As the customer headed across the front room toward her, she noticed a high-tech leg brace, made of molded black plastic with a shiny metal joint at each side of the knee, encasing his jean-clad left leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf.
He walked with a small limp he was clearly working hard to make look like a normal gait, but he didn’t quite manage it. She found it oddly endearing that this perfect specimen of cowboy manhood had one flaw, at least.
She knew who he was. She’d met him briefly last Thanksgiving at the big dinner Jenna Foster had thrown at her ranch. Jenna had invited all her female friends plus all the cowboys who’d shown up at her ranch for a few months to help Jenna’s soon-to-be husband Sully rescue the ranch from foreclosure. This man had been one of those cowboys.
If her memory served, this was the youngest Steele brother. The rodeo clown—she corrected herself—the bullfighter. That was apparently what they wanted to be called these days.
Grace had heard through the impressive Cobbler Cove gossip grapevine, which knew everything about everyone in this town, that Dillon Steele, the middle Steele brother, had been putting up his younger brother out at his place for the last month while he recovered from knee surgery.
Reno.
His name popped into her head belatedly.
She’d also heard that he might be staying in Cobbler Cove long-term. The town’s gossips were split about 50/50 on whether his knee would recover enough for him to go back to getting chased around rodeo arenas by bulls.
Who voluntarily did such a thing, anyway? A faint shudder passed through her at the thought of being face-to-face with two thousand pounds of immensely strong, testosterone-fueled, bull-shaped rage.
Reno paused in the middle of the front room. Took in the pastry case. Perused the chalkboard menu on the back wall. His gaze landed on the bouquet of tulips she’d cut in her garden last night and arranged when she got a free minute this morning. The brightly colored flowers formed a small, perfect mound on a cake stand at the end of the counter. His gaze stayed on the flowers longer than most men’s did, and she thought she glimpsed his eyes registering pleasure.
From a bullfighter.
An image of Ferdinand the Bull, from the classic children’s story, flashed into her head. She’d just read the book to Lily for the first time. Her four-year-old daughter had been enchanted by the gentle bull who preferred to smell flowers but was chosen to fight in a bullring when he was stung by a bee.
Maybe today was just a day for weird things in her store.
“‘Morning,” he drawled. His voice was deep and had a slight, pleasant accent that might be Texan. Whatever it was, it fell easy on the ear.
“Good morning,” she replied, a bit flustered. “What can I get you?”
“I’d like a cinnamon roll. A big one, with lots of frosting.”
“They come with icing, but it’s slathered on generously. It’s one of our most popular pastries.”
“I’ll take one. And a coffee, black. And . . .” He paused, looking at the case with his head tilted slightly, as if he was listening to something he could barely hear. “Are you baking with rosemary today?”
Grace went very still.
How did he know that? Was he the person who’d slipped the rosemary under the counter?
He looked up at her. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with crinkles at the corners that came from a lot of squinting against the sun. He must have registered her abrupt stillness, for alarm crossed his face as if he sensed he’d done something to frighten her. He took a quick step back from the counter with his good leg, his alarm replaced by concern.
“My apologies. Didn’t mean to startle you, Ma’am.”
“You didn’t. I was just surprised by your question.”
“My grandmother used to make the most amazing rosemary-garlic-parmesan bread, and for a second there, I thought I smelled it.”
“That does sound amazing. And it does smell like rosemary in here. But to answer your question, no, I’m not using any today.”
He looked over at the pair of big, glass-fronted coolers that contained cut flowers and a few modest bouquets for sale. He scanned the coolers as if he was looking for rosemary plants.
His gaze shifted back to her, and he didn’t fill the silence. He just stood there looking searchingly at her, waiting for her to speak or not as she chose.
She didn’t normally tell strangers her business, but for some reason, she found herself saying, “I came in this morning and the whole kitchen smelled like rosemary. I haven’t used it in five months. But I found three fresh sprigs of it tucked behind a table leg in the back.”
“Interesting. Did you file a report?”
“With whom?”
