Page 1 of Snowflakes Over Starr's Fall
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Jenna Miller didn’t like the look of the guy as soon as he walked into her store. Popped collar on his polo shirt, cable-knit golfing sweater draped over his shoulders, the gold and silver links of a Rolex glinting on one tanned and muscular wrist. He slid expensive-looking aviator sunglasses onto his forehead, ruffling his nut-brown hair, as he glanced around at her store with narrowed eyes that flashed ice-blue, lips already pursed in obvious disdain.
Jerk.
Her shoulders had tensed, creeping toward her ears, as she stilled by the cash register where she’d been going through yesterday’s receipts. It was a Saturday morning in June, the dust motes dancing through the drowsy air, caught by the warm sunlight, a perfect summer’s day, although Jenna was already thinking about new stock, whether she should get in anything for fall, or even Christmas. She’d sold some fresh evergreen wreaths last year that had done pretty well, and she knew she always had to be thinking ahead.
But on this summer’s morning she’d been enjoying the peaceful solitude of the store; it was only eight-thirty, and she hadn’t had any customers yet, not that she’d had all that many lately, something that she was trying not to think about too much. Miller’s Mercantile was a staple of Starr’s Fall; it had been offering an array of basic groceries and hardware for over forty years.
That wasn’t going to change, not on her watch, even if fewer and fewer people were coming through her doors. This man was, she told herself, a potential customer, and that was a good thing. She’d make sure it was.
He took a few steps into the store, glancing around, his lips now turning down in what was obviously dismay, or maybe even disgust. Clearly he was disappointed by what was on offer.
Jenna glanced around at the beloved and well-worn wooden shelves of admittedly slightly tired-looking grocery staples—bags of flour and sugar, cans of soup and beans, buckets of nails and screws. She’d added a few kitschy but appealing touches here and there—a barrel of pickles swimming in brine by the front door, an old popcorn machine. She offered every customer a free bag of popcorn; at least she did when she was able to get the machine working. It had been broken for a while, leaving a smell of stale popcorn and old oil in the air, but she wasn’t sure people liked popcorn that much anyway. Maybe she’d get rid of it.
The man still hadn’t spoken. Jenna wasn’t even sure if he’d seen her. He stood in the middle of the store, about fifteen feet away, his hands on his hips as he continued to survey its offerings. Just yesterday Jenna had arranged a display of boxes of pasta on the end of an aisle; she thought it looked appealing, with a red and white checked tablecloth and the boxes stacked in a little pyramid.
She watched as the man surveyed the little display, his lip curling before he flicked his gaze away. He tucked one hand in the pocket of his Nantucket Red khakis as he strolled past the display in leather boat shoes without socks. Everything about him blared high-powered city type on a jaunt to the country, the exact kind of person Jenna tended to loathe—from far too much previous experience with one man in particular who was pretty much exactly like this one. Ryan had been younger, admittedly, and a bit flashier, but still. The two were cut from the same unfortunate cloth. Still, Jenna told herself, this guy was a potential customer, and she knew how to be polite.
“May I help you?” she asked in what she believed was a pleasant and friendly tone as the man continued to survey her store, his eyes narrowed.
Slowly he turned to face her. Jenna experienced a jolt then, unexpected and unwelcome, of awareness.Physicalawareness, because, fine, the man was handsome. Hot, even, something she hadn’t noticed when she’d been dissecting his clothing choices and deciding she didn’t like him. Which, she could admit, was a tad judgmental of her, maybe even alotjudgmental, something she didn’t like to think she was, but it was hard when this guy still hadn’t spoken to her, as if she wasn’t worthy of his notice when he was inherstore.
Now his ice-blue eyes widened a fraction as he stared at her, seeming to take in her appearance and make his judgments just as she had with him. And she wasn’t at all sure she liked that. She watched as his gaze raked slowly over her from head to toe, causing her cheeks to heat because, for heaven’s sake, that look was thorough, and not in a good way.
And all right, fine, she knew she might not be at her best. She didn’t get gussied up for a Saturday morning in the store. Her hair was in two long Pippi Longstocking-like braids, and she’d paired a flannel shirt, the sleeves hacked off, with a pair of old overalls with bright purple patches on the knees and butt. It was the kind of hippy lumberjack look she liked to embrace, but right now, underneath this man’s scornful stare, she felt something close to embarrassment, and it made her furious.
How dare he make her feel that way? How dare she let him?
And hestillhadn’t spoken.
“Hello?” Jenna asked, her tone turning the teeniest bit pointed. “Do you need something?”
The man jangled some keys in his pocket as he arched one dark eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have smoked salmon in a place like this?”
Smoked salmon?A place like this?Indignation fizzed through Jenna, and she felt herself readying for a fight before she took a deep breath and managed to rein her temper back in. It was a fair question, she told herself, even if it didn’t feel like one. She knew she was a little sensitive about any criticism of Miller’s Mercantile, because her brother Zach had been criticizing it for months, if not years. He wanted to gentrify the store, offer expensive candles and artisan cheeses and cashmere blankets and who knew what else. So far, Jenna had held him off from turning the store into some kind of pretentious boutique, but the store’s account books suggested something had to change.
Not like that, though.
“No,” she answered in a clipped tone, “I’m afraid we don’t. But we do have some canned tuna.”
The man’s nostrils flared and even though his expression was one of scorn, Jenna felt that jolt of awarenessagain. Why did he have to be so good-looking? Those bright blue eyes, the thick, wavy hair, its brown strands looking gold in some places where they caught the sunlight. He had the chiseled cheekbones of a male model and the muscled physique of a rugby player. Generic, she told herself dismissively. He could be any boring, blank-faced model on the cover of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Big deal.
“Tuna?” he repeated disbelievingly. “I’m not going to put canned tuna on my toasted sourdough.”
Jenna let out a bark of scornful laughter before she could help herself. “Of course you’re not,” she agreed. “Well, if you’d like a breakfast alternative, may I suggest cornflakes? Very healthful. We do carry those. Or eggs.” She tried to moderate her tone because she realized she was sounding a little snarky. “Scrambled eggs on sourdough are delicious… or so I’ve heard.”
He raised both eyebrows then, his mouth quirking, looking amused in a disdainful way. This man had really cornered the market on smug superiority. “You’ve never eaten sourdough?” he surmised. “What a surprise.”
Wow. He’d turnedtoasted sourdoughinto an insult. Jenna shook her head. He infuriated her, but weirdly, some small part of her was almost enjoying the exchange, the pointed intensity of it. “Welcome to Hicksville, Mr. Manhattan,” she quipped. “Are you here on vacation?” She widened her eyes in mock dismay, resting one hand on her cheek. “Were the Hamptons overbooked?”
His mouth twitched in somethingalmostlike a smile although his icy eyes flashed with ire. “Let me guess, you’ve never been there?” he replied dryly. He jangled the keys in his pocket again. “Is there any other grocery store in this town?”
“Nope.” She smiled sweetly. “If you want smoked salmon, I’d suggest the deli in Litchfield. It’s only half an hour away. I bet your Porsche could make it there in twenty minutes.”
He laughed, a bark of genuine amusement as his eyes glinted with something like appreciation. “How did you know I have a Porsche?”
Her smile widened, Grinch-like. “Just a guess.”
