Although that’s not going so hot now. I’m starting to think it might be worth it to let SpookyPants McWhodunnit have her chance in the sun, because my romance-writing days are feeling limited at the moment. I don’t know how to write mystery novels, but I can read a bunch of them to get a feel for plot beats and whatnot. That’s a good place to start. I’ll certainly give it my best. I’m willing to do my research, too.
Yes,I think as I go back into the coffee shop to get my stuff.I can do that.
My table in the corner is exactly how I left it. I still have one and a half scones left, so I grab them and wrap them in a napkin. Then I finish my last swig of hot chocolate and place the mug in the dirty dish receptacle.
The wind whips my hair around my face as I step out of Grind and Brew again, strands of bubblegum pink flying into my field of vision. I don’t have enough length for a ponytail right now, so I tuck what I can behind my ears and hurry to my car. Aiden has managed to get the bumper back in place somehow—did he go in my trunk and get the super glue?—and now he stands next to Sunshine, watching meas I bustle to the rear passenger door. I clutch my scones self-consciously, wrapping them more tightly in the napkin. Then I grab my bag from the backseat and carefully put the scones in, making sure to set them on top so they don’t get squashed. I nod, satisfied, and then put the bag back where I got it.
When I turn around, I’m surprised to find Aiden still looking at me. There’s an expression on his face that I don’t particularly like as his eyes jump back and forth between me and the bag I just put in the backseat—something curious and analyzing about the tilt of his head and the focus of his gaze.
Do I have food on my face? A hot chocolate mustache? Did he think the scone thing was weird? Or maybe I have asconemustache?
Whatever. I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater and call it good. “You have a key for me?” I say, holding out my hand to him.
He doesn’t say anything; instead he just gives me a slow nod, still looking at me in that weird way, before reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a single key, and dropping it into my waiting palm.
Just think—this key was separated from Aiden Milano’s buns by a mere one or two layers of fabric, depending on whether he goes commando. My seventeen-year-old self would be over the moon.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling at him. “I’ll be there later. I’ve got a couple stops to make first.” Then, because I don’t know what to do with that look he’s giving me, I break eye contact and round the car, getting in without another glance at him.
When I look in the rearview mirror as I’m leaving the parking lot, though, he’s still watching me go—and the sedan that followed me here is gone.
My first stopafter Grind and Brew is Namaste, the yoga studio run by a man named Augustus Flanders. It wasn’t there when I was growing up, but I did see it when I was here for my mom’s funeral six years ago. I first got in touch with Augustus when I decided to move after the Blind Date Incident, and after sending him my certification, he told me he’d hire me when I came back to Autumn Grove.?*
The dream, of course, is to write full time. But even though I do bring in a decent amount from my indie sales every month, it’s not quite enough to live off of. I need something to supplement it. And if my sales begin to decrease, I’ll need to find something with more hours. Either way, a day job is my fate for now.
The yoga studio is on Center, above the hardware store. I have to walk up a narrow, dingy staircase to get there, but when I emerge from the stairwell, I’m greeted by a spacious room with lots of natural light. The hardwood floors are a warm, light brown, and the walls are a soothing cream color. There are plants hanging from several spots on the ceiling, making the whole place feel alive.
“Hello, hello!”
I spin around when I hear the greeting to find a large, muscular man—good grief, this guy ishuge,with muscles that can’t possibly be from yoga alone—striding toward me with his hand outstretched. He has on loose, comfy-looking pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and he’s smiling cheerfully in a way that makes the room seem even lighter than it already is.
“Hi,” I say quickly, shaking his hand—which is quite possibly the size of my entire face. “I’m Juniper Bean. We spoke over email and on the phone. You mustbe Augustus.”
“Call me Gus,” he says, and he’s still smiling as he goes on, “And I remember you. I’m happy to bring you on board; I need some help around here. Did you bring a copy of your certification? I can get that in your file, and then you can fill out the W-4 today if you’re ready. I’d love to have you start as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” I say. I hold back my sigh of relief, since it might seem unprofessional. But I was a little worried that he would somehow have changed his mind about hiring me or something. I pat my bag, using gentle hands so I don’t squish my scones. “It’s in here.”
“Excellent,” he says. Then he gestures to a closed door on the far side of the studio. “This way to the office, please!”
Wow. He’s so…happy. So cheery. Almost weirdly so. There’s even a spring in his step as he crosses the room ahead of me. Is he like this all the time? There’s no way, right?
But his good-natured smile remains in place the entire time he’s talking me through scheduling and hours, and it doesn’t even seem fake. He really just seems to be an upbeat, cheerful man—a bit of a strange guy, with all the smiling, but I’d rather have that than someone who frowns all the time. And interestingly enough, by the time I leave the studio, I’m also smiling happily.
But come on. I’ve got the job thing nailed down, and even though the yoga studio is small, it’s well-finished and full of a very positive energy that will create a great environment. How could I not be happy? It’s a huge stressor off my plate. Maybe Gus and I could even be friends, if he turns out to be a normal-enough dude.
When I get back to my car, I open my bag to make sure my scones are all right. Then I relax into my seat and buckle my seatbelt. I sit there for a minute,my fingers drumming on the steering wheel as I look aimlessly around. I note the store fronts, the passing cars, the car parked across the street?—
My eyes jerk back to the parked car. I blink a few times, frowning. Then my phone buzzes, and I dig it out; it’s Roland, checking to see what I think of my new roommate. I don’t have an answer to that yet, so I exit the message without answering, placing my phone in the cupholder. Then I look back to the parked car—but it’s gone. I’m clearly imagining things.
Or hallucinating.
Or turning paranoid for absolutely no reason.
All good signs, I’m sure.
I shake my head and tuck my hair behind my ear. I know what’s going on here, really, and it’s not paranoia or hallucination or any of those things.
I’m stalling. I’m stalling, and my brain is filling in details to help me avoid the things I don’t want to confront. Because I have one more place to visit before I go to the house and get settled.
