Slow Burn Cowboy. Maisey Yates

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       CHAPTER TEN

      THE MORNING HAD started tense, and she was still annoyed about it. The day was not getting along any better. First, a shipment of jam that had come in from a little farm down the coast had arrived with two broken jars that had left everything a sticky mess.

      The deliveryman—the son of the woman who made the jam—was apologetic. But that still saw her wiping jam off each individual jar in the boxes.

      Though, things didn’t start getting really terrible until later that afternoon when a group of giggling women walked into the store holding smartphones.

      Lane couldn’t make out words so much as indistinct squeals. “He’s holding baby ferrets,” one of the women said. “I can’t handle it. And then—”

      Lane didn’t get to hear the rest of the and then. Mostly because it was overshadowed by more laughter.

      “Hi,” Lane said, doing her best to keep her tone bright. “Are you ladies having a good day?”

      “Great,” one of them said, adjusting a flimsy infinity scarf. “We’re on a wine tour.”

      Well, that explained the squealing. “How fun. I hope someone else is driving.”

      “Yes,” another woman, a blonde, told her. “We have a tour bus.”

      “Very nice.”

      “We just came from Grassroots. What a beautiful place. Set right into the woods, with a lovely private dining space by the river. The view is lovely. And there was an actual rodeo cowboy there. He was a nicer view than the ocean.”

      Lane wondered if that meant that Dane Parker was back from the Pro-Rodeo circuit. He was definitely the kind of man that caused a county-wide hot flash with his mere presence. Assuming tall, cocky and cowboy was your type.

      He was essentially a local celebrity, even though he was from Gold Valley. But when it came to rural areas like this, being from a neighboring town meant every other community in the vicinity claimed you as their own.

      “I do like a view with my drinking,” Lane said, smiling even more broadly.

      “Oh,” the woman in the scarf said, “as sexy as he was, he doesn’t have anything on that new senator.”

      Lane just about gagged.

      And when she found a phone being shoved in her face, a video already playing, she was pretty sure she did. Because there he was, wearing a suit and a red power tie, clutching an armful of ferrets like a little furry bouquet.

      What the actual fuck was a politician doing with an armful of ferrets? More important, why did this man insist on being both across the country and in her face constantly?

      “It’s at the zoo in DC,” the blonde said. “It’s a whole montage of him holding baby animals while he hears about the various breeding programs. He is just such a nice man. And handsome. Not just for a politician either.”

      Suddenly, the woman lowered the phone, and Lane knew she must be registering her disgust in her facial expression. Except, she was still smiling. She realized when she tried to widen it, that her mouth was stretched as far as it could go. But she had a feeling there was a murderous light in her eye. She must look terrifying.

      Yet she had no idea how to fix it.

      “Are you not a fan?” the phone woman asked.

      “I’m a Quaker,” she lied. “I don’t engage in politics. I conscientiously object.”

      She had no idea if Quakers voted or not, or if she was remembering that wrong. However, she could see that the slightly tipsy women didn’t know either. In spite of her near apoplexy—or maybe because of it—they ended up buying several packages of crackers and a pound of Laughing Irish cheese.

      But by the time they left, Lane felt spent. Wrung out.

      This was her life. Until the internet picked a new golden boy. Until his fame subsided. Unless he decided to run for president.

      She spent the rest of the day engaging in busywork around the store. When the steady stream of tourists abated, she went into the back and started to cook some dinner for the night. There would be no harm in cooking for Finn again. She wouldn’t have to cross the threshold of his house if he was going to be a weirdo about it. She could just hand a casserole to him and scamper off into the night.

      She snorted. What was the deal with that, anyway? Him being cranky with her. She hadn’t moved into his house and taken over a quarter of his ranch.

      She’d gone over this morning with the idea in mind to establish some kind of normalcy. And okay, her bringing breakfast unannounced wasn’t normal. But random gestures of kindness were normal for them, and surely croissants were a gesture of kindness?

      Then he’d been cranky with her.

      Sure, she was applying a little bit of pressure on him to alter his business plan, but she wasn’t wrong. And it came from a place of love. And she hadn’t even mentioned it in a couple of days.

      She huffed around the back kitchen, coming out periodically to check on the store, just in case someone had managed to walk in without setting off the bell.

      The afternoon passed without incident, and by the time she turned the closed sign she was more than done. She sighed, sitting down in her chair behind the counter.

      She should do something. Something pertaining to the subscription boxes, probably. She hauled herself up out of the chair for a moment, leaning forward to fetch a notebook and a pen. She wrote a header on top of the page: Box Things.