Page 28 of Goode Tidings

I hurry to the counter. I don't know if walking is a struggle for him, and I'd like to make sure he doesn't feel the need to come out to greet me. Closer now, I detect the soapy smell of his shaving cream. "Slanted tweezers?" I ask.

He glances at my eyebrows.

"Not for plucking." I smooth a fingertip across one of my groomed brows. The good Lord, and my absentee father, gifted me with thick and full eyebrows. By the end of seventh grade and under my mother's watchful eye, I learned how to wield a pair of tweezers with near-perfect accuracy. "I need them to pick up something small and delicate."

"I see." He nods, bracing two flattened palms on the counter to help push up from the stool he was sitting on. "It's been a while since I've sold a pair, but I'm positive I have them."

"If you can tell me which aisle, I can grab them."

He shuffles out from behind the counter. "Hold your horses, I'm not obsolete yet."

"I didn't mean⁠—"

"Of course you didn't. You were being kind, I know. But men like to feel needed, even old guys like me. This way," he says, waving at me to follow him.

He leads me past two aisles, and I fall a little bit in love with the way he has missed a belt loop.

"Here we go," he murmurs, old voice crackling as he examines plastic containers lined up neatly on hooks. "Gotta few of them. If you don't mind me asking, what kind of project are you working on?"

"Wax seals. The ones I'm working on today have very small dried flowers in them, hence my need for these." I slide the box of slanted tweezers off the rack.

"Wax seals?" His bushy eyebrows lift. "For letters?"

I nod, and he says, "I didn't know anybody used those anymore."

"They don't." I shrug. "But I like making them. They're pretty, and fun."

He tugs lightly at his earlobe. "Kind of romantic, if you think about it." He gives me a warning look. "Don't tell anybody I said that."

I suppress a grin. Have I stumbled upon a secretly romantic old man? Why does that feel like discovering buried treasure? "I won't tell a soul," I stage-whisper.

He rewards my vow of secrecy with a grin. Behind us, someone says, "I might."

Deep voice, just a little rough. Amused. Callum. Schooling my expression into nonchalance, I turn around slowly.

Callum stands a few feet away, tall and handsome and just so large. I've never seen him beyond the cabin and the surrounding nature. My brain can't compute him being here in this hardware store under fluorescent lights.

"Take your sweet time," Callum mutters.

I make a show of leisurely perusing his face, but really what I'm seeing is the way the olive green henley he wears brings out warmth in those dark eyes. "Are you opining on the speed with which I pivot?"

Callum raises an eyebrow. Just one. I used to feel jealous of people who could do that, but now I think I despise them. The whole lot.

"I take it you two know one another?" The old man glances between us with a delighted expression.

"Tim," Callum says to the man in an admonishing tone. "It's not like that."

"It's not like what?" I ask.

They ignore me. Tim gives me a once-over, thin lips pursed like he's taking a quick inventory.

"Oh-kay," I say, ready to be out of here. "Tim, I presume that's your name? Great," I add, not waiting for his confirmation. "If I could pay for these and be on my way, that would be stellar."

Tim throws a quick backhand into Callum's ribs. Callum must be expecting this move, because he hunches over enough that Tim's hand does little more than tap him. "She's pretty, and smart, too. And creative."

Callum's brown-eyed gaze slides my way. "So I heard."

Do I perceive judgment in his voice? I do. And I'm not having it.