Page 59 of Brewbies
Son of a bitch.
Darby had come to Townsend Harbor hoping for nothing more than a little peace and quiet. A place where she could spend her days in her cozy, coffee-scented camper and her nights doing whatever—and whoever—she felt like. A place to recover from sickening heartbreak and betrayal. A place to catch a break.
Instead, she was catching feels.
TWELVE
Extraction
USING WATER THAT IS "JUST OFF THE BOIL" TO DRAW FLAVOR FROM COFFEE GROUNDS
Four days.
The words ricocheted through Darby’s head like shrapnel as her taxi passed theGet Knotty in Townsend Harborsign she now knew Ethan Townsend had made with his own hands.
Hands that hauled her bicycle into town to be fixed. Hands that had repaired her shoe and hung a swing from the beautiful old oak tree on her property. Hands that had brought indescribable pleasure to her body and commensurate fuckery to her doorstep.
The sweat hadn’t even dried on their bodies, and he’d already been anticipating who else might get to touch her.
Once upon a time, she might’ve slept with Deputy Trent McGarvey to make a very valid point. Show Ethan and the entire damn town she could do what she pleased,whomshe pleased, when she pleased.
But…
But.
From her present vantage, revenge boning seemed like a lot of work.
The primping, the shaving, the seduction. The pushing, and sweating, and post-pasta jostling. The very idea of the whole production made her feel dog tired and dryer than a popcorn fart.
Nevertheless, as Sister Mary Mildred had been so fond of saying, Darby would not—could not—be controlled. Not by guilt, shame, societal pressure, and certainly the fuck not by the likes of Ethan Townsend.
Jesus.
Even thinking his name began to make her heart pound as the taxi whizzed past the shipyards.
The late-afternoon sunlight glinted off the rippling water beyond the bobbing boats, creating a sparkling tapestry against the shoreline. A rare clear day with a cornflower-blue sky that the sheriff could be anywhere under. Waiting around the corner of every historic building, ready to pop out and commit some act of unsolicited chivalry that might weaken her resolve.
“This okay?” the taxi driver asked, slowing as they approached the corner of Water Street and Maple.
“Fine,” she said, punching up the pay app and parting with a sum that made both sets of her cheeks clench. Worth it, she told herself, to avoid potentially being T-boned by another forest creature or buffing her muffin raw with the ride into town on a bike bearing a set of gleaming handlebars courtesy of Roy the recluse.
Roy,she thought with a furious pulse of joy.
Yes. At last, the lady-boner-killing reminder she needed.
Exiting the cab, she stepped out onto the street to get on with her mission.
In peep-toe wedge platforms whose structural integrity Darby had checked no less than six times before leaving her camper, she walked the half block to her target.
Bazaar Girls.
Darby pushed through the front door, somewhat perplexed by the sound of a sheep enthusiastically bleating her arrival.
Glancing around for the source, she spotted a small black box fixed on the wall above the door, the small red eye of a motion sensor trained on the entryway.
“It also has a cow, a goat, and three different guard dogs.” Gemma McKendrick stood atop an ancient wooden ladder, easing an armload of wool knots in a deep emerald green onto a shelf high on the wall behind the cash register. The relic of wood and rusted metal wobbled precariously as she began to descend. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I love it.”
“Please,” Darby said, shooting Gemma a conspiratorial smile. “You’re talking to the woman who owns a pink toaster oven. Ridiculous is my middle name. Well, it’s actually Leighton, but I prefer not to think about the fact that my misogynistic steel tycoon grandfather’s crusty moniker is stamped on every piece of paperwork in my life.”
