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Adam laughed, too. “You’re right about that. When she took us inside, she showed off her new gaming area. That television of hers is huge.”

“She rarely does things in half measures.”

“I’m catching on. James is never going to want to leave.”

We’d already put our orders in, but as I’d suspected, it was taking a little bit of time for our meals to arrive. Adam nudged the breadbasket closer, and the butter dish. He kept getting better and better.

“I checked out your website. You have to be doing a booming business.”

“We do all right.”

“You’re being modest.”

I set down what was left of my roll. “I checked out your website. Pretty impressive, Beckett. I’d say we’re both doing all right for ourselves.”

He gave me a slow smile. “Probably. But I don’t have employees with green hair.”

I laughed. “There is Ernie. He’s one of a kind. He’s been working for me from the start. He kicked my ass to go all-in on the online business. He’s not from Jasper Creek, he’s from Seattle. He and his former girlfriend were doing vintage clothing, specifically a vintage concert T-shirt store, and they moved most of their product online. According to him, she sold out to work for Amazon, and he had distant family in Knoxville, which is how he ended up working with me.”

“What was your motivation to start the store?”

“I was going to go more in the direction of punk and motorcycle girl, everything that Jasper Creek isn’t. Then I realized that some of our residents needed a way to make some money, and they had beautiful handmade products that would really sell, but not next to Punk/Motorcycle girl clothing and accessories.”

“I suppose not.”

“Hey, what can I say, I was starting my shop right out of college.”

“What was your degree in?”

“I majored in sociology and have a minor in English with a focus on 19th Century American Poetry.”

“Who’s your favorite American poet?”

“I vacillate between two. People always think Emily Dickinson when I say 19th Century American poetry, but they’re wrong. My choices are Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whitman. Do you like poetry?”

“I don’t think you could be an architect and not appreciate poetry. The way a structure is put together, every line should be properly considered so it is pleasing to the senses and builds on the next piece. There is an artistry and feeling that goes into the good builds. I don’t care if you’re creating a fifty-thousand-dollar clinic in Africa, or a skyscraper in Manhattan, every single one should be made with just as much care and attention as the other. It’s why it’s called a building. It’s the same way with a good poem, there is the same feeling and emotion.”

“Well, okay,” I whispered. “I see what you mean.”

“And before you ask, my favorite poet is Maya Angelou.”

“Ahhh, good choice.”

I was so sleeping with this man tonight.

The server set down our dishes.

“You look happy with your choice,” Adam said.

“Oh, I am. I really am.”

Chapter Sixteen

I did my best to keep my fingers loose on the steering wheel. I didn’t want Zoe to see I was white-knuckling it. She’d been killing me since the moment I saw her in the boots. Or was it the dress, and the way her breasts gently crested above the downy material, looking infinitely softer.

Then confirming that beneath her hard-assed persona was a poet’s soul?

Jesus.