Maybe.
But the place was like nothing I'd ever seen.
There were no cars, period. No horns. No exhaust. No screeching of brakes. Instead, there was the steady clip-clop of horses pulling carriages as if Henry Ford was a myth and horsepower still meant things that went neigh.
And then, there were the bikes. No, I didn't mean the kind of crotch-rockets that buzzed along Chicago streets. I meant actual bicycles, including plenty built for two. Filling the street, theywove in and out like ants on sugar, ridden by couples, kids, and seniors, too, along with the odd baby riding shotgun on the back.
For such a small place, I saw a lot of people.
But there was only one person I wanted to see.Tessa Sinclair. And she'd been holed up in that coffee shop for as long as I'd been watching. I couldn't see her now, but sometime around eight, I'd made a point to stroll past.
I spotted her just fine through the windows. But did she spotme?
Nope.
She'd been far too busy handling the crowd.
So here I was, watching and waiting to see what she'd do.
Finally, just before eleven, she was suddenly there, striding past the coffee shop without using the main door.
Huh.So, the place had a rear exit, probably one of those employee-only doors, handy for taking deliveries or dodging customers.
But this wasn't what had me squinting for a better look. It was the thing in her hand – a purple bottle of who-knows-what.Booze? Bubble bath? The ashes of her eccentric aunt?
I waited, wondering if she would get on a bike.
She didn't.
Instead, she ducked into the nearest souvenir shop, clutching the bottle like it might escape. She stayed for maybe five minutes before reappearing outside, looking anxious as she hugged the bottle to her chest.
Interesting.She wasn't shopping. She was hunting.
I watched with growing interest as she ducked into a second shop and did the same exact thing. By shop three, I had a theory.
By shop four, I had a plan.
I left the balcony and ventured outside like any other tourist.
Out on the street, Tessa was nowhere in sight. No surprise there. By now, she was probably in shop number seven. Or maybe eight.
And me?
I made a beeline for number nine. Wading through the crowd, I ducked inside and started checking out the goods.
Sunglasses.Didn't need them.
Knickknacks.Didn't want them.
Postcards.Wouldn't send them.
Peanut butter fudge.Nowthatwas interesting.
On the way, I'd passed at least five fudge shops. So what was this place doing selling sweets?Turf war? Backup revenue stream?I had questions – like if I walked into a fudge shop, would I find T-shirts and trinkets?
I had every intention of finding out.
But for now, I grabbed a prewrapped chunk of fudge and started making my way toward the register, browsing as I went. The shop was crowded, sure, but not so crowded that I didn't see a certain blonde hustle in, clutching that same purple bottle like a prize-winning ham.
