Page 33 of Just One Little Bargain

“Sorry, right.” He scratches the back of his neck, his whole face scrunching into an expression that would look pained on anyone else but, on Peter, means he’s thinking as hard as he can. “I’m just saying, if this guy returns—”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does, you should have backup. I’m like, five minutes away. Less, if I run.” He thumps his chest twice. “I’ve been doing cardio.”

I picture Peter, who once got winded assembling a display shelf, huffing up my gravel driveway at midnight. Flannel pajama bottoms, unlaced work boots, face beet-red, one of his own aluminum baseball bats clenched in both hands. The image is somehow both the most endearing and useless rescue scenario I’ve ever constructed.

“That’s really nice of you.”

“I’m serious. Anytime. Day or night.” His eyebrows knit together. There’s genuine worry beneath the bluster, and damn it, that’s kind of endearing. Peter has lived in Brindlewood his whole life, same as me. He once delivered a box of supplies to the inn for me without being asked, and refused to let me pay him for the gas. “How big was this guy? Because I can hold my own, unless he’s some kind of giant—”

“Peter, really. Everything’s fine.”

“If you say so.” Doubt shadows his features. “Promise you’ll call if anything happens?”

“Promise.”

“Good.” He grins. “You coming to the festival?”

“Maybe.”

“Perfect place to, you know . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Meet someone? If that’s something you’re interested in?”

Rebecca’s gossip network strikes again. “Thanks, Peter. Gotta run.”

I hurry away before he can mention his single second cousin from Portland.

The crooked sign of Brindlewood Market creaks in the breeze. The double doors stand propped open, which means Caroline arrived before dawn to haul crates from the delivery truck while most of the town slept. Wooden boxes of new arrivals are stacked outside the entrance. Each one bears the name of the farm it came from in chalk, because she considers anonymity a personal offense when it comes to food.

She’s out front sorting pears, tossing bruised ones into a separate crate with such practiced flicks of her wrist that she doesn’t need to look. Taller than most of the men who deliver to her, Caroline has broad shoulders, dark hair cropped just below her ears, and an angular, sun-worn face. Deep lines bracket her eyes, either from squinting at invoices in bad light or laughing. Knowing Caroline, it’s an even split.

She glances up mid-sort.

“Evie!”

“Morning.”

“You look tired.” No sugarcoating with Caroline. Never has been.

“Thanks. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

She sets down a crate and faces me fully, wiping her palms on the apron that has long since given up on being any particular color. “I heard what happened last night.”

“Does everyone know?”

“Most likely.” She shrugs. “Rebecca’s been very thorough.”

My teeth clench. “Of course she has.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She studies me for a couple of seconds, nods, and that’s it. Caroline is the only person in this town who knows how to accept a no without treating it as a challenge.

“Here.” She plucks three perfect pears from her stash.

“Caroline, you don’t have to—”