He takes it from me before I can stop him. “They’reone of my favorite bands,” Dawson says when I raise an eyebrow at him. “Stay out of trouble.” He disappears down Main Street.
It doesn’t take long for Sierra to come out of the hair salon, and she stops me in my tracks. Her hair is still long, but now it frames her face softly. More than that, though, something about her looks brand new. Her eyes are shining, her cheeks tinged a pleased pink. She looks happy—lighter, younger, more vibrant than ever. I mentally check off “community” on my Operation Triple-S list, thrilled at its success.
“You look beautiful,” I say, tucking a strand behind her ear.
“Thanks.” She takes a deep breath. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
I hesitate, then decide to push it. If I can help her nip this silly fear in the bud, better sooner than later. “Let’s try another old local place. The bookstore.”
If there’s any place in Sagebrush that could secretly be a time-travel portal, it’s the Jesus Wept Bookstore. Dusty coral-and-turquoise-patterned walls, aged-sour PineSol scent, threadbare carpet, and so many tall shelves, that to go down any aisle would feel like walking into a suffocating time capsule. A nasally electric bell peals when I push the door open.
“Logan! Welcome in. You heard about our Bible sale?”
Caitlin O’Hare went to school with us back in the day. She looks almost exactly the same, even wearing the same half-up hairstyle and camo pants she wore nearly every single day at Sagebrush High. Her personality is roughly the same too—her smile looks pained as she tries to greet me politely, but I can see her dislike in the way her chin wobbles to hold the expression.
Caitlin does a double-take when she registers who stands next to me. “Sierra Howard, back in Sagebrush!I can’t believe it.” Her tone turns wary. “Visiting? I thought your mom moved away a few years ago. Bisbee, was it?”
“I’m sure,” Sierra says.
I wonder if she actually knows or is just smoothing the conversation over. Her mom left Sagebrush not long after she did. I remember how frustrating that was—her mother shrugging and saying Sierra was a free spirit, not to worry. Turned out she was right, but that didn’t make it easier at the time.
“I’m just here for a few weeks, working with Logan’s family,” Sierra continues. “We’re promoting some events at the mine.”
I hold out a small stack of flyers for Caitlin to take.
“Oh, another cave event.” She plucks one from the bunch and immediately places it face down on the crowded counter. “Fun. Well, it was good of you to stop by. I can’t believe you’re back, Sierra. Take care.”
It’s a waste of time, but oh well. I never know which events or causes will be embraced or rejected by the O’Hares, but it never hurts to try. They’d be far angrier to be skipped anyway.
We step outside, and I immediately grab the back of Sierra’s shirt and drag her back into the shop again. “That’s the mayor,” I whisper, eyes wide.
Down the street, a polished, dark-haired woman in a crisp violet linen suit and heeled boots walks the sidewalk, greeting people by name. She always looks like she belongs in Los Angeles—or at least downtown Scottsdale—not in sleepy, touristy Sagebrush.
“Why are we hiding from the mayor? Did you guys date or something?” Sierra asks.
The absurdity of that makes me snort. “What? No. She’s like ten years older than me. And married.”
Hmm. Jealous Sierra is hot. I brush my fingers through her shiny, silky hair. “Besides, she’s not my type.Youare.”
A sweet blush colors her cheeks. She turns back to look through the smudged glass door. “She’s coming closer,” she whispers. “Seriously, though, why are we hiding? Do we need to run through the back?”
I flatten us against the Christian romance shelves. The air is heavy with the musty smell of old paper and long-gone-stale potpourri sachets.
“She always wants me to help present her big budget plans to the council,” I whisper. “She’s done amazing work with delegating funds, but I don’t want to get roped into that. I’m not into politics.” I can’t help myself as I murmur, “I’m into you.”
Caitlin must have headed to the back after we “left.” The store is quiet now except for the faint hum of the air conditioner trying and failing to circulate, so I can hear her breath catch at my words very clearly.
I lean closer to her and wrap my arm tightly around her waist. Each inhale brushes my chest.
Sierra reaches up behind her head and plucks a book off the shelf. She traces the cover with her fingertips, her intense attention on the frontier woman simpering at a cowboy-hatted man, half-obscured by a lens flare, is almost comical. I’ve started peppering our conversations with more sweet declarations like this to get her used to the romantic love goal for Operation Triple-S, and her reactions are always so endearing. Pleased, panicked, then desperate for distraction.
“It’s always funny to me that they add a white lens flare to every Christian romance to warn everyone that Jesus is going to make an appearance,” she murmurs, tapping onthe white glare. “Although I suppose it’s more subtle than sneaking an anachronistic, robed, Middle Eastern man into the background like a religiousWhere’s Waldo.”
I laugh softly. “But probably a lot less fun. You should reach out to this publisher and suggest it.” I take the book from her hands and shove it back onto the tightly packed shelf.
“Is she gone?” she asks as I wrap my arms back around her.
I don’t even look. “Not yet,” I whisper against her ear. Jesus, I love her ears. I run my lips along its delicate curve, tasting the tip softly. It’s warm and stuffy in the bookstore, but I feel a shiver run through her body.
