“Uh-huh,” he says, falling into step beside me, “sounded like you were humming something festive.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask. “Me all cheerful, falling in line with the rest of the town, sparkling with holiday joy.”
“It would be entertaining.”
We make our way across the street to the hardware store, where I unlock the door, ready to open for the day.
“Do you have a letter for me, or are you just here to irritate me?”
“Irritate, of course.” He lets out a boisterous laugh as he follows me to the cashier counter.
“Lucky me.” I set down my drink and cinnamon bun and flip on the lights.
He snags a piece of my cinnamon bun off my paper plate and plops it in his mouth. “I’m just checking in on you to see how you’re faring ... looking to see if your grumpy disposition has cleared out.” He sniffs the air and smiles. “Seems like it has.”
“Spare me the annoyance.”
“Just seems so interesting that you gain yourself a pen pal and all of a sudden that scowl you’ve been wearing all month has finally disappeared.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say just as the front door opens and Nola walks in.
My heart practically stops in my chest. Never in a million years would I think she’d come in here—she must be desperate for something.
“Hello, dear,” Arden greets her as I stand frozen in place, unsure of how to act, especially after our sparring match at the café.
“Uh, hi,” she says, her eyes floating to me and then back to Arden. Dressed in a pair of worn overalls and an unzipped winter jacket, her posture screams unsure with a hint of regret.
Hand on the counter, I keep my voice neutral as I ask, “Is there something I can help you find?”
She clears her throat. “I don’t want to be here.”
Arden chuckles. “Well, she tells it like it is, doesn’t she?”
Sure does.
“I need some paint, and I don’t have time to drive to Pottsmouth today, so here I am. Don’t make a big deal of it. I just need to get my supplies and I’m out.”
“Sure,” I answer as I round the corner. “What kind of paint do you need?”
“White,” she answers as she twists her hands together, Arden watching the entire interaction.
“Okay,” I drawl out. “What kind of white paint—you realize there are multiple shades, right?”
Her brows draw down. “Yes, I realize that, but I assumed we would discuss shades when you brought me to the paint section, wherever that is.”
“Oh, this is entertaining,” Arden mutters as he picks off another piece of my cinnamon bun.
Ignoring him, I say, “Right over here.” She follows me to the paint section, on the other side of the counter, arms crossed, clearly wishing she was anywhere else but here. “So, what are you painting?”
“A room,” she answers, her attitude at boss level.
“What kind of room?” I ask.
“What does it matter?”
With a sigh, I turn toward her. “The finish matters. So, if it’s a bathroom or kitchen, where stains are bound to happen, I’d suggest something with a touch of gloss, since that’s easier to clean.”
“I don’t need suggestions—I know exactly what I want.”
