Page 19 of Sweet and Salty

He pauses, standing outside the door, one hand on the jamb. He’s wearing jeans that cling to his hips in a way that makes me think all sorts of things I shouldn’t in my fuzzy purple bathrobe. “We’ll just have to save that for next time.”

The deep timbre of his voice and that wicked little sparkle in his deep brown eyes does something primal to me. Images of waking up tangled in sheets beside him flash through my brain. He seems like the type of man to lick me into submission before bringing me breakfast in bed.

Then again, I don’t even know his last name. He’s good with my animals, and unexpectedly sweet, but I have a terrible trackrecord. My life is floundering. I can’t throw myself into some sexcapade with my mysterious no-last-named neighbor where I will undoubtedly end up with a broken heart and having to drive an hour south to Target instead of going to Moe’s like a normal person.

I play it cool. “Right. Thanks again, for everything. You have a way with pigs.”

He grins, and it lights his entire scruff-covered face in a way that does nothing to dispel the want curling deep in my stomach. “Technically, I specialize in horses. Have a great day, Laura.”

I step into the kitchen and close the door between us, but the little window gives me ample viewing of Jesse walking away, all casual-sexy, like a lumberjack on his way to work.

His words ring over and over again in my brain.Next time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Laura

“More iced tea, Opal?”I ask, jug with her name on it at the ready. St. Olaf’s beloved librarian—and unabashed gossip—varies from winter to spring only from hot tea to iced.

“Sure, Laura. You’re looking lovely.” Opal Larson holds up her empty glass for me to fill. “Chris didn’t know what he was letting go. Foolish boy. Come to book club. We’ll talk through the available options for you.”

My hair feels frizzy. Opal apparently doesn’t know that Chris is still texting me, and I’m also getting all sorts of random texts from an unknown number. All of it made me late this morning, and I don’t have time to be late. “Thanks, but I already have all the gargoyle erotica I can manage. I’m taking some time by myself.”

“Hon, there’s no such thing as too much shifter erotica.” Opal tsks and sips from her glass of iced tea. She’s wearing a beige knit sweater, that covers a faded tattoo over her left shoulder. What exactly it is, is one of the only well-kept secrets in St. Olaf. “Why, last month we read the most fascinating duet wherethey shifted into balloon animals! Can you imagine? I certainly couldn’t, but it was quite entertaining. That’s what you’re missing.”

Honestly, balloon animals fucking does sound kind of awesome. Though I usually prefer grizzled mountain man protectors.

“Leave her alone,” Maddy Olmstead says, pulling apart her appetizer, a chocolate and almond croissant. “She deserves someone of the living, not the fictional, kind. I hear Monroe Dryden’s heading back to town. He’s the only decent one in that lot.”

I make a mental note to warn Frannie. Though her hatred runs deep for the entire family, she has a particular justified bee in her bonnet for Monroe. Wonderful. I’ll have to play peacekeeper between her and my mom when Frannie inevitably dashes out of town on some other last-minute job.

Maddy’s hands curl around her vanilla hazelnut latte. “I imagine Frannie doesn’t know yet.”

“I’ll warn her.” Inwardly, I sigh. “The usual, ladies?”

“I don’t know. I thought I might get something different today.” Opal picks up the embossed menu card that she looks at nearly every single day before ordering grilled cheese and tomato soup. “Did you hear back about the liquor license? I’d love a little hot toddy now and then. Ooh, or a Bailey’s hot cocoa. Can you make a Bailey’s hot cocoa, Laura?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief.

My jaw tightens. The news has to come out eventually. “It’s not going to work out.”

Opal and Maddy exchange a look, the kind of silent communication borne of years spent with the same person. “I’m sorry, Laura. You deserve better.”

I shrug. I’m playing nonchalance like a queen. Go me. “Life and lemons. Any decisions on the menu?”

Opal glances down at it as though it’s changed in the last three minutes. “How’s your brother, hon?”

“Rory?” I stifle a yawn. The pitcher of iced tea is getting heavy. “He’s fine. My nephew’s a handful, but he loves helping out on the farm.” Rory’s son has a way with Lucretia Borgia in particular. Far more than I do.

Maddy grins with a wicked intent behind it. Physically, the two of them are around the same height, and after their years of close proximity, they also share a lot of the same mannerisms, if not the same hair color. Maddy’s hair is short and dark, courtesy of her mixed Korean-Belgian heritage, whereas Opal is old school Scandinavian blond. They both have a predilection for Midwesternisms and stoicism. “Not him. We see Rory all the time. Shame about that ex of his. We mean Bobby. I saw him on TV the other day, doing a preseason interview. Whew heck, that boy has muscles.”

Behind them, the cafe is bustling. Tourists have started to appear in town, and there are hardly any tables left. If I squint at the bakery case, I can see the blueberry almond muffins are almost gone. Total pig bait.

“Hon?” Maddy prompts. “Bobby?”

Ah, yes, Bobby. The golden boy. “I imagine he’s fine. He was pretty busy last season, but since the Slingshots didn’t make it to the Stanley Cup, he’s off sunning himself somewhere.” Much to my mother’s unspoken chagrin, Bobby rarely calls. Always something—or someone—better to do.

She’d love the story about Bobby who, on several occasions, wore his tighty-whities on his head and called himself Super Kevin. For reasons known only to himself. But I’m a good sister.

“He’s probably living the life of Riley. Speaking of gorgeous locals, have you seen that new hunk at the hardware store?” Opal asks.

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