But he clears his throat and tactfully changes the subject. “You doing anything tonight? Or are you too tired after slinging coffee all day?”
“Don’t know yet. I figured I’d check by the shop to make sure the staff held up okay with me gone. It’s dead today anyway with everyone here. I’ll probably get a head start on prep for tomorrow. After that...I might pass out.”
Alaska smiles again, his eyes creasing at the corners.
“Think you could manage to stay awake long enough to wander around here with me for a bit? I hear the fireworks are gonna be one hell of a show. They’re pulling out all the stops for the first night. Clark Patten and his uncle are in charge of pyrotechnics.”
I stop breathing.
Is...is he asking me on a date?
Of course he is.
We’re supposed to be pretending we’re a thing, and we’ve got to keep up thing-like appearances. And most romantic things around these parts are made of heated kisses, sealed hands, flowers strewn over cliffs, and so many moonstruck gazes on warm nights it’s a miracle lovers in Heart’s Edge don’t go all cross-eyed.
God.
As soon as I flush neon-pink with excitement, sinful-red follows.
I’m reading too much into this.
But that just makes me realize how much it wouldn’t be a chore.
How much I want to spend a summer night with him.
How much I want to share the night for real—not pretend—and not just for the sake of convenience.
I’ve got my head screwed on all wrong.
But I can at least enjoy this while it lasts.
I wrap my arms around myself, offering him a smile.
“Sure,” I say. “Just let me run by the café and then head home to lock up the cash and freshen up. I’d rather leave my cut in the backup safe at my house since there’s still a hole in my office wall.”
“No problem. You need a ride or an escort?”
“I think I’ll be okay getting home.” And then, because Clarissa’s watching—that’s the only reason, I tell myself—I stretch up on my toes and kiss his cheek, his thick beard rough against my lips and delightfully scratchy against my jaw. Dropping down, I smile again shyly, ducking my head. “But you could pick me up? Say, in about an hour and a half?”
“Sure thing, Fliss. I’ll be there with bells on.” I’ve never seen such a dazzling smile on a man’s face.
Also, my brain instantly conjures this weird image of Alaska in bells and—
Not much else, honestly.
Just one big hulk dressed down to nothing, jingling himself around like he’s Stripper Santa.
Oh my God.
So, I know it’s been a dry spell, but do I really have that little self-control?
Coughing, I clear my throat, covering my mouth, the perfect excuse to turn my face away when I feel like it’s got to be written all over my expression.
“See you then,” I whisper.
I make my escape as fast as possible while I still can.
I can’t even bear to look back when I know Clarissa and Alaska both—along with the whole town—must be staring at me.
Nope.
Just gonna grab the bank bag with my share of the cash and get gone.
My face cools down a bit by the time I get to my car. But I’m still floating on cloud nine on the drive to The Nest, sailing through checking over the register for the day and listening to my part-timers with one ear.
The rest of my brain is, um...focused on what I’m wearing tonight.
It’s all for show, of course. If I’m pretend-dating Alaska, I have to make it believable by actually dressing up to look the part. People will wonder if I’m just not that into him if I don’t make the effort.
Oh, God.
It hits me between the eyes. I actually flap my hands a couple times.
I’m going on a flipping date!
Then again...maybe I shouldn’t build it up so much.
Once this mess with the gold ends, we’re supposed to part ways as good friends, right? So I shouldn’t dress too nice or seem too eager to join him. Maybe a little diffidence would make our public break-up more believable.
Or maybe I’m overthinking this, and I should just wear a pretty summer dress and enjoy the moment while it’s here. They don’t come often enough.
“...Miss Randall?”
I blink, shaking my head and turning my vision back on Eliza, the young Seattle transplant who’s become my most reliable staffer. She’s something of a mad scientist, always wanting to experiment with different roasts, and her passion for the perfect brew almost rivals mine.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She looks at me quizzically, then shrugs. “I said we’re already sold out of dark roast. You might want to whip up a little more. People have been asking.”
“Really? We’re that low? That’s amazing to hear.” I grin at her and stand, touching her shoulder. “I’ll put it on the to-do list for tomorrow. You can go ahead and close up early tonight. And empty the tip jar. Split it with the others. You’ll want a little spending money for the festival, right? I’m sure you don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
“Oh, wow! Really?” Her face nearly glows.
I grin even wider.
Man, do I know that feeling.
“Really,” I echo.
Leaving a bubbling girl behind, I head back to my car and strap myself in for the drive home.
I think I’ve figured out what I want to wear by the time I get back to my house and go rattling up the front porch steps—only to stop midstride as I notice something odd.
It’s a little muddy around the porch.
It rained last night. I remember everyone fussing over it and hoping it would stop in time for the festival, only for it to turn out to be just enough rain to make it safer for fireworks with the ground and trees still so damp.
I got to overhear a riveting lecture on it from Blake’s fire safety table as I was closing up last night, while he fussed at Clark over his pyrotechnic stunts.
Of course, that means everyone’s been clomping around leaving muddy footprints everywhere, including the mailman, probably.
But there’s a footprint at the base of my steps, too.
A big, wide boot engraved in the ground.
A man’s tread, definitely not my size.
I frown, lifting my head and looking around, a chill sweeping through me.
Who was at my house?
That chill turns into a sigh as my gaze lands on the welcome mat in front of my door. There’s a package there, a nondescript box wrapped in brown paper.
Probably something my mother sent. It’s a habit of hers, and I never know when I’ll come home to a box full of weird ceramic toadstools or a carefully wrapped basket of pressed and preserved flowers.
Christ.
Paisley’s made me way too paranoid.
A delivery guy leaves a muddy footprint, and I’m making up wild conspiracies.
I hoist the package up and tuck it under my arm, balancing it with my purse and the money pouch on top of it, juggling my keys to let myself in.
Shrub nearly trips me, yipping. I almost forgot I’d brought him back here this morning where there’s more room for him to run around than Alaska’s cabin. I figured he could use it if we were all going to be gone for the day.
It always bothers me when dog owners leave their pups cooped up in tiny spaces alone all day. I can at least give him room to play.