Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Garrett surveys the closest wall where pictures of three generations of Murphys hang—all of them similar to Ned in their slight stature and kind eyes. He bites his bottom lip in thought. “Hey, you think he’d ever consider selling this place to me?”
My mouth drops. It’s the second time this guy has thrown an unexpected curveball. “What do you mean? Like, sell Murphy’s to you?”
“Yeah.”
“You have aspirations of running a small-town appliance store?”
He shrugs, looking around. “I aspire to own something of my own, and I like the feel of this place.”
“Did Dean put you up to this?” We were just talking about this out back.
“Dean who?”
“Never mind.” I sigh. “I don’t know if Ned would ever entertain the idea. He doesn’t know you from Adam.” One of my Gramp’s favorite sayings, and one of the few that doesn’t include offensive language.
“But he knows you.”
“Yeah, what’s your point?”
“So, you could put in a good word for me.”
I bark with laughter. “I don’t know you from Adam either.”
“But I thought I was your future husband?”
“A contender. We’d have to date first.” Dating may be the wrong word for what I want to do to this guy. “You do know this place would cost a lot more than that $7000 fridge you didn’t want to buy, right?”
“At least a few of those.” He smiles. “But would you stay and work for me?”
“You want to buy Murphy’s and hire me.” This conversation is getting stranger by the minute. “Wouldn’t that make you my boss, though?”
“I guess it would.” He frowns in thought. “Is that a problem?”
“Only if you have an issue with marrying your employee.”
“Can’t say I’ve been in that situation before. Might be worth finding out.”
He’s a thirty-something-year-old man who didn’t hightail it out of here at the first mention of the M word—joke or not. I decide I like this guy. A lot. “And what if it turns out that I’m a very bad employee?” I’ve slipped into my lower, teasing voice that I always used on Bill. “Unruly. Doesn’t listen to a thing you say, does whatever I want?”
Heat sparks in Garrett’s eyes. “I think I could find a way to keep you in line.”
My heart races again. Who is this man? He must be all talk. If he had the kind of money and know-how to buy Murphy’s, he’d be smart enough to not do it.
Through the front window, I see a woman slip on the sidewalk and barely catch her footing. Shit. As much as I could stay here and flirt with Garrett, I better get out there and do my job before someone hurts themselves and Murphy’s goes down in a flaming lawsuit. “Good luck with your business endeavors. I’ll see ya around.” I head for my coat.
“Wait a minute!” Garrett hollers. He’s standing with his arms out, a bewildered look on his face. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was all that sweet talk just to get me to buy an appliance?”
“Maybe.” I steal one last glance over my shoulder. “You know where to find me if you need something else.”
Chapter Three
“Honey! I’m home!” I hang my coat on a hook and kick off my boots, leaving them on the rubber doormat for the snow to melt.
“That story about Abuela was supposed to be a secret!” Shane’s voice carries from the back of the little house.
“It is! A secret among friends.” I follow the delicious scent of sautéed onions and garlic. “Dinner smells amaz—” My words die with a gasp as I regard the mechanical massacre on the kitchen floor. “What have you done to Stuart?”
Shane kneels in front of the dismantled dishwasher in his typical uniform of jeans and a well-worn band T-shirt, a streak of dark grease across his forehead. “I was trying to fix him one last time, but he’s finished.”
“But he’s a classic!” Right down to the faux-wood panel and metal buttons. A 1970s original and hideous, but he works so well in this shabby chic kitchen of butter-yellow cupboards, festive mosaic tile backsplash, and avocado-green appliances.
“We’ll get a new Stuart,” Scarlet murmurs without looking up from the stack of tests she’s grading at the kitchen table. “Are there any good deals at Murphy’s?”
“Through me? Of course.”
“Good, ’cause you’re paying half.”
“What kind of landlord are you?” I drop the bag of pretzel buns I picked up at Todd’s on the table, then swipe a handful of chocolate-covered raisins from the bowl in front of Scarlet and shove them into my mouth.
She snorts and pushes the bowl out of my easy reach, knowing I’ll devour them before dinner. “The kind who has never asked for rent from my squatting best friend.”
“You cannot put a dollar value on the gift of my daily presence,” I manage, the words garbled. The truth is Scarlet owns the house outright, thanks to an inheritance. I cover half the utilities, but she’d never let me pay rent if I offered. She gets so much joy out of calling me a squatter, though. I can’t take that away from her.