Page 17 of Cold as Hell

Should I find an excuse to pop into the general store again? One more question for Lynn?

I shake off the impulse. Lynn and Thierry were barely at the flirting stage. Grant isn’t going to walk in on anything more than shy glances, and if Grant hasn’t realized how hard his wife’s been looking for love, that’s certainly not going to tip him off.

As I head toward the trio of men, I catch at least one passing female resident glancing their way as if she’d like to join that little group. It really is a gathering of Haven’s Rock’s finest straight single guys. Based on appearance alone, Anders and Gunnar are obvious choices; Anders for his head-turning good looks and Gunnar for his strapping Nordic appeal. Marlon is older—in his mid-forties—but if it wasn’t for the gray in his short dark curls, he’d seem no older than Anders, without a wrinkle on his dark skin. He’s not nearly as good-looking, but his average face has an openness and a genuine smile that makes it impossible not to smile back.

“How long have you been on your feet, soldier?” Anders calls to me.

I check my watch. “Twenty-two minutes, sir. I have eight more before I’m under strict orders to sit my ass down.”

“Mmm, if you say twenty-two minutes, it’s actually been thirty-two, meaning you’re overdue.”

Gunnar laces his hands in a makeshift seat, but I only roll my eyes.

“I’m going to steal this one.” I wave at Gunnar. “And yes, we’ll sit.” I turn to Gunnar. “Let’s go to the town hall. I need to talk to you about last night.”

“Café’s closer,” Anders says. “Or the clinic.”

“I can walk the hundred paces to the town hall for privacy.”

“What you need is a palanquin,” Marlon says.

Gunnar screws up his face. “A what?”

“Don’t look at me,” I say. “I’m hearing ‘paladin’ or ‘pangolin.’ I’m not sure I need a guy with a sword, but pangolins are nice. Not really cold-weather animals, though.”

Marlon laughs. “A paladin could carry you on his shoulders. Pangolins are a bit small for transport duty. And I might be saying ‘palanquin’ wrong, too. I mean those litter things that people ride on, carried by others.”

“Ah, yes,” I say. “I know what you mean—I’ve just never heard the word.”

“Which I might very well have wrong. I’ll ask Eric. That man is a walking encyclopedia. But a litter would work. Gunnar and I could whip one up from spare materials, carry you around.”

He pantomimes it, and I roll my eyes again.

“I’m pregnant,” I say. “Not an invalid. And, technically, my doctor—the one who is not my sister—says it’s fine to be on my feet for an hour at a time. It’s my lovely husband who cut that in half. Now—”

“Butler!” a voice bellows from clear across town. “Didn’t I see you leaving the town hall a half hour ago?”

“Speak of the devil,” I say, and I may add a few more choice words that have the men laughing. I turn around and shout back to Dalton. “Gunnar and I are going to the town hall for his interview.”

Dalton—appearing from behind a building down the road—opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something about how far that is, but I cut him off with, “I could really use a decaf coffee. And cookies. I was going to stop by the café—”

“Got it!” he calls. “Meet you at the town hall.”

“Smooth,” Marlon murmurs.

“Thank you.”

“Sure you don’t want that litter?”

“Yes, and if you mention it to Eric?” I draw a finger across my throat. Then I say to Gunnar, “Ready for that interview?”

“I just need to tell Kenny I’ll be late helping him with the playroom.”

“I’ll tell him,” Marlon says. “I offered to help out anyway.”

“Isn’t it your half day off?” Anders says.

Marlon shrugs. “It’s a playroom for kids. Like volunteering for Habitat for Humanity.”

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