Idon’t like going to the doctor on a good day, but I’m not mad about being in Low Pines again. It’s impossibly cute, the kind of small town I assumed didn’tactuallyexist. It’s like finding out there are really people who live in Disneyland, or something. Unreal.
The shops up and down Main Street are all quaint, with hand-painted signs and the kind of storefronts that come to mind when you think of an idyllic small town. People walk up and down the street, and when we leave the clinic, I even see a couple stop to talk to an older man, laughing and gesturing happily.
It’s not like that’s a conclusive study, but it definitely gives me the impression that people know each other here. Completely different from the impersonal commute in the city. The careful way you avoid making eye contact in an elevator with someone you don’t know.
“I’m surprised Shelly didn’t insist on you going into town to the real hospital,” Max says under his breath, and I laugh.
Shelly was my nurse, a twenty-something who gasped when we told her what happened, and who checked my heart at least three times, considered getting something called an EKG, then warned me several times to be more careful, while somehow managing to simultaneously flirt with Max. She was nice, but the wholecute and youngthing started to get to me by the end.
“Where are you going?” I ask when Max takes a sharp right, clearly planning on going back to his truck. He stops and turns, looking at me with a puzzled expression.
We stopped at his cabin before coming to town, and he changed into a less-beat-up pair of jeans and a flannel that hugs his shoulders and biceps. Looking at him now, my mouth starts to water at the thought of him in a T-shirt, and I have to check myself. Not only is he myneighborandliving in Montana, but he’s clearly not interested in me. I’m still shocked that he offered to help me with the cabin.
But I’m not going to let him take it back. I could always hire someone to do it, but there’s a part of me that feels like working on the cabin might bring me closer to Jasper. That, as disappointed as he might be in the idea of a rental, he would be even more disappointed if I high-tailed it back to California without so much as wielding a hammer.
Plus, he told me to ask the neighbor for help. Maybe that’s why Max offered — as a favor to the man who was something of a friend. Or, at least, a neighbor.
“To the truck,” Max says now, drawing me out of my thoughts, and I shake my head.
“Let me treat you to a tea,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward the shop at the end of the street.
“Don’t drink tea.”
“Okay, a coffee, then.”
“No thanks.”
I grit my teeth and glare at him. “Well, I’m going to the coffee shop. If there’s something there you want, I’ll treat you to it.”
With that, I turn on my heel and start walking in the direction of the cafe, thinking my mom would be proud of me for standing my ground. When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder, half expecting that Max will have gone back to the truck, but he’s there behind me, not looking happy about the diversion.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll take a coffee. But we should get back. We have a lot to get done.”
I nod at him, though I plan to spend a little more time in town. We’ll need to go to the hardware store to get paint and other supplies, anyway.
The coffee shop is just as cute inside as I thought it would be, with a whole array of early fall specials scrawled on a chalkboard above the counter. It’s all sunflowers and apples, and I appreciate the commitment to the season, considering the menu for a minute before the barista bounces over, a teenager with a chipper attitude.
“Welcome to Affogato ’Bout It. What can I get for you?”
I snort at the name and feel Max shaking his head next to me, muttering, “Used to be called Low Pines Cafe.”
To the barista, I say, “I’ll take a large Sunflower Petals Latte, please. Iced, and can you do that with soy milk?’
“Of course,” she says, quickly scribbling on a cup. Setting it aside, she looks at Max. “And for you?”
He pauses, then says, “Just a small black coffee.”
“Any room?” she asks, pulling out another cup, Sharpie poised to write as she looks at him expectantly.
“No, thanks.”
A minute later, we both have our drinks, and I glare at him as we push back out onto the street, the bright sunshine streaming in.
“Are you doing that thing where you order black coffee because you think it’s the manly thing to do?”
He glances at me over the top of his cup, and though his face doesn’t show amusement, the corners of his mouth curl slightly. “I’m doing the thing where I don’t get something that costs eight dollars.”
“Lattes are good.”
