Page 117 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Those are good,” I say.

“They’d better be,” he replies. “Took me forever to grow.”

I turn the peach in my hand, then look back at him. “How many should I get?”

“That depends,” he says. “You planning on eating them, or letting them sit on your counter until they go soft and you feel guilty about it?”

“Eating them.”

“Six, then. Maybe seven if you’ve got someone else hovering around your kitchen acting like they don’t want one and then taking it anyway.”

I don’t comment on that.

“Six is fine,” I say.

He starts picking them out himself, muttering under his breath as he goes. “Not that one… That one’s got a spot… This one’s fine if you eat it tomorrow… People don’t pay attention to timing, that’s the problem…”

He drops the last peach into the bag and sets it on the table as a completed transaction he doesn’t entirely trust.

“That’ll be…” he pauses, squints at me again, recalculating something invisible, “ten dollars.”

“That felt like a guess.”

“It was,” he says. “Close enough.”

I hand him the cash.

He takes it slower than necessary, like he’s expecting it to disappear halfway through the exchange.

“Huh,” he says.

“That’s all I get?”

“Well, I don’t hand out compliments for basic competence,” he mutters, tucking the bills away. “But you paid without arguing, didn’t ask for a discount, and didn’t try to make small talk about the weather, so you’re doing better than most.”

“I feel honored.”

“Don’t,” he says. “That’s how it goes to your head.”

I pick up the bag, glancing back at the table. “See you next week, Bill.”

He grunts. “We’ll see.”

I start to walk away.

“And don’t put those in the fridge,” he calls after me.

I glance back over my shoulder. “I wasn’t going to.”

“People always say that,” he mutters. “Then they do it anyway and wonder why they taste like nothing.”

Tommy Bennett’s by the coffee stand, and the owner looks mildly irritated about it from behind the counter.

Sheriff Aidan Grant’s next to him, posture straight, coffee in hand, scanning the market in that habitual way of his.

Tommy spots me first. “There he is,” he says, bright as anything. “Town’s favorite problem.”

Aidan doesn’t even look at him. “You’re projecting.”