“I love dogs,” Rosie responds with a pasted-on smile, her lips barely moving. “I just don’t like Fletcher.”
“And Fletcher is the dog?”
I must ask the question too loudly because the man answers it as he reaches us.
“No, the dog’s name is Brewer. I’m Fletcher.” He holds out his hand to me, and his warm brown eyes stare into mine. “Fletcher Matthews, Hope Harbor’s mayor. And you are?”
“Tally Darling,” my best friend answers for me. “And she was just leaving.”
My head whips in her direction. “I was not.”
Her green eyes cut to me. “You were.”
“Oh, the other Darling girl. I’ve heard a lot about you. Your farm is treasured by our whole town. We’re all really looking forward to the Daffodil Festival.”
“Thanks,” I say uncomfortably, because I most certainly am not.
Fletcher barely acknowledges my words, however, as he focuses in on Rosie. “I’m having the pale ale today.”
“Good for you,” she says in a bored tone, waving him away.
“Odd way to treat a customer,” I mutter as he walks off, chuckling.
Before he settles at the bar, he turns back to me. “Oh, Tally. Say hi to Walker for me, okay?”
“Who the hell is Walker?” The words are a hiss between my teeth.
With a gleam in her eye, Rosie smiles. “Nope. I’m not telling you.”
“What?”
“It’ll be more fun this way.”
“No.” I pull on her arm, keeping her close. “It will not. And as my best friend, it’s your job to tell me what’s going on.”
She shrugs. “Nah.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
She shakes my hand off her arm and starts walking toward the bar. “Go home, Tally. You’ll know him when you see him.”
“Wherewill I see him, though?”
The only response I get is another arch of her brows.
Determined to get to the bottom of this, I make the trek to the farm in my rental. My mother will tell me what’s going on. She’s never been good at keeping a secret.
“Mom!” I yell as I open the unlocked door. No one locks their doors in Hope Harbor. My eyes scan the familiar living room, comforted that nothing has changed. “Mom?” I call again, peering into the kitchen.
I hear a noise upstairs and turn around to head to the second floor.
A rush of excitement fills me at the thought of seeing my mom again. She and Penny came to me for Christmas in Vermont this season. With it being so soon after Dad’s funeral, my sister thought it would be a good idea to stay off the farm during the holiday. There were too many memories in the house.
The floorboards creak in my bedroom and, keen to surprise her, I don’t call her name again as I run up the stairs. I swing open the door to my room and squeal. “I’m home!”
But it’s not my mother standing in my bedroom.
No, it’s a six-foot-something wall of a man, gripping a towel so tiny with hands so big my eyes bulge. The towel barely makes it around his waist, dipping dangerously low and exposing hard lines and an indecent dusting of dark hair.
