Page 7 of Better Late Than Never

The crowd didn’t seem pleased by that, almost as if they wondered if it would lead to Paisley campaigning for mayor. Then, they’d have no choice but to give in to her helpful suggestions. With Paisley Stevens as the mayor, this town would probably go from a quaint,

“What does that mean?” Gilly asked.

“Fine. Um, my dad was the police chief in our town... and my mom was a dispatcher. So, as soon as I turned eighteen, I became a dispatcher too.”

A hush fell over the room, and my gut instantly soured. This was it. This would be a moment I’d never forget. The day I’d wish that I’d called in sick.

Or maybe I’d just wish that I’d refused to stop for Lincoln Granger. I could’ve driven around the old man. What would he have done? Chased me down?

Not with that bum knee he was always going on about.

As expected, everyone’s gazes, one by one, swung to me. It was a slow swing, too, and dread burrowed deep into my bones as their pleading eyes finally settled on me.

Paisley noticed.

How could she not? They’d gone from staring at her, hoping whatever she’d say about her past career would free them from her assault on the town’s efficiency to staring at me like I was their only hope. Like one word from me would save them.

She didn’t get why, of course, but she definitely looked curious.

I scratched the back of my neck. “Dispatcher, huh?”

She nodded. “Yeah...”

“Did ya do both police calls and medical?” one of the nurses I recognized as Dakota’s coworker piped in from her spot at the to-go counter.

Paisley nodded again. “Yep. Full-service.”

The nurse—whose name I couldn’t remember for the life of me—bobbed her head. “You ever helped someone deliver a baby over the phone? That happens around here on account of how far some people live from the hospital.”

“I have.”

“You ever had to handle a bunch of people callin’ at once for a fight at a pie-eatin’ contest that went awry?” Rae asked.

Paisley chuckled. “Oddly enough, yeah. Not always pie, though. Hot dog-eatin’ contests usually need PD, fire, and an ambulance.”

“If you do ’em right, anyway,” Pinkleton said, high-fiving his brother across their table.

“What about tows?” Dean, one of the cooks, asked, gesturing at Paisley with an egg-caked spatula. “You know how to make sure it ain’t stolen before you let Shifty take it away?”

Paisley flicked a confused glance in my direction. “Shifty?”

“He moonlights as a tow truck driver,” I supplied.

Nodding slowly, she turned back to Dean. “Yes, as long as the process is still the same. And I even know what to do if itdoescome back stolen.”

“Handy,” someone whispered.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” another mused.

The only sound in the room was that of the bacon sizzling in a nearby frying pan. I looked up, and sure as the sun rose each day, their collective gazes were once again on me. The same look of hope danced across their faces, each of them silently begging me to chain Paisley to the dispatch desk where she could do a lot less harm, and a whole lot more good.

“Dispatcher work is… Well, it’s a whole lot different from managin’ music careers,” I said, as desperate for a way out of this as they were for me to fall into it.

“Different, maybe, but the basic skills are the same,” she replied, a hint of challenge seeping into her tone and posture.She held up a hand and started raising fingers as she listed those skills. “For both jobs, you gotta have good communication skills, be a world-class problem-solver, always calm under pressure?—-”

Knowing she was far from done, I shook my head. “I get it. We all know you’re qualified to do the job.”

“And willin’,” Gilly interjected with so much optimism it made my teeth ache.

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