Only after all of that does Shepherd Haynes drift in, uninvited, which is irritating. He’s like a crumb of toast that found its way under the collar of my favorite sweater; itchy, annoying, and completely avoidable if I’d just been more careful. I push the thought of him away, but it keeps coming back, those steady eyes and the way he didn’t rise to my bait.
I also think about the one-hundred-dollar tip he left on the table when they left. I couldn’t tell if he was flaunting how much money he has or if he took pity on me, the poor bartender wench who needs a man to take care of her.
I swear under my breath and then swing my legs out of bed. I pad into the kitchen, stepping carefully around the loosefloorboard by the sink. My apartment is quiet in the way that only old buildings get with settling noises, pipes clicking, and the distant hum of someone else’s life bleeding through the walls.
It’s nothing if not familiar.
And for me, it’s safe.
I make coffee strong enough to qualify as a personality trait and stare at the chipped mug in my hand. It has a thin crack running from the rim down the side, glazed over so many times it’s practically decorative.
I don’t remember where I got it, but I remember why I kept it.
Does Shepherd Haynes drink coffee?
“Get a grip,” I mutter, because I am not about to let a football player with decent manners ruin my morning.
While I drink my coffee, I lean against the counter and try to organize my thoughts. It’s Friday. I’m working a double. The Alley will be busy with the weekend crowd, which means decent tips if I can keep my patience intact.
Simple facts.
Tangible realities.
There’s no room for tall, broad-shouldered football players with surprising manners and even more surprising restraint.
“Stop it,” I tell my reflection in the small mirror that hangs by the door. My reflection, unsurprisingly, looks unimpressed.
I grab my jacket and head out to the only place my body knows to go without thought or plan. Funky Junk, my favorite thrift store smells like dust, lemon cleaner, and something faintly floral. The bell over the door jingles when I step inside, and I feel my shoulders drop a full inch.
This place does that to me.
“There you are, Miss Sutton! I wondered if I would see you today.”
The voice is gentle and slightly wavering, like an old songplayed on vinyl. Frank stands between two shelves of mismatched dishware, his weathered fingers tracing the rim of a vintage ceramic bowl. His cardigan has a coffee stain on the sleeve, and his khaki pants are pressed with military precision; a habit from his Navy days, he once told me.
“Hey, Frank,” I say, feeling my first genuine smile of the day spread across my face. “Finding any treasures today?”
He chuckles, the sound like rustling paper. “Oh, this bowl here. My Ellie had one just like it. Used to make her potato salad in it every Fourth of July.” His eyes go distant for a moment, traveling somewhere I can’t follow. “Forty-seven years of potato salad in this bowl.”
I move closer, examining the blue and white pattern. “It’s beautiful.”
“Here.” He reaches into his pocket with arthritic fingers and pulls out a butterscotch candy wrapped in crinkly gold cellophane. “For the prettiest bartender in Portland.”
I accept it with a nod. Our ritual. I’ve never asked why he carries butterscotch candies, but I like to think Ellie favored them.
“Thank you, Frank.”
“Sutton!” Mari’s voice rings out from behind the counter. “I see you lurking by my dishes. If you’re here to steal my good mugs again, I swear to God?—”
“Nah, I’m just browsing,” I call back, winking at Frank and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Besides, you know I only go for the chipped ones.”
Maribel Cruz owns the shop. Which is a generous way of saying she presides over it like a benevolent dragon guarding a hoard of other people’s junk. She’s in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with sharp eyes and a softer heart than she lets on. We met years ago when we were both volunteering at one of the city’s homeless shelters. She knew I was looking for a cheaptable and she talked me out of buying something structurally unsound.
Now, she knows my name and my schedule, and even worse…she knows when I’m lying.
“Uh-huh,” she says, emerging with a cardboard box tucked under one arm. “I unpacked some new stuff. Thought of you immediately.”
“That’s never ominous,” I say, weaving through the cluttered aisles toward the back of the store. Mari stands surrounded by cardboard boxes, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a messy bun. Silver bangles jingle on her wrist as she gestures to one of the boxes by her side. She lifts the lid, revealing several teacups. None of them are matching and they’re certainly not pristine. Some are chipped, some are cracked, and one has a hairline fracture running right through a faded blue pattern.
