“The health department. Or maybe the police.”
“It’s three sprigs of rosemary.”
“Rosemary doesn’t generally walk into a kitchen by itself.”
“It doesn’t generally walk at all,” she replied dryly.
He shrugged. “Maybe a mouse carried it in.”
“I don’t have mice in my bakery!” she exclaimed. “I run a spotless kitchen and store all my foods meticulously.”
He took another step back, this time with his bad leg. It didn’t go well. The knee collapsed, he lost his balance, and his arms flailed as he took a couple of hops on his good leg. He finally got it under himself and rebalanced.
She lurched at his first stumble, instinctively reaching out to grab him even though he was too far away for her to catch.
When he was upright once more, he stared at her hands, outstretched across the counter, in surprise. She looked at her hands as well, and it dawned on her how ridiculous it was of her to think she could grab onto and hold a grown man. She was five-foot-three on a good day and had been described with words like “delicate” and “petite” her whole life.
Her hands fell to her sides awkwardly and she lifted her gaze to him.
He said ruefully, “Doc says it’ll take a few months for my leg to get full strength back. I aim to do it in a few weeks, though.”
“Are you supposed to be walking around on it like that?” she asked curiously.
He shrugged and answered evasively. “Doc said I could walk if I wear the brace.”
Uh huh. Sure. Her lips curved into the beginning of a knowing smile before she corralled them back into a neutral position. But he must’ve seen it for his eyes abruptly twinkled as if they shared a secret, now.
He said more seriously, “Do me a favor. If more rogue herbs make an appearance in your shop, tell the police.”
“I’ll be on the look out for sketchy herbs showing up.” She added lightly, “Last thing we need in Cobbler Cove is an outbreak of rogue herbs and spices.”
He smiled at her, and she about fell backward off her stool. Holy cow. That man’s smile should be registered as a lethal weapon.
She managed to choke out, “Let me pour your coffee and pack up your cinnamon roll.”
Doing the familiar tasks calmed her, and her pulse began to return to something resembling normal. She rang up the sale, handed him the bag and cup, and he handed her a twenty dollar bill.
She started to make change and he said, “Keep it.”
She looked up sharply. “That’s a twelve dollar tip.”
“You earned it.”
“For a cinnamon roll?”
“For a cinnamon roll and taking the piece of advice I’m about to give you.” He smiled faintly, only one corner of his mouth turning up, and only for an instant. “Get a camera over your back door.”
He picked up the bag and the coffee. “You have a good morning, Ma’am.”
He took two limping steps toward the door, then stopped and turned back. His expression had gone serious, the easy charm replaced with visible concern.
“And Grace? Don’t come in alone before sunup tomorrow if you can help it. Whoever left those sprigs knew exactly which counter you’d be working at this morning. They’ve watched you. They know your routine.”
He held her gaze for a beat longer than was comfortable, then tipped his hat.
When he turned and headed out, his limp was significantly more noticeable. The bell rang as he opened the door, and then he was gone.
Grace stood at the counter, still holding his twenty dollar bill and said, out loud to the empty shop, “My goodness.”
