Cuffed by His Charm (Dirty Little Secrets 4)

My best friend, Jeannine, worked in the selectmen’s office and overheard a conversation between my landlord and the selectmen. After she filled me in on their nefarious plans, I quickly installed cameras and put up signs that said: If You Enter This Store, You Agree to Be Videotaped. I had to assure my regulars that it was for security reasons and not because anyone wanted to spy on their purchases. It lost me some customers, though.

But it saved my ass when the guy they sent in to buy a deck of tarot cards accused me of trying to sell him drugs. I showed the police the video transaction and exonerated myself, much to my landlord’s chagrin.

Fuck you, Larry.

The guy got the worst end of the deal, but he had a pretty good lawyer. I let him sweat a little bit before I dropped my defamation lawsuit. It would have gone to small claims court and I would have represented myself, but the guy was “judgment proof,” as my dear old dad, the esteemed Judge Nolan, used to say. Or in other words, the guy didn’t have a lobster pot to piss in. The fuckers in charge paid off a dock rat who hung around the wharf to do their dirty work for them by trying to make it seem like I was doing something illegal. I would have loved to sue the McMansions out of the brains behind that little scheme, but they were untouchable.

Story of my life.

Still, it would have been fun to see my father recuse himself from the case. Not that I would have gotten a fair trial anyway in this town. One of his judge friends would have passed judgment on me in his absence. Disobedient daughter? Gavel down. Guilty.

Glancing out the window, it looked like it was a beautiful day. Thankfully, it had stopped raining. I had been considering building an ark. April showers indeed. I was looking forward to the summer kicking into high gear. Not only would it help me get some savings back into my account after my jerkwad ex-boyfriend drained it to finance his band’s tour, but maybe I could also get enough scraped together for a condo or an apartment. At the very least, I wanted to be able to afford to hire a salesclerk so I could go for a bike ride and enjoy the nice weather.

I hadn’t had a day off in two years. I couldn’t even have lunch yet, because two tourists were wandering around my bookstore. They seemed to be boaters looking for a paperback to read on the beach or out on Long Island Sound. I could hear them giggling in salicious delight at a few of the erotic romance novels I had in the back. I carried local, self-published authors, so chances were these were new series for them.

As I eavesdropped on their whispered conversation as they read the juicy bits to each other, a man wearing black socks with sandals stormed into the shop. The tinkling bells over the door to my store filled the air with music, which took some of the menace out of his entrance. He slammed a package onto the counter. “I demand to speak to the manager.”

“You’re speaking to her.” I grinned as he took in my tongue ring and purple hair.

“You?”

Rolling my eyes at the camera above his head recording this transaction, I asked, “How may I help you?” Unfortunately, I didn’t have any uptight-asshole remedies.

“I want a refund.”

“May I see your receipt?”

My politeness seemed to throw him and he searched the bag. “I don’t have it.”

I stifled a sigh. “When did you buy it?”

“I wouldn’t shop here.”

Yeah, he wasn’t my demographic. I couldn’t see him buying a Reiki soundtrack or a fertility statue. He slid the bag toward me and I pulled out a well-loved copy of The Woman’s Journey. Some pages had been highlighted, and others were dog-eared. I looked in the front and it had been signed by the author, Joan Miller. The dedication read, “To Delores: You are worthy of love, respect and happiness.” I had done a book signing event for Joan in January. She always drew a big crowd. Her fans were always grateful for the opportunity to meet her.

“Fill this out, please, and I’ll process your return.” I passed him a sheet I made up for just these occasions. He would have to give me his name, address, and phone number.

“Do I have to do this?”

“Without your receipt, I need this in order to give you a refund. Otherwise, I’ll have to give you store credit.”

He blanched and filled out the paperwork.

When he handed it back to me, I looked it up online to make sure it was a real address. Nodding, I opened up the register and handed him a ten-dollar bill.

“The price is fifteen,” he pointed out.

“Restocking fee,” I deadpanned.

He glared at me, but pocketed the money and strode out. I slid the book inside a padded mailing envelope along with a few bookmarks and a poster for our next lecture series: “Taking Charge of Your Own Orgasm.” I addressed the package to Delores and included a note that she should probably hide this better from—I looked at the return slip—Walter. Weighing the package, I printed out the postage and left it in the bin for the mailman to pick up later.

I rang up the tourists’ books and gave them walking directions to the Village Wharf restaurant. They had the best fish stew in the state. Served up with their homemade bread, I could eat it for lunch every day.

The bells tinkled as they left and I went in the back to nuke my tea. That asshat Rory hustled the tea seller off as well. She had gone to Loonsbury, which was a hippy-er town than Haven. But it was in the center of the state and I would miss the shoreline too much if I moved out there. I munched on a granola bar while I waited for my tea. All the talk of the Village Wharf had my stomach grumbling. Maybe I’d put up the Be Right Back sign and get some stew and a loaf of bread to go. Sighing, I took another granola bar instead. Until the summer crowd picked up, I really couldn’t afford to eat out.

The bells announced another customer and I walked out of the back still chewing and dusting crumbs off my boobs. I froze midstep when I recognized Rory Parker from his social media photos that I shamelessly stalked through. Instead of being in a suit and tie like he was on his business website, he was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. All he needed was a sweater tied around his neck and a tennis racket and he would look the same as he did in high school.

“Dawn Nolan?” he asked.