Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
He was an asshole, right? It was like watching a Ping-Pong tournament—asshole, nice, asshole nice.
“Okay, thanks,” I said, my heart rate finally slowing to a normal speed. “Thank you.”
“Make sure you get one with two separate handles,” he said. “One handle won’t work on this sink.”
Asshole.
“I know. I’m not completely stupid,” I snapped.
The squealing sound of approaching wheels made us both turn. Devon smiled sheepishly, pushing the handle of a mop in a bucket.
“Figured I could mop this up,” he said.
“You’ve got work to do,” Bess reminded him.
I wasn’t just done with Grady talking down to me, I was done with Bess’s attitude, too.
“Thanks, Devon,” I said loudly. “As the owner here, I appreciate you being a team player and jumping in during an unforeseen emergency.”
“Sure,” he mumbled, seeming to sense he was caught in the middle of two feuding hens.
“I got the main water shut off,” Grady said as he walked past me. “So there’s no water in the building at all until I get that faucet replaced.”
“Gee, is that what it means to shut off the water?” I fired back.
For a split second, I thought he was going to smile. Instead, he shook his head.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”
Lawson’s Hardware was located in a narrow building that was so deep with aisles of tools, birdseed, garbage bags, and other items that I felt like I’d stepped into a magical wardrobe.
“Hi there, how can I help you?” a blond man asked me with a grin.
“Am I in Narnia?”
His smile widened. “I loved that book. And no, you’re in Lawson’s. What do you need, gorgeous?”
He was an anti-Grady. Average height and build, but his short golden curls, bright-blue eyes and perfect smile set him apart. And bonusno scowl.
“I’m looking for a bathroom sink faucet with two handles.”
“Right this way.”
He led me to an aisle of plumbing fixtures, grabbing a box from a lower shelf. “This one’s your most economical option. Delta’s a solid brand. I don’t sell anything that won’t last.”
“Oh, is this your store?”
He extended a hand. “Yes, ma’am, this is my humble domain. I’m Austin Lawson. And you are?”
“Hi, I’m Avon Douglas.”
Recognition dawned on his face as we shook hands. “The new owner of the paper. Knew you were new in town because we don’t get many beautiful redheads.”
“You’re sweet,” I said, smiling. “It’s pretty much auburn now, but it used to be redder.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s gorgeous.” He winked.
“Well, thanks for your help with that.”
I reached for the box, but he tucked it under his arm and headed toward the register.
“What’s a newspaper owner doing buying faucets instead of making newspapers?” he asked as he walked behind the register.
“Ha.” I took my wallet out of my bag. “I don’t know much about newspapers. And our bathroom sink faucet exploded earlier, so here I am.”
“Ah.” He told me the price and I passed him my debit card. “Well, I can give you a hand and install this if it would help. We’re not too busy this time of day.”
Not only was he cute, but he’d also offered to help instead of telling me what was going to happen, as Grady had.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely. One thing you’ll find in Sven’s Beard is that we help our neighbors. Makes up for the lack of fine dining and shopping.”
He passed my card back and told someone wearing the same red Lawson’s T-shirt he had on that he’d be back in a few minutes.
“Oh, I’m not staying,” I said as we left the store together. “I’m only here through Monday.”
Austin frowned with disappointment. “You don’t want to run the Chronicle?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about running a newspaper, and I live in San Diego. I’m going to sell it.”
“I get it. Never thought I’d end up in a little northern Minnesota town in my thirties. Sometimes I think about selling the store and moving to a place with…you know, more.”
A middle-aged woman openly stared at us as we walked on the freshly cleared sidewalk toward the Chronicle, the snow falling in light flurries now.
Austin leaned closer to me and spoke in a low tone. “That’s Frannie Moore. Half the town will know about this date by tomorrow.”
“It’s not a date,” I said, pinching my brows together in confusion.
He laughed. “You don’t know Frannie. It’ll be retold as a date. The rumor mill is a big source of entertainment in small towns.”
I scoffed, amused. “But you’re not from here?”
“Originally from Mobile, Alabama. I bought this place when I was twenty-two and it’s been home since.”
That explained his slight drawl. I couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to live in this tundra when they came from a place with beaches and sunshine.
When we walked back into the Chronicle office, Devon had cleaned up most of the water and put up “wet floor” signs. Austin got to work on the faucet and I walked over to Bess’s desk, watching as she designed dummy pages for next week’s paper. They all had white rectangles of different sizes, some of them filled with ads and some with an X through them, indicating they still had to be filled.