Page 6 of A Small Town Risk

“Head hurts a little.”

“Better have you checked out. James, you wanna take care of that?”

“Will do.”

“Mike. Get a hold of Zeke and have this towed. I’m going back to fill out paperwork.”

“Yes, sir.”

I would stick around and ask the kid questions, but they can do it.

“Good work, men,” I say. “See you back at the station.”

“You got it.”

Peg greets me at the door. “Busy day, huh?

“I’ll say.”

I enter my office and drop into my chair. I have a ton of paperwork to do, but I flip through my phone and stop at the wedding pictures instead of doing it. I have one for the bridal party. I can’t seem to forget about that kiss. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see her again anyway.

CHAPTER THREE

PARKER

I wipe sweat off my forehead.

It’s not recommended to move in the Texas heat. It makes things tricky.

I didn’t have enough room in my truck, so I rented a pull-behind trailer from U-Haul. I used poor judgment and hired two high-school kids to aid with the heavy stuff. They weren’t a lot of help loading the bigger pieces I’ve collected, but we finally got it done, and I’m sitting in the driveway, ready to pull out.

I text my friends, letting them know I’m on my way, and then I look at the map again. My fingers tap against the screen, tracing the route. According to Travelmath, it’s an eleven-hour-and-fifty-three-minute drive, but with this trailer, it’ll take longer, at least for me. I’ll also be stopping somewhere along the way to get a room. I’m not doing this in one shot.

With the music cranked, I merge onto the highway, eager and nervous. Still have to find a building space and dwelling. I’ve scoured the classifieds and Zillow and have found nothing I’m interested in yet. Although, there was that place I looked at when I was at the wedding, an antique store. It is a possibility.

I’ll be staying with Catherine for the time being. Elle offered but was still in the honeymoon stage and needed privacy. I love her, but no thank you.

I stop for lunch at Willow’s Café, just off the interstate. I didn’t choose the place for any reason other than my stomach rumbling when I saw the sign.

The exterior is composed of white-washed brick, with a cursive sign above vintage French doors bearing the establishment’s name. Inside, the rich aroma of coffee and grilled burgers wafts through the air, making my mouth water.

Ginger, a blonde dressed in jeans and a green polo shirt with the café’s logo, greets me with a bright and chirpy “Hello” and seats me at a table by the window. “What can I get you?”

“Cheeseburger with everything on it. French fries and Coke.”

“Will Pepsi do?”

“I guess.”

She leaves, and I look the place over. Along one wall runs a counter showcasing homemade pastries under a gleaming glass dome. I spy a piece of apple pie. I won’t be leaving here without one. On another wall is a community board with flyers of local events and missing pets.

“Here’s your pop,” Ginger says, setting it down before me.

“Thank you.”

“Food’ll be right up.”

She walks off, and I gaze out the window, squinting at the tire on the U-Haul. Looks low. God, I hope not.

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