fix the pothole out on the main road into town the last storm left behind.
He happily pays for his new shovel and leaves satisfied.
The minute the door closes behind him, I pull out my phone and check to see if Bristol is still online. She’s not.
Probably back to the library, maybe shelving books or helping someone find their next favorite read.
I picture her doing just that. Soft and caring voice, thoughtful eyes, well-manicured hands with fingernails painted in cute little Christmas designs. And damn if I don’t feel an unfamiliar warmth settling in my chest.
I rub a palm over the back of my neck and blow out a breath.
How long has it been since a woman made me feel this way?
Reba, the hardware store cat, jumps up onto the counter and purrs loudly, begging for my attention.
“I already fed you breakfast,” I remind her while petting the top of her head.
