“Ani, taste this,” he said, passing me his latest creation.
“Oh my God,” I groaned when I could speak. Flaky pastry, sweet fruit, and all-around deliciousness. “Fried apple pie?”
The older dark-skinned man nodded.
“Amazing,” I said around another bite.
Which, of course, was when the walkers burst in—three local women who actually looked good in yoga pants. They could keep their husbands and children. But for their butts, I felt envy. Most mornings they were out there, marching up and down Main Street, while I was here, shoving food in my face like a champion.
“You have a new neighbor,” accused the first walker.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked the second.
The third walker just looked at me with judgment and amazing brows. I wondered where she got them done.
“Someone finally moved into old Mrs. Cooper’s place?” Claude leaned against the wooden counter, sipping his latte. He might be a late addition to Wildwood, but it didn’t take him long to be tuned into local gossip. “Hadn’t even heard it was sold.”
“A few years back,” I said. “But I know nothing about it.”
The first walker sighed, heavily disappointed in my life choices. You and me both, lady.
While the second said, “I better get home, make one of my boysenberry pies to take over.”
“But I was going to take pie!”
“You can never have too much pie.” Claude smiled and waved goodbye on his way out the door.
“That’s true,” I agreed quickly. Because the last thing we needed was a girl fight over pie.
I guess the walkers had silently decided to rush home and start baking, because without another word, the pack about-faced and left.
Of course, I knew their names. But two of them were such assholes to me back in high school that I refused to validate them, and the third was guilty by association. Hooray for being petty.
Childhood bullying and media expectations were why I now sought to embrace my mediocrity. My height and weight and hair are all quite ordinary, and that’s fine. There are more important things. Like not spending your whole damn life at war with yourself. I have solid friends, a job that I like, a stack of excellent books waiting to be read on my bedside table, boxed mac and cheese in the pantry, and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. Life was good. Once I managed to get a decent night’s sleep, it would be perfect.
That was when he strode in. The rock star.
The man was dressed in blue jeans, boots, a faded gray tee, and the ball cap. He clearly didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Which was mission impossible, if you ask me. With his head down, he grabbed a basket and got busy. Despite the skulking, he moved with purpose. He was sure of himself and his place in the world. Imagine having that kind of confidence. I was still trying to get my shit together at thirty. And there he was at thirty-seven, having fronted a world-famous band and been happily married to a talented musician. Only to then live through losing both of those things. How devastating.
I watched him on the sly while making another coffee. There was a lot to see and admire. Like the way his sleeves stretched just so around his biceps. The width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest. He was a walking, talking teenage dream.
Luckily, I knew better than to crush on someone so out of my league. Though no wonder the media loved him and fans flocked to hear him play. Along with being a talented musician, he was a visual delight.
The truth of it is, big brawny men appeal to my lizard brain. It’s a terrible thing.
He stopped in front of the local arts and crafts section, perusing the pottery mugs, wooden bowls, and jewelry made out of fancy old silver spoons and forks. A macramé guitar strap in particular held his attention. My personal favorite item was a painting of redwoods after a rainstorm. One day it would be mine. In the meantime, I was happily addicted to the handmade soaps, small-batch teas, and artisan chocolates. Because there’s no shortage of cool creators in Nor Cal.
I had so many questions for the rock star. Like, why move here? Given everything he’d been through, I could understand the need to disappear. What with his wife dying and his band breaking up. But why not hide out on a tropical island? I was pasty and couldn’t tan. I was also mildly allergic to mosquitos. Their bites made me blotchy. However, I still would have been on the first flight out of here. With a margarita in my hand, I’d happily live out the rest of my days in a grass hut. As long as it had a functioning bathroom. Every woman has her limits.
He placed his shopping basket on the big old wooden counter. Stubble lined his jaw and the brim of his cap hid the upper half of his face. There was a white tan line on his ring finger. Like he’d only just removed his wedding ring. Another reminder that he’d been to hell and back. What he needed was for someone to show him some consideration. To be kind to him. And that I could do.