Page 81 of Brewbies
KIRO 7.
Seattle News.
SEVENTEEN
Shade Grown
COFFEE GROWN UNDER THE SHADE CANOPY OF NATIVE TREES WHICH REDUCES THE NEED FOR PESTICIDE SINCE BIRDS ACT AS NATURAL INSECT CONTROL AGENTS
The solesof Darby’s strappy sandals felt like they didn’t quite touch the sidewalk as she made her way toward Olive or Twist, one of Townsend Harbor’s upscale pubs. Even the burn in her thighs from her hike up Townsend Harbor’s famous hillside staircase seemed sweet.
And she’d said at least thirty-seven percent less swear words in her head as she’d puffed up the final flight.
A date with Ethan Townsend.
Like, officially.
He’d even asked—well, told her—out loud in front of other humans. The conclusion of a series of events she still couldn’t quite process.
But Lord, had she tried. Had scraped her memory for every single second of their camper clinch and replayed it again and again until she was in danger of swooning dead away.
His mouth crushing to hers the instant her camper door closed. Their words clashing as their bodies merged and battled for dominance. The feel of him inside her, filling her, claiming her.
Darby shook her head, trying to clear the deliciously dizzying memories from her mind. She was on a mission. She had to focus. To concentrate. To keep her head clear and her panties dry.
The muffled hum of sultry jazz reached her through the heavy wood door. A small metal panel slid open as she approached, revealing a set of vaguely familiar eyes. Masculine, but kind and wide-set on either side of a prominent nose.
“Password?”
Darby’s heart raced.
She’d been so busy head-humping the town sheriff, she completely blanked on whether a password had been part of Gemma’s download on Caryn Townsend.
“Umm…” Darby said, dredging her hormone-addled memory.
D. There is definitely a D.
Or several Ds? “Dumbwaiter?”
“Nope.”
“Diphthong?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Doggerel?” she guessed. “Dingleberry?”
“Negative.”
“D…d…do you accept bribes?”
The eyes lifted from view and a mouth appeared, the corner of the lips cracking open on a furtive whisper. “Dizzy dames don’t drop dimes.”
“Dizzy dames don’t drop dimes,” Darby repeated, loud enough for anyone lingering behind the door attendant to hear.
Something clicked within the bowels of the heavy brass handle plate, and the door swung open, bathing Darby in a whoosh of air scented with the leather and spice of cigar smoke.
“For the record, that’s a passphrase,” she said, slipping inside.
