Page 3 of Lavender and Lust

“Three hundred dollars?” I exclaim.

“Oh yeah. You should have seen it. With the steam billowing out of Tony’s ears, I thought he was going to set off my smoke alarm, and poor Ronald looked like he was on the verge of snapping his dentures. They’re still in there as we speak.” She gestures to her store directly across the street. “No doubt licking their wounds and ransacking my place for what’s left, which is why I needed to take a break.”

“Elena!” a voice calls out, and both our heads swing in the direction of her shop assistant Brenda, whose head is popped out the door, and her expression looking frantic. “They’re fighting over the last bouquet of carnations. Can you call Patrick?”

My eyes widen, wondering what on earth those two are doing that warrants calling the local sheriffagain. But Elena, not looking the least bit perturbed by the brawl currently ensuing in her place of business, gives Brenda a nonchalant wave. “No need. I’ll sort it out.”

“And this is exactly why I need this.” She exhales a long sigh, then turns back to me, holding up the blueberry muffin smothered in white frosting. “Not only do I have to deal with this, but I have over fifty orders for pickup and delivery. I’ll need some serious sustenance to make it through this day.”

“Well, if you need to fuel up any further, just call in a food order to the diner, and we’ll deliver it to you.”

“Oh, you’re such a gem.” She pats my arm affectionately. “I may just take you up on that.”

“Elena!” Brenda screeches, making us both nearly jump out of our skin. “Ronald’s trying to hit Tony over the head with his walking stick!”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Elena mutters, her cheeks puffing up as she exhales a heavy breath. “I’d best go and sort those two old-timers out. Have a good day, sweetie, and say hi to your dad for me.”

“Will do. Have a good day, too,” I reply with a wave as she steps over the mountain of white snow, turned brown sludge that’s lining the curb and makes her way across the street.

A chill sweeps over my neck, and adjusting my scarf to cover the exposed flesh, I wrap my arms around my midsection and continue on down the sidewalk, taking in the sights and sounds of the early morning activity from the businesses lining the street.

Snowflakes descend gracefully over the town, hitting the snowcapped roofs and blanketing the streets, making our rustic country town look like a picturesque winter wonderland.

It’s beautiful here.

Tucked in a valley of rolling green hills, endless forests of evergreen trees, and a view of the Rocky Mountains so majestic it’s enough to steal your breath away, Clark Falls, Montana, has the tranquility of nature yet the perks of a prosperous town that provides just about anything you would need.

And even during Montana’s harsh cold winters, the charm that oozes from my hometown always brings forth a sense of comfort to wrap me up tight, almost like the town is caressing me in the warmest of blankets.

Born and bred, I’ve lived here my whole life, and other than having to leave to attend college in Missoula for several years, I’ve never had any real desire to call any other place home.

The small clock tower of the Clark Falls Art & Cultural Center chimes, striking out the countdown to eight o’clock and picking up the pace; I make my way toward Scott’s Diner before the bell strikes its final toll.

According to my boss Joseph Scott, even a minute late is considered the most heinous of crimes, and being his daughter grants me no reprieve from the tongue-lashing I’d receive for tardiness.

Working as a waitress at my family’s diner at the age of twenty-five wasn’t exactly my grand plan back in the day when I graduated from high school and had big dreams to take on the world. But when my mother passed away two years ago, and my big sister took off to New York to do God only knows what, I dropped out of college to help my dad with the family business.

While it definitely isn’t the most dazzling career choice, I enjoy working there. It’s honest labor, the tips are good, and I get to see my friends daily.

Reaching the entrance to the diner, I cast a wave to Richard, who owns the butcher shop next door, before pushing through the door and instantly feeling the warmth of the diner’s heating system enveloping my chilled frame.

‘Jailhouse Rock’ by Elvis plays on the jukebox from the corner of the room, filtering through the clanking of cutlery and the murmuring of the patrons enjoying their fill of a hearty breakfast.

Unwinding my scarf from around my neck, I glance over to the counter running along the back wall and spot one of our waitresses, Charlotte, rushing over to the large window that serves as a pass-through from the kitchen and gathering plates of food off the ledge.

Making my way over, Charlotte’s stress-induced glassy eyes meet mine when I appear behind the counter and practically melt with relief. “Oh, thank God you’re finally here. Where have you been?”

“At home sleeping,” I reply simply, wondering why she’s asking me this. Her eyes narrow into an incredulous glare, and my brows draw in with confusion. Shifting my attention to the dining room floor, I notice several tables still waiting for their order to be taken and suddenly realize that someone is missing. “Where’s Harper?”

“She called in sick.”

Tension knots my shoulders, and I let out a groan.

For shit’s sake.

It was bad enough having to drag my sorry ass in here while nursing the hangover from hell, but having to work with a waitress down means I’m going to have to work twice as hard.

“Well, isn’t that just great,” I mutter sarcastically.

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