“It was a pleasure to meet you, Deputy Johnson,” Brett put in, setting the box of pasta and cans of tomato sauce he’d been juggling into Kirby’s cart.
“No, the pleasure’s all mine. Thanks for the tips,” he said, clearly loving the idea of feeling he was suddenly a poker insider.
“Catch you some other time,” Kirby said, rolling the cart forward a bit and hoping Thad would catch on and move himself and his little handheld basketful of items on along.
“Sure, sure.” He glanced at the cart. “You making your guests do their own grocery shopping now, Kirby?”
Thad was about five or six years older than Kirby, divorced three times, no kids, and had made more than one attempt to get her to go out with him since she’d moved to Pennydash. She’d always politely but firmly declined. Thad was nice enough, in an overly-loud-but-friendly kind of way, but he had “lonely divorced guy looking for number four” all but made into a badge and pinned to his chest right next to the real thing. That was not a combination she was interested in tangling herself up with.
Thad had always taken her kindly worded rejections well, and he’d seemed to back off once the season had begun, or had geared up to begin, anyway. Word was he was seeing the new twenty-four-hour video store night manager. Kirby wished them both well.
“I needed a few things,” Brett interjected in response to Thad’s jibe. “Kirby was headed this way, so I tagged along. She’s a very accommodating innkeeper.”
Kirby almost choked on her own spit; then she quickly pasted a smile on her face when Thad looked at her with concern. “That’s me,” she said brightly. Probably too brightly. “Well, you’re probably wanting to get home before the game.”
“What game?” Thad asked, confused again but mercifully no longer ogling their comingled cart items.
“Uh, hockey.” There was always a hockey game on this time of year. “Tip-off is soon.”
“Face-off,” Brett said under his breath.
“Right,” Kirby said, smiling as she maneuvered her cart between Thad and the huge display of muffins and cinnamon bread. Once clear she gave the universal sports fist pump. “Go, uh-”
“Bruins,” Brett offered, and she could see his lips twitching now and that twinkling light was back in his eye.
“Exactly,” she said, unable not to smile back. Until she caught Thad looking between the two of them and snapped right back out of it. “Go New England!” she said, giving another little fist pump and then swiftly angling the cart when Thad shifted his feet a bit, looking at her like she’d lost her mind. At that point she didn’t care if she ran his toes over or cleared off half the display stand. She shoved the cart the rest of the way past the display case and kept on going. Brett was just going to have to save himself.
Which he apparently did, as he was beside her before she reached the bakery counter. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“About what? He seemed like a nice enough guy. And it’s Boston. You know, in case you ever get stuck again.”
“Boston?” Then her expression cleared. “Oh. Boston Bruins. Well, Boston is in New England. I was close.”
Brett just chuckled.
Kirby rolled her cart to a stop beside the baskets of French bread. “And you’re right, Thad is basically harmless. Thanks for being so nice to him. You probably just got him at least a half dozen free beers down at Swingert’s Pub on that one story alone. Of course, it will probably sound a little different by the time he’s telling his buddies. By that time he’ll have been the one giving you poker tips. Fair warning.”
“Warning taken.” He was still smiling.
“I just-I thought you’d rather not have it blabbed all over about…you know. And Thad is worse than an old woman when it comes to gossip. Mostly because he makes it his business to know every last thing about everyone within a fifty-mile radius of the town limits, and given we’re not exactly riddled with crime, and with the resort hotel more than half empty, he doesn’t have much else to do except run his mouth. So I’ll apologize up front if you’re suddenly inundated with questions from nosy townsfolk.”
He slid the long loaf of bread from her hands and merely smiled at her as he put it in the cart. “There’s only one nosy townsperson I’m interested in talking to at the moment. What do you say we blow this pop stand? Do we have everything we need?”
“I have wine back at the inn, so…yes, I think we’re good.” She looked in the cart. “Wait, where is the spaghetti sauce?”
He pointed to the cans of tomatoes and tomato sauce. “Right there. You have a decent spice rack?”
“Um…well. Like what, exactly?”
“Oregano, salt, maybe a little garlic to make garlic toast with the bread. Butter?”
“Maybe we should hit the spice aisle. Just in case.” She silently groaned, thinking that getting there entailed crossing to the opposite end of the store again. All she needed was for them to cross paths with Thad again, or Helen, or anyone else Thad had cornered in order to share his latest piece of news.
Brett’s long-legged stride kept up pretty easily with her sprinting pace. “Hungry?” he asked as she took the spice and condiment aisle almost on two wheels.
“Just not big on dawdling.”
He plucked the appropriate spices off the shelf so easily it was clear he’d made his way around them in the past. “Or cooking,” he said, half teasing, half asking.
“I do okay.” As long as it came out of a box, can, or prepackaged tray. And was only responsible for feeding herself. There was a reason the only actual full meal she offered was a box lunch. Sandwiches and chips she could do. Bagels, muffins, little boxes of cereal in the morning, some hot coffee and juice? Check. She’d been doing setups for that stuff since she was six years old and had proved to Mabel, the resort dining room manager, that she could reach the countertops without knocking anything over. But cooking where actual ingredients and a hot burner or three were involved? Yeah, the fire department could only do so much. Why risk it? Not to mention that poisoning her guests by actually preparing full meals from scratch generally wasn’t seen as a good business- building tool.
“Just okay?” he asked, that teasing glint surfacing again. And she realized then what she’d missed before, when he was talking to Thad.
His smile had been easy enough, his body language friendly and open, but his easy smile hadn’t reached his eyes. She wondered if it was sort of like a role he played. It went past just being polite to charming enough that most folks probably didn’t notice they were bothering him. Both Helen and Thad had surely felt like he’d personally connected with them.
“All right, barely okay,” she said, figuring what difference would the honesty make at this point. “I’ll be in charge of chopping up the fresh things that don’t require a stove.”
“Ah,” he said. “Got it. But you’re safe with knives?”
“I can chop anything from an onion to firewood. But you’re only supposed to burn the latter one. I know my limits.”
“Ah. So was that the reason for the last-minute change in menu at dinner?”
“In my defense, the pot roast barely fit in my Crock-pot after adding the potatoes and other stuff. I’m usually good with the Crock-pot. Okay, I usually only use it for mulled cider, but it just didn’t look all that hard.”
Brett was grinning again. “Well, I appreciate the effort. And the chicken and biscuits were wonderful.”
She gave him a little curtsy. “Thank you.” They moved to the front of the store and she scanned the check-out stands but didn’t see Thad or Helen, or anyone else likely to interrupt their progress in getting out of the store without being further accosted.
Brett leaned in as she stopped her cart by the conveyor belt. “So, how is it that a person who dreamed of being an innkeeper doesn’t know how to cook?”
She started setting items on the conveyor belt. “It’s not for lack of trying. I learned early on to go with your strengths. I figured if I ever became wildly busy and folks were clamoring for home-cooked food after a day on the slopes, I’d hire someone. Frankly, running a full house doesn’t really leave any time for that anyway.” She glanced up at him as he leaned past her, his chest brushing her shoulder, to help her unload the cart. “So, how is it that a professional poker player also knows how to make his own spaghetti sauce from scratch?”
“Man can only live on room service for so long.”
