No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

The rest of my brain is, um...focused on what I’m wearing tonight.

It’s all for show, of course. If I’m pretend-dating Alaska, I have to make it believable by actually dressing up to look the part. People will wonder if I’m just not that into him if I don’t make the effort.

Oh, God.

It hits me between the eyes. I actually flap my hands a couple times.

I’m going on a flipping date!

Then again...maybe I shouldn’t build it up so much.

Once this mess with the gold ends, we’re supposed to part ways as good friends, right? So I shouldn’t dress too nice or seem too eager to join him. Maybe a little diffidence would make our public break-up more believable.

Or maybe I’m overthinking this, and I should just wear a pretty summer dress and enjoy the moment while it’s here. They don’t come often enough.

“...Miss Randall?”

I blink, shaking my head and turning my vision back on Eliza, the young Seattle transplant who’s become my most reliable staffer. She’s something of a mad scientist, always wanting to experiment with different roasts, and her passion for the perfect brew almost rivals mine.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She looks at me quizzically, then shrugs. “I said we’re already sold out of dark roast. You might want to whip up a little more. People have been asking.”

“Really? We’re that low? That’s amazing to hear.” I grin at her and stand, touching her shoulder. “I’ll put it on the to-do list for tomorrow. You can go ahead and close up early tonight. And empty the tip jar. Split it with the others. You’ll want a little spending money for the festival, right? I’m sure you don’t want to miss the fireworks.”

“Oh, wow! Really?” Her face nearly glows.

I grin even wider.

Man, do I know that feeling.

“Really,” I echo.

Leaving a bubbling girl behind, I head back to my car and strap myself in for the drive home.

I think I’ve figured out what I want to wear by the time I get back to my house and go rattling up the front porch steps—only to stop midstride as I notice something odd.

It’s a little muddy around the porch.

It rained last night. I remember everyone fussing over it and hoping it would stop in time for the festival, only for it to turn out to be just enough rain to make it safer for fireworks with the ground and trees still so damp.

I got to overhear a riveting lecture on it from Blake’s fire safety table as I was closing up last night, while he fussed at Clark over his pyrotechnic stunts.

Of course, that means everyone’s been clomping around leaving muddy footprints everywhere, including the mailman, probably.

But there’s a footprint at the base of my steps, too.

A big, wide boot engraved in the ground.

A man’s tread, definitely not my size.

I frown, lifting my head and looking around, a chill sweeping through me.

Who was at my house?

That chill turns into a sigh as my gaze lands on the welcome mat in front of my door. There’s a package there, a nondescript box wrapped in brown paper.

Probably something my mother sent. It’s a habit of hers, and I never know when I’ll come home to a box full of weird ceramic toadstools or a carefully wrapped basket of pressed and preserved flowers.

Christ.

Paisley’s made me way too paranoid.

A delivery guy leaves a muddy footprint, and I’m making up wild conspiracies.

I hoist the package up and tuck it under my arm, balancing it with my purse and the money pouch on top of it, juggling my keys to let myself in.

Shrub nearly trips me, yipping. I almost forgot I’d brought him back here this morning where there’s more room for him to run around than Alaska’s cabin. I figured he could use it if we were all going to be gone for the day.

It always bothers me when dog owners leave their pups cooped up in tiny spaces alone all day. I can at least give him room to play.

“Down, boy.” Laughing, I pitch everything onto the couch and lean down to scratch his ears.

He doesn’t go down easy when he’s so invested in licking my hand.

He never does.

He’s like a toddler on a mammoth sugar high, only with slightly worse verbal skills. He’s still quite chatty as he follows me into the bedroom, making chirpy little growls and yips like he’s filling me in on all of the dog toys he chewed up throughout the day.

I settle him down with a few treats and a good round of belly rubs, then send him trotting back out into the living room with a giant bone wider than his entire body in his mouth. I stand there looking after him with a smile, shaking my head.

That dog, I swear.

I take a quick shower, though I’m tempted to linger when my mind’s stuck on Alaska and my body feels too warm. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the creeping summer heat.