I’m quickly learning it’s best to just do what Maddie says. “I’ll have to call my mom and get back to you on that other stuff,” I tell her.
“Fine,” Maddie sighs, closing her binder. “And please fill out the forms on the website so my team can do a full personality workup. I need something to go on other than ‘Grumpy Yankee.’”
“Who called me that?”
She snorts. “Literally everyone.”
Outside, Ari rummages through her crossbody bag. Her hands look red.
I have to do something.
Ignoring whatever else Maddie is going on about, I bolt out from behind the counter and grab a women’s ski jacket about Ari’s size.
“What are you doing?” Maddie asks.
“Making another donation!” I call out, then push open the door of Foster’s Sports and Outdoors.
“I’ll email you later!” Maddie shouts after me as I run across the street. “And also, you should be a team player and name your store after a bird!”
Yeah. I’ll get right on that when hell freezes over.
Chapter
Two
Ari
“It’s freezing out here. How do you stand it?” I ask with a friendly smile as Jared swipes my debit card and hands it back to me along with my coffee.
Suddenly, a weight bears down on my shoulders. Startled, I drop my debit card and turn toward the possible assailant, ready to toss hot coffee at an unknown target.
I come face-to-face with a human brick wall covered in soft, thick, stretchy cotton. Stepping back, I look up into the bearded face of Foster Hale, and it looks at first like he’s coming in for a hug.
As I struggle to get away, I realize he’s not hugging me, he’s trying to dress me.
“What are you doing?!” I ask.
Foster’s reply is icy and dark. “What you should have done before you left your house this morning.”
Who does this guy think he is?
“It’s a two-minute walk from my house to work. I think I’ll survive.”
Instead of leaving me alone, Foster takes my coffee cup away from me.
“Fasten it.”
Foster has the charm of a mafia enforcer.
I do as he says, because although I don’t appreciate his tone, I do appreciate the gesture.
Giving him my best petulant grin, I ask, “Happy now?” It is a wonderfully warm coat.
“Happy? No. Satisfied that you’re not going to get fucking frostbite while you dance around in front of my store window? Yes.”
Well, he has a point. No one in Songbird Ridge would describe this man as happy.
This is the Northern transplant who almost endangered the art guild's funding last month with his complaints to the downtown association. Since my sister, Riley, depends on that base income to support her painting livelihood, I’m no fan of anyone threatening to take that away.
