Page 22 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

I sit at a small table by the window so I can do double duty of watching the sidewalk and the inside of the shop. The old men pay me no mind, continuing their circular argument about the hearing aids, and never having a damn thing to say.

The young woman resumes her position at the counter.

And a tumbleweed, a literal tumbleweed, blows down the middle of the street.

I let my coffee sit untouched, although at one point I forget the bastardized order and take a horrible, chalky sweet sip.

Ugggh.

And how did they know I was from Beverly Hills, anyway? I’m a farm girl from southern Alabama!

Have I changed that much?

My phone chimes with the tone I set for Zachery’s text, an incredibly long sequence called “Minuet.”

The sound reverberates in the coffee shop, and even the man who needs to crank his hearing aid turns to stare.

My face flames. “Sorry, so sorry.”

I frantically shut it off and switch the phone to silent mode.

Zach:The Demon has left the country.

That’s a relief. She won’t check in nearly so often, particularly during the festival.

Me:I’m in a town so barren a tumbleweed is the only thing moving.

Zach:Which town?

Me:Bris-something or another.

Zach:Why did you stop?

Me:I found a coffee shop to try my first meet-cute, but they called me out on being Hollywood. Do you think I look Hollywood?

There’s a suspiciously long silence.

Dang it.

Zach: You are very glamorous.

Me:I’m wearing cotton!

Zach:Doesn’t matter.

Me: Do you think I should dye my hair brown?

Zach:No!

An exclamation mark. That’s rare.

But I’m considering it. Jester likes to call me a Beverly Hills unicorn because I’m a natural blonde.

But maybe people here assume it’s fake.

That, coupled with the order I made, tipped them off.

Lesson learned.

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