From: Owen Wilde
To: George Knight
Date: December 21, 11:45 AM
Subject: Check it out!
But whatever’sinside the email is a mystery, because my phone doesn’t seem to be able to load it. I guess I should be grateful I have any bars at all. It’s been spotty for half of the walk.
Still, it’s cold, sweater or no, and I’ve made it to town now, so it makes a lot more sense to go inside rather than standing here watching my email load.
The bell on the door jangles cheerfully, and the warmth of the general store and all its soap and cinnamon-y goodness wraps around like a cozy embrace as I step inside.
Which is why I don’t notice at first the three women standing at the cashier’s counter who have all very much noticedme.
“George! Welcome back!” says Ruth.
“Hey, smokey!” The young, Black woman with long braids who I recognize as the volunteer firefighter I met last night—Allie, apparently—throws me a wink and some finger guns.
The third woman, plump and middle-aged with long gray curls and statement eyeglasses, just blinks at me. Allie elbows her.
“This is the gentleman who tried to set Owen Wilde’s cabin on fire.”
“Oh, now, Allie, you know it was an accident,” Ruth scolds.
“George Knight! You’re George Knight,” says the one I haven’t met. She has a sort of awestruck look I’ve seen before. Oh God. I really don’t need this right now. With my luck, she’ll have a blog or YouTube channel or something.
“Is that your last name, dear? I didn’t catch it yesterday,” says Ruth.
“Yep, that’s it,” Allie confirms, saving me the trouble. “George Reginald Knight—needed his full name for the incident report.”
“Hi,” I flash my most winning smile and hold out a hand to the new woman. “Nice to meet you. If you wouldn’t mind, I’m kind of trying to keep my presence here on the down-low.”
Allie snort-laughs. “That why you invited the folks with the flashing lights and sirens over yesterday?”
I shoot her a look. “I didn’t invite anyone.”
“I am so happy to meet you,” the other woman gushes as she shakes my hand. “I’m Carol, the head librarian. I’m a huge fan.”
“Of his firestarting?” Allie asks.
“Of his books!”
“Books?” Ruth’s brows knittogether in confusion. Then her expression changes. “Oh! Oh, are youthatGeorge Knight? Oh, my goodness, I hadn’t realized.”
“Oooh,” says Allie. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. With those Benedict Brass books.”
“Sebastian Steele,” Carol corrects.
“Whatever.”
So much for anonymity. I’m not recognized often, but I’ve been on enough magazine covers and plus the occasional interview… It usually doesn’t matter, but right about now I’m really not feeling up to being “that George Knight” publicly.
“Well, my goodness,” Ruth is saying. “Isn’t that something? Another creative type! How wonderful for Owen.”
I damn near do a spit-take, despite not having anything in my mouth.
“Ruth, Itold you, we’re not?—”
