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)
I let out a loud moan. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
Even in the cold, Todd’s blush shows on his cheeks. “Well, uh…” He skids a few steps over the ice as he tosses the bag. “It should be ready in half an hour.”
I check my watch. “It’s a date! Can’t wait to fill you in on the New Year’s gossip.” I jerk my head toward Dean, who groans.
“Sounds good.” Todd ducks back inside.
“Is there anyone in this town you don’t flirt with?” Dean asks.
“A question like that coming from you?” I smack his arm. “It’s fine. Todd knows I’m kidding around. He’s a good egg.” Third-generation owner of Dieter’s Meat Shop and Delicatessen, another staple family business that’s persevering against the test of big-box store development. When Dieter Junior died of a heart attack, he left his family legacy in the hands of his only son, along with the two-story building it resides in, which includes four storefronts, the apartments above, and a sizable lot.
“Todd’s in love with you.”
“Well, yeah. Who isn’t? Besides Bastard Bill.”
Dean takes a few steps closer to tower over me. His voice softens as he asks, “Heard you went to Boston to see your family last weekend. How was it?”
“Just peachy.” I hid behind the heavy brocade curtain all night, spying on the house next door while gorging on cookies and cannoli.
“Things getting any easier?”
Everyone knows about my ugly breakup. I’m sure Dean’s heard the worst of it. After all, Shane had a front-row seat to my Christmas Day drunken meltdown, thanks to Fireball and an unsanctioned visit to Bill’s Instagram account. They were sitting in front of my family’s Christmas tree.
But I’m tired of talking and thinking about and crying over Bill. I need to put it all behind me. “I didn’t start the year naked on a porch, so … things are looking up?”
Dean’s gaze roves over my features, and I see undiluted interest. Maybe one unrestricted night with this guy would dull the distracting ache that stirs every time I think of Bill. It wouldn’t mean anything to either of us and wouldn’t scratch our superficial friendship. Dean’s the kind of guy who stays friends with everyone, right down to his one-night stands.
I shake that crazy thought out of my head. Dean also slept with Scarlet’s mom. Granted, Dottie is a siren and Dean was so drunk, he can’t remember anything, but still …
He’s a literal motherfucker.
“Here. You’ll need this.” I press the paperwork for the freezer against his chest, using the moment to step back and put distance between us. “Enough chitchat. I’ve gotta get everything salted so I can get to my soup.”
Dean folds and tucks the paperwork into his back pocket. “See you at Route 66 this Friday?”
“Will Abuela be there? I think she’d like one of my custom-made T-shirts.”
“I’m gonna kill Shane.”
“Please don’t. He’s so good at fixing things around our house. And besides, it’s bingo night at Bonny Acres, and I hear Nancy has some weird rash they can’t diagnose, which means I could be chosen to call the numbers. Do you know how big a deal that is?” I’ve been volunteering at the assisted living center since November, which, fair enough, is a far cry from the ten years that Nancy’s been there, but she refuses to relinquish the role of number-caller to me or anyone else. I think they’ll have to pry those bingo balls from her cold, dead hands.
“So? Those things don’t run late. Come after,” he coaxes softly.
“Don’t beg. It’s unbecoming. But fine, I’ll consult my jam-packed social calendar and get back to you.”
He flashes a crooked grin over his shoulder on his way to his truck. If Scarlet’s going, I’ll be there, and he knows it. “See you Friday.”
I watch Dean pull away before I slam my fist on the loading dock door button and dive back inside. Warmth envelops me as I trudge through the store, aiming for the front door and the container of salt. My stomach is growling in anticipation of lunch.
“Excuse me, do you work here?” a raspy male voice calls out.
“I do, but if you can hold on a minute, Ned’ll be out to help you.” It’s too early for his afternoon nap, which he takes in his little office. “He’s just in the …” I trip over my winter boots as I spot the man.
He flashes a dimpled smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I echo, momentarily dumbfounded. Who is this god, and where did he come from? Certainly not Polson Falls stock. Not that there aren’t gems in this town—Shane and Dean are living proof of that—but this guy looks like a big-city import in his tailored wool trench coat and herringbone-patterned scarf.
His smile widens, showing off perfect, straight white teeth.
Abandoning my task, I saunter over, thankful I wore my cute red beanie instead of my oversized trapper hat with the flaps down the side. “Is there something I can help you with?” A litany of dirty thoughts tag onto the end of that question, but I bite my tongue. Ned gives me a lot of leeway, but he’d draw the line at propositioning his customers for a quickie in the storage closet.