Page 8 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

“Certainly moved up in the world,” Grandma Mabel agreed.

“Eileen Sallow,” Daphne repeated. “That rings a bell.”

“She goes by Eileen Yarrow now,” Mabel said, turning away from a tray of rings to keep marching down the farmers’ market aisle. She glanced at Daphne, brows raised. “But you would’ve known her as Eileen Flint.”

“Mrs. Flint,” Daphne said through clenched teeth. “Calvin Flint’s mother.”

“The one and only,” Mabel said, nodding to the man in question as he appeared silhouetted in the gymnasium doors. “Now, not only has little Eileen married up, but her son has landed on his feet too. And I still haven’t gotten my mother’s prized Dutch oven back.”

Daphne’s gaze flicked from the sheriff to her grandmother, then back to the sheriff. He walked inside, and most people swerved around him like a school of fish avoiding a shark.

Calvin Flint wore jeans and a black raincoat. He was off duty, Daphne deduced, but he still looked like a cop. He scanned the market with the look of someone who wouldn’t tolerate trouble, his gaze snagging on Daphne.

One dark brow arched. Daphne tore off a piece of sticky bun and stuffed it in her mouth. She turned around and led the older ladies down the next aisle.

She didn’t start her new job until tomorrow morning, which meant she didn’t need to entertain annoying, self-important sheriffs who were petty enough to pull out old high school nicknames just to needle her.

“Who’s Eileen married to now?” Daphne asked as she stopped to admire a stall full of hand-knitted baby clothes. Not that she wanted a kid anytime soon, but the tiny clothing was adorable.

“Archie Yarrow,” Greta supplied. “The former mayor.”

“The one whose house Mom burned down?” Daphne asked, glancing at her grandmother.

Grandma Mabel’s lips tugged at the corners. “Allegedly burned down. That was Archie Sr.’s father, Edward; Eileen married Archie Sr., who was mayor after his father, and the current mayor is his eldest, Archie Jr.”

“Not much creativity in the Yarrow family, in names or professions,” Greta noted.

“Never been prouder of that girl of yours than when she set fire to that man’s front porch,” Harry said, nodding at Grandma Mabel, who beamed.

Daphne’s mother had been as much of a wild child as Ellie, and judging by the stories that had filtered down from Grandma Mabel, the older woman hadn’t been much tamer. It was Daphne that was the odd duck in the family.

“Huh,” Daphne said, tearing into her bun once more. Her fingers were sticky with caramel, but it was too delicious to stop. “When I was in high school, people used to tease Flint about the fact that he was poor.”

“After her first husband died, Eileen wasted no time,” Grandma Mabel said, picking up tiny pink booties from the baby clothes stall. “Now she’s married into Fernley political royalty, and her son is sheriff.”

“Acting sheriff,” Daphne corrected. “He hasn’t won the election yet.”

Grandma Mabel grinned, her earlier moodiness dissipated. “Right you are, honey. Looking forward to working with him?”

“About as much as you are to reuniting with Brenda Sallow on the other side.”

The white-haired woman chortled and put the baby booties down, and they kept walking. Their shoes squeaked on the gym floors, and Daphne unzipped her jacket as she warmed up. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder to check where Flint had gone.

He probably wanted some jam. Or a sticky bun. Or maybe he was looking to arrest one of the peaceful Winter Market attendees, because he was a big bully who came from a family of lying troublemakers.

His maternal grandmother had allegedly stolen Mabel’s precious Dutch oven back in the nineties. And his mother had married the former mayor. And now he was acting sheriff.

He’d terrorized Daphne in her senior year, almost causing her to lose out on her college scholarships. Grinding her teeth, she tried not to get fired up about it. She had to work with the man, after all, and it had happened nearly two decades ago.

But why was it that the people who seemed to deserve it least always came out on top? Why couldn’t someone hardworking—Daphne, for example—see the fruits of their labors, for once?

Daphne sent out a quiet prayer that Adelaide had sold out of her buns before Flint could get any, because apparently she hadn’t matured since her late-teen years.

A shout distracted her from her less-than-honorable thoughts. At the other end of the aisle, a commotion brewed. A man—midtwenties, maybe, average build, above-average height—was sprinting down the crowded aisle, a metal cashbox tucked under his arm.

“Stop! Thief!” The jam salesman came hobbling into view, red faced and panicked. Wiry gray hair stuck out from under his cap, his arm flung out toward the man with the cashbox.

The thief vaulted over a small child and didn’t spare a glance backward. He dodged around a stroller and came pounding down the lane toward Daphne.

---