With a ruffle of Crosby’s amber fur, Dell settled onto the bench by the door to pull on his boots.
He hadn’t wanted the Main Street storefront from the beginning. That was the best part of working for himself now, his whole purpose: he only bought, managed, and sold the properties he wanted to. Which, these days, mostly consisted of tracts of land, old non-commercial structures, pieces of the community he could help preserve. Selling only to the folks and the occasional non-profit who actually gave a damn about this place. Who were here to stay.
A small fight, in his own way, against the Californians and foreign investors who had bought up real estate by the fistful, often in cash, over the last two decades. Who had helped make his own previous career so lucrative, while changing the landscape of the communities who actually had history in the places where out-of-towners sought a profit.
But then Cara had come to him two years ago.
She’d decided to cut the losses of owning a crumbling brick and mortar storefront in a tiny town and take her pet supply business fully online. Dell had gotten to know Cara—at least, better than he got to know most people, these days—what with needing the very supplies she sold for Crosby (golden retriever), Stills (German shepherd mix), and Nash (some lab-pittie mix). So when Cara said she only trusted Dell, knew he’d sell the storefront to someone who deserved it, well. He’d had a hard time saying no.
Only problem was no one had ever deserved it. Even the ones Dell had taken a chance on over the last two years had pulled out at various stages in the laborious process of selling a commercial property, usually when they’d realized how many repairs the old building actually needed. All of which was evidence as to why he shouldn’t be pulling on his shoes or grabbing his car keys right now.
Reason said he should have blocked Mae Kellerman’s number hours ago. Particularly after she’d texted him a photo of her sneakers forty-five minutes ago, legs stretched out across the porch of 12 Main, the squat shape of Ginger’s and the waves of Greyfin Beach visible behind them. Accompanied by the words:I dunno, seems like a pretty good view for a bookshop to me.
It was bold, texting a photo of your legs—and the words “I dunno”—to a stranger.
Dell should not have liked it. Just as he should not have liked that voicemail.
Which he didn’t. For the record. Like either of those things.
And he would have ignored them, would have deleted and blocked, if both of those things hadn’t made him believe her. That she would, in fact, sit in front of 12 Main Street all day. And the residents of Greyfin Bay would have things to say about that. He’d already gotten one text from Liv Gallagher—there’s a gal on your porch down here, Dell, in case you haven’t heard—which, as much as he liked Liv, he found even more irritating than Mae Kellerman’s sneakers.
And on a Luca day, too. The first Luca day in three fucking months.
Dell would be damned if some Portlander ruined a Luca day.
He reasoned with himself, as he climbed into his truck and began the bumpy ride down his August-dry dusty drive, that he hadn’t allowed Mae Kellerman to disrupt his routines. He’d still spent the morning in his workshop, prepped a few custom orders, printed and taped their shipping labels. Which—shit, he’d left on the kitchen table.
With a sigh, he braked halfway down the road and turned around in Freddy Hampton’s driveway.
A pain in the fucking ass, was what 12 Main Street was.
But all he had to do today was drop off these orders—which he grabbed off the kitchen table before climbing back into the truck—at the post office. No pressing real estate duties today, other than saying no to Mae Kellerman’s face, which he was more than capable of, before he could head north to Luca’s.
He couldn’t find a parking spot on Main Street, because it was August, and of course he couldn’t, but he drove by and saw her there before he turned onto Klamath to park up the hill.
Sitting exactly where she’d promised. Head tucked over a book.
Dell huffed out a breath as he yanked on the parking brake.
It would have been impossible to miss her, even if he hadn’t been looking. She had a head of bubblegum pink hair. Because of course she did.
He reminded himself, as he walked toward Main Street, that he was a mere two hours away from Luca Yaeger. From Luca Yaeger’s thighs, to be specific. He just had to get Mae Kellerman off his porch, and he could once again touch Luca’s shoulders.
And it all would have been much easier, if she hadn’t been crying when he reached her.
If she hadn’t, confusingly, at the same time, been smiling.
She stood as soon as he approached, clutching her book to her chest, and said through her tears: “Don’t you just love a mass market paperback?”
And, well. Dell, quite frankly, had no answer to that.
Instead, he said, “Why are you crying?”
Because he had expected a stubborn-as-hell pain-in-the-ass. He had not expected a large, soft, crying person with pink hair smiling up at him like she’d just seen the resurrection.
“Because,” she said, “romance is always rewarding when the people are goodtoeach other, but it’s the bestwhen they’re goodforeach other. And Tessa Dare’s people are alwayssogood foreach other.”
Mae hugged the book even tighter to her not insignificant breasts and shook her body a little, embracing the paperback in the kind of hug with which you greeted a long-lost relative at the airport.
