Page 27 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

He hits the ground with a crash of his heavy base on the hardwood floor, and one of his glass eyes dislodges and rolls across the lobby.

“Oh, God,” I say, scrambling across the wood planks to capture the errant marble, feeling the air on the backs of my thighs. I’m bent over too far for a short skirt and probably flashing the whole room, trying to trap the glass eye with my hands.

I finally nab it, although my knees crack against the floor with a bone-jarring thud. The beaver is still on the ground, right next to my ridiculously Barbie-pink bag.

I would like to die now.

Someone clears their throat. Then several somebodies.

I look up, and no fewer than six men are offering their hands to help me get up. A couple of them jostle each other for position.

Well. Okay.

I take them in. Two have wedding bands. I’ll skip those. One fits the bill for Gaston, with shiny black hair and a rock-hard jaw.

But next to him is a boy next door, clean cut and sandy blond with the bluest eyes. His expression is earnest and concerned, while Gaston is bemused.

Boy Next Door, it is.

I take his hand, and the others step back.

Okay. They’re gentlemen.

“You all right?” Boy Next Door’s voice is like melted butter.

“Yeah,” I say. “A little embarrassed. There’s nothing like taking a fall in front of an audience.” But even as I say it, I’m singing inside. It worked!

The man releases me to set the beaver back on the table. “I told Watson he needed to bolt down the critters. He doesn’t listen.”

“I have his eye.” I hold out the glass ball.

He takes it. “Scottie is losing his touch if his eyes aren’t staying put.” He pops it into the beaver’s empty socket.

“His name is Scottie?”

The man turns. “The beaver? No. He’s Ace. Scottie is the taxidermist in town. He did all the work in here, other than the rugs. His wife handles those.”

Wow. The couple who skins together, wins together, I guess.

“So, the beaver really does have a name?” I ask.

“For sure. All the critters do. You want a tour?”

A tour of the taxidermy? I glance at the entrance, then the front desk, where an older man watches with what my daddy would call a shit-eating grin.

“I haven’t checked in.”

“Oh, Watson can wait.” He calls out, “Can’t ya, Watson?”

The man shrugs.

“See?” He picks up my bag. “We’ll set this behind the counter for a minute. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

I guess I’m staying.

“I’m Kelsey,” I say.

“Grant.” He holds out an elbow. “Shall I introduce you to the former wildlife of Pitchfork?”

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