Page 2 of Quiet Beautiful Things

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy,” she says like I’m five and not twenty-six, then scampers off, resuming her humming.

When I turn back again, the mystery woman is gone.

I push my cart from aisle to aisle, searching for her. After all, we had a moment. Blake Montana doesn’t have ‘moments’ with women. Flings. One-night-stands. Hookups. But never moments. And for damn sure never ones as intense as whatever the hell passed between us in those few seconds.

Maybe she wasn’t even real. An apparition conjured up by my overactive imagination courtesy of my four-month dry spell.

Yeah, that’s what it was. My mind dreaming up the perfect woman. Dark blonde hair that reminds me of a sandy beach at sunset, expressive eyes a man could get lost in, the face of an angel, a body that wars are fought over, and a voice that would shout my name when I nuzzle between her legs. Utterly divine.

But I’m not crazy enough to think such a creature exists.

I put her out of my head and stick to the job at hand. I fill my cart with the usual: Cereal. Snacks. Milk. Beer. And some healthy shit I’ll probably never eat but get anyway in case Mom looks through my pantry.

Loading my car at the curb out front, my eyes are drawn down the street toward Gigi’s Flower Shop, the place I spent summers and holidays working when I was an undergrad. Dad wanted all of us to have work experience outside of the winery. He said it would build character.

Maddie—the flower shop owner—steps outside carrying a bundle of flowers, and I wave. No, wait, it’s not Maddie. It’s the mystery woman. She looks behind her, confused by my wave. Then she smiles, and, holy shit, it’s the biggest, brightest smile. I smile back. We have a moment. Asecondmoment. Now I know I’m not imagining things. This girl is for real. And with just a look, we’re connecting on some existential level I’ve neverexperienced before. Like we’ve known each other forever, even though I’m certain we’ve never met.

A horn blasts next to her. She doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes never stray from mine, and it makes me feel like fucking Tarzan.

“Dude, you leaving? Some of us are in a hurry.”

I look over my shoulder. Hawk McQuaid is glaring at me, waiting for me to vacate the prime spot right in front of the store.

“Park out back, McQuaid,” I bark.

“Don’t need to.” He eyes my cart. “You’re leaving. So hurry it the fuck along.”

I put the final bag into my trunk and shut it, then leave the cart for him to take inside since he’s so impatient.

When I look back down the sidewalk, the beautiful, stunning, perfect woman is gone, replaced by three pre-teens on skateboards who happily zip their way past me.

Without further acknowledgment of Hawk, I slip behind the wheel. I take the long way home, driving slowly by Gigi’s, then the coffee shop, then through the roundabout the street was named after—McQuaid Circle. Apparently, since Hawk’s ancestors founded the town, he believes that gives him the right to park wherever the hell he wants.

Then,bingo… I see her. She’s walking toward the apartments set back from the park on the other side of the circle. As if she can feel my presence, she turns. Our eyes lock. There it is again, that feeling. Whatisthat?

A car honks behind me. “Move your ass, Montana.”

I peer in my rearview. It’s my buddy, Dax Cruz. We grew up together, went to the same schools in Calloway Creek, then lost touch when I left for college. The rest of our families seem to despise each other, much like the Calloways and the McQuaids used to. Something about a feud surrounding our ancestors. But Dax and I never gave a crap what the rest of our relatives thought. And now that I’m home again, we’re friends just as ifI’d never left—something his brothers and mine aren’t too keen over.

I stick my arm out the window and flip him the bird. He honks again, passes me, and yells, “See you tonight!”

Damn. The girl is gone once again. Vanished. Maybe she thought I was being creepy. But that smile—it said something else. I don’t know her name. I haven’t as much as spoken a word to her. But something deep down inside hurts at the thought that I might never see her again.

And somehow I know that would be a tragedy.

Chapter Two

Blake

When I get home, there’s an unfamiliar car parked in the circular part of my driveway near the front door. Two people sit inside it. The driver gets out as I pull into the garage. I’m popping the trunk when a woman comes around the corner.

“Blake Montana?”

I try to place her but can’t. She’s not from around here. “Yes.”

“I’m Trish Nelson.” She pulls a business card from her pocket and hands it over.

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