Sweet and Salty (Marshall My Heart #1)

13. Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

J esse

This is hands-down the busiest day yet at the hardware store. Several orders– that Moe must have placed before he vanished into the wilderness somewhere– arrive and need to be unpacked, and there is a steady stream of customers. Oddly, most of them are of the female persuasion and ranging in ages from eighty-five to a baby no more than four months old.

It doesn’t take long to realize that the desire for my presence far exceeds their need for wrenches or bolts or, in one particular instance, a mega-sized box of D batteries for Lorraine Gutschall’s “special friend.”

Never needed that image in my brain, but hey, it’s all basically plumbing at the end of the day.

Besides the frequent side-eye I’m receiving, Laura Marshall also seems a hot topic of conversation.

“Chris dumped her, dontcha know. It’s just terrible. She’s such a lovely person, and none of these moon pies stick around.” I pretend not to notice a pointed gaze in my direction at that remark.

“I’ll bet it’s the pigs. No one ever said you caught a man with a rescue pig farm. Who knew those mini pigs are all a myth?”

“Isn’t that the truth? Couldn’t she have had a nice dairy like everyone else? All men love a good dairy. She could have even gone rogue and gotten goats. I love a good goat cheese.”

“Oh, hon, I’ve got the best recipe for a casserole with goat cheese and potatoes. I’ll text it to you.”

And so on. I get the goat cheese and potato recipe too, though I doubt the primitive oven in my little cabin can manage the weight of a casserole dish. I’ve only finally managed to fix the leaking shower.

From my unabashed eavesdropping—it’s a little bit my right, since they’ve come to gawk at me, the wayward southerner—I learn many interesting things about Laura. She is a serial monogamist and all the animals on her farm are rescues. She has a food blog—which I may or may not have immediately bookmarked—called Frosting Monkey, with a drool-worthy gallery. She’s well-liked among the townspeople, who all are on her side in some Dryden-related issue. Or it may be a dryer-related issue. I’m not too sure as the phone rings at that moment, announcing a delivery of two-by-fours.

Essentially, no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape Laura Marshall. At least tomorrow is Sunday, when the hardware store will be closed. I can only tell from the sign I found buried under a stack of Food and Wine magazines last week after I’d already opened on Sunday, since Moe hadn’t exactly described my hours. Hopefully he is as diligent at automatic payroll as he is about auto-orders to restock his shop, since my bank account is looking more meager than a threadbare, neglected mule.

And a man has to eat.

Still, five o’clock inevitably arrives, and I drag my weary feet to the front door to switch the sign to Closed. Out front, the sheriff’s truck pulls into the first parking spot, and Rory Marshall steps out in his full uniform. He holds up a hand in greeting. Not wanting to make more of an asshole of myself than I already have, I wave in return.

This is entirely the wrong thing to do, as Rory smiles a great shaggy collie of a grin and heads straight for me.

I am all talked—er, listened—out by this point. If I was at home in Florida, all I would want would be to talk only to dogs or horses for the rest of the night. Though since Esme required a clean house, I had to visit the animals at the barn.

Maybe I should get a dog.

“Hey, Jesse.” Rory pulls open the door and lets himself in. “Busy Saturday, huh?”

“You betcha.” It sounds forced and somehow exaggerates my Southern accent. “How was your Saturday?”

Rory laughs and puts his hands on his belt, right above the holster for his service weapon. “You know, if people want to make fools of themselves, they always wait for the weekend. And it’s worse this time of year, with all the tourists coming up through the county.”

This I still can’t fathom, but of all the people I’ve met here, Rory seems the least likely to take offense. “Tourists? People come up here voluntarily?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s lots to do here. Fishing, biking, hiking, sailing. There are a bunch of great farm-to-table restaurants and breweries. We’ve even got some great local wineries. They make a killer cranberry or cherry wine.”

That sounds like cough syrup.

Rory arches a brow. He has dark brown hair like his sister, but his eyes are browner, more hazel than Laura’s emerald green. “You haven’t been to any of these places?”

“I don’t go out much.”

Rory sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ll solve that soon enough. Look, I just stopped in to give you my mom’s address for dinner tomorrow. Plan on at least three hours, unless Frannie wants game night. In which case, you should bring a sleeping bag.”

This is appalling on many levels. “I don’t own a sleeping bag.” I’ve been thinking a lot about Rory’s invitation to their family dinner, and the longer I think about it, the more I realize there’s absolutely no way I can go. I can’t even fully figure out why I want to in the first place. I’ve always been better with animals than people. It’s why I’m forty-two and my longest relationship ended not just in a rain of fire, but a full-on nuclear apocalypse. I’m in no way a people person. There is no reason for me to want to get to know the Marshall family, particularly not Laura. Thoughts of her invade almost every moment of my day, but there lies danger. Dragon-level danger.

I can never be what a woman like Laura wants and needs. I can’t make her a single promise I’ll be able to keep. I’m not going to accompany her to Saturday polka or the ham thing or even fucking bingo. Her other guys didn’t stick around? Hell, the moment my trial is over and Johnny Mack and his band of assholes is behind bars, I’m out of here faster than Secretariat winning the Kentucky Derby.

And the longer I spend with her, the more time I want to spend, which is, to put it mildly, exceedingly problematic.

I run a hand over my scruff of beard. I’ve barely looked in a mirror over the last few months, but I caught a glimpse of myself this morning. What would my grandma say if she saw me with this degree of beard growth? She’d probably call me a ruffian and hand me a new razor.

“Look, Rory, I really appreciate the invitation—”

“No.” Rory holds up a hand, his jaw tightening. “Look, I know you’re going to turn me down. But don’t.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “That’s my mom’s address. I’ll come over tomorrow for an hour or two to help you with that shit hole you’re living in. We can drive together.”

He has the withering gaze that’s necessary for the role of sheriff. “Thanks. I have a lot to do tomorrow, but I’ll be there.”

“Great.” Rory’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, and Mom hates flowers. Long story. See you tomorrow.”

I follow him to the door of the hardware store and lock it behind him, waving through the glass. Time to drive myself home to stare at the crumbling walls and reflect, yet again, on how the hell I got here.