Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

J esse

I slump against the counter in front of the ancient POS machine. Piece of Shit indeed. One would think that at a hardware store, they could afford to fix or upgrade the damn thing.

I took the job here, not out of any desire for society, but because the goddamned cabin keeps breaking, eating through my monthly stipend like termites on hardwood. Which is not something I had to think about prior to moving here to St. Olaf. Palmetto bugs? Yes. Hurricanes that send cars into swimming pools? Absolutely.

If there were any other way to fix up the cabin so it doesn’t completely disintegrate against the rain and wayward weather of Wisconsin spring, I would take it. The only benefit of being up here in Door County is the solitude.

But beyond the necessity of additional income, the cabin breaking–and not knowing the name of my mysterious landlord to ask for repairs–has also stretched my limited DIY knowledge. I might have grown up on a farm, but Grandma preferred for me to study instead of getting into some of the more back-breaking day labor jobs around the farm. After all, that’s how my dad had gotten into trouble in the first place. Well, second place.

The digital clock on the wall ticks forward at an interminably slow rate. I can’t remember a day of such insidious boredom. Back in the Before Times…

It’s better not to think about it. That’s what Harbor and all the people at Witness Protection orientation said. Dive in to a new life.

More like freeze into a proverbial statue.

In many ways, I’d prefer statue to working retail. It’s nearly three in the afternoon, and the last customer left four hours ago. There are only so many times I can rearrange the bottles of lighter fluid in aisle four.

I pick up the paperback I’d found in the employees’ area. Moe, the owner of the hardware store, likes cookbooks for the most part. They’re strewn all around his office and packed into little shelves under the counter. After wandering the shelves memorizing where everything went, I stacked the cookbooks in alphabetical order sheerly for the sake of not dying of boredom. There, underneath the heft of Julia Child and Ina Garten, I found this paperback. Legendborn . I have no idea what it’s about, but so far it’s pretty unputdownable.

Just as I open the book to the third chapter, the bell over the front door tinkles. Moe told me to greet everyone as they arrive, but as much as I respect him and the pity he takes on my lack of home repair skills, there’s fuck-all chance I’m going to do that.

“Moe!” a soft alto voice calls from the front. “How’s the hip?”

“I’m not Moe,” I grumble, keeping my attention on the book.

“Moe?” The voice gets closer, but I don’t look up. Everyone here seems to know where everything is already, so they don’t need my assistance. The bitter part of me wants to stock everything on a new shelf out of spite. Sneakers squeak against the linoleum I’d mopped earlier out of pure ennui. “You’re not Moe.”

“Not late—” The words stall somewhere around my vocal cords. Sure, I’ve been devoid of human contact for the past two months, by my own choice. But the majority of residents I’ve seen here so far in St. Olaf range from Carhartt-clad burly mountain men to equally brusque and capable women.

This woman? Her dark brown hair is held back from her face by a pink and lavender tie-dyed bandana and her leggings are dusted with what looks like either flour or plaster. She’s curvy, gorgeously pear-shaped with wide hips that are the perfect size for my hands and a soft, full stomach hidden under a light lavender-colored sweater made of some sort of material that reminds me of rabbit fur. And that face? She’s the kind of pretty that forces a man to confront truths.

Like that he—or I, rather—am not supposed to form any close attachments.

Her cherry-red lips pull into a frown. “I was hoping to see Moe.”

I stand up a little straighter, setting my book on the counter. “I can help you.”

She tilts her head to the side, which only serves to draw the collar of her sweater across her shoulder, exposing a swath of lightly freckled skin. How old is she? Mid-thirties? It doesn’t matter. She’s too young for me. “I don’t even know who you are. How do I not know you?”

“I’m new in town.”

“Duh.” She rolls her dark green eyes. If she wore glasses and removed them slowly, keeping that gaze on me? It would be the hands-down sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I know everyone in town, probably in this county. I’ve lived here my whole life. But if I haven’t seen you, that means you haven’t been anywhere.” She holds up her hand and counts on her fingers. “You didn’t attend the hot ham and rolls on Sunday. No you at Saturday night polka. Definite no-show at the May Day Flower Parade. I would have noticed you. Are you married? Kids? If you had kids, you would have been at the flower parade. Everyone was there, and we had to keep the teens from cutting in front of the littles at the bumper cars. I haven’t seen you at my bakery. Wait.” Having apparently run out of fingers to count my antisocial wrongdoings, she crosses her arms over her chest. In that whirlwind of thought, the only thing that sticks in my brain is that she must have a bakery and she would have noticed me. That soars through my body in a way that’s definitely not good for me. “Have you been getting your coffee at Sugar Kisses? You have, haven’t you?”

What the hell is Sugar Kisses? It’s such a bizarre accusation. “No. I make my coffee at home like a normal person.”

“What normal person makes their coffee at home?”

She seems so genuinely confused, I can’t help but laugh. “Most people, I expect.”

“Hmm.” She rests her elbows on the other side of the counter. “Where do you live?”

Like I’m going to confess that. If I tell her, then she’ll tell me, and then I’ll be tempted to wonder what her house is like. If the walls are the same soft pastels as her shirt. If she has throw pillows on her bed. How big is that bed?

I settle my mouth into a frown. “Do you need to buy something?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in a store. A hardware store.” I gesture at the shelves surrounding us, chock-full of goods, the need for which might have delivered this odd, quirky, beautiful woman in front of me.

She shrugs as though it’s as normal to go into a shop without any need to purchase anything as it is to buy fancy coffee on a daily basis. Maybe she’s never heard of student loan debt. “You didn’t answer my question about where you live.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She lifts her gaze to mine, her dark green eyes sparkling like sunlight off the frozen lake. And that metaphor right there tells me I’ve been in Wisconsin for far too long. “Maybe I just like hearing that gruff Southern mountain man voice you have going on.” Lightning sizzles down my spine.

Before I even have time to react, she bursts into a flurry of giggles, the laughter racking through her body and contorting her in ways that are definitely Not Safe For Work. The lower part of my abdomen heats.

“Sorry, sorry. Whew, I really needed that,” she says, wiping tears from underneath her eyes with the palm of her hand.

It’s enough to shock a smile out of me, my lips creaking like un-oiled, rusty hinges. “I live over on Elk View.”

“Really?” Her cheeks flush a rosy color. I’ll bet they do that when she…never mind. “We’re neighbors then. Which house is yours? I hadn’t heard of any going up for sale.”

“Oh, I didn’t buy.” I can’t afford it now. “I rent a cabin. Just past the white barn with the green roof?”

Her jaw slackens and her eyes widen. “What? They rented that shack? Is that place even habitable?” She pulls her phone out from the side pocket of her leggings and starts typing on the screen.

“It’s habitable. The roof isn’t bad.” Or wasn’t until the snow started melting and the weight of it pulled down the corner over the bathroom. “That’s why I work here. To figure out how to fix it up.”

She doesn’t answer due to the furious texting and swooshing.

“What are you doing?” I ask before I can stop myself. I should not be curious about her or any other person.

“Texting my brother. He’s the town sheriff.” She doesn’t look up from her screen. “It has to be some sort of crime to rent that to an unsuspecting tourist. It barely has four walls. I can’t believe Maddy Olmstead didn’t know or tell anyone at hot ham and rolls.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s one of the town librarians and gossips. What, you don’t have a town gossip where you’re from?”

“No.” Not unless you count the Fort Lauderdale Cryer , which, after they ran the wedding announcement, I never—

No. Absolutely not. I’m not going to think about this. This is the exact problem with peopling. It brings up all the old shit that’s far better buried.

So I lock down every part of my body that wants to talk more to this strange, lovely woman. I dump it all behind a door marked Do Not Enter, Dragons Inside and cross my arms over my chest.

Nothing like body language to drive a point home.

She finishes texting like she’s just run a marathon, sliding the phone back into her pocket. Strands of hair escape the control of her headband. She’s an appealing cross between sexy kindergarten teacher and Easter Bunny. “No worries. The Marshall family is on it. We’ll get this whole thing straightened out.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.” I hate the gruffness in my tone, but it can’t be helped. Not if I’m going to get through this purgatory. And not the boring, sterile, waiting-room kind. Season eight of Supernatural purgatory, filled with monsters ready to consume and kill.

She rolls her eyes. I wonder vaguely if she’s a Sam and Dean fan, then promptly remind myself to check my curiosity. “No one in the Midwest asks for help. If someone actually asks for a favor, you’d better alert the fire department, National Guard, and the FBI. Take the hand. We look out for each other here. It’s one of the things you’ll come to love about St. Olaf.”

“I can’t imagine ever loving St. Olaf.” As soon as it leaves my mouth, I know it’s the wrong thing to say. All the brightness that our conversation had given her fades, and she wilts like a molten snowman. I bite back the apology. This is for her own good. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Oh. Right.” She sniffs, but there are no tears. “No. I know where everything is. I do wish Moe were here.”

“He’ll be back in half an hour. If you want to come back then.” I don’t think this is true. I’ve barely worked here for two days, and in that time “gone fishing” means “I’ll be back next Tuesday.”

“No.” She steps away and moves down one aisle. I try my best not to appreciate the shape of her perfect ass encased in her leggings. Here be dragons .

A few moments later, she sets a box of pastry bags on the counter. Still sniffling. “Just these, please.”

“Sure.” Guilt slows the movement of my fingers over the cash register. “I’m Jesse, by the way. I’m sorry. My conversational skills are rusty. Very rusty. Downed plane lost in the rainforest rusty.” I slide her box into a paper bag and take out one of the items in the bowl marked Emergencies Only. The plastic crinkles but she doesn’t seem to notice. I give her my favorite flavor, cherry red.

The faintest hint of a smile creases her cheeks. “I’m Laura. You take care now.”

“You betcha.”

My small concession pays off in the nod she gives me, more strands of her curly dark hair escaping from her headband.

I do my best not to pay too much attention to her walking away, but she’s impossible to ignore.

Or forget.