Page 5

Then, at three forty-seven, the bell jingles.

He fills the doorframe the way October fills a valley. Slow, golden, impossible to ignore. Same dark curls without the sawdust this time. Same warm brown eyes that found mine in the deli and took a reading I wasn't ready for. Different flannel, green this time, sleeves rolled past forearms roped with muscle and streaked with chainsaw oil. A list in one hand, a paper bag in the other.

"Bev." Hat tipped. "Looking beautiful as ever."

"Oh, stop it." She's blushing. Sixty-three years old, raised on a ranch, ran a business for forty years, and blushing because a twenty-seven-year-old tipped his hat.

"Order's staged out back. Need help loading?"

"No, ma'am, I'll grab it. Got the truck backed up already." His eyes slide to me. The grin goes softer. Not the big flashy one from the deli. Something more careful. Respectful. Like he learned something from the way I left and he's adjusting. "Hey, Selene."

"Hey."

Two syllables. Flat expression. Nothing else. Because the plan does not include lumberjacks with kind eyes and forearms that look like they were carved from the same wood he spends his days splitting.

The paper bag hits the counter.

"Turkey club. Fresh. Sal made it special." He nudges it toward me with two fingers. "Figured you might still be hungry, since somebody ruined your lunch today."

"That somebody was you."

"Which is why I brought the replacement. My mama raised me right, Selene. Stole your sandwich, couldn't sit with that. Made Sal fix it before I left."

My stomach growls. Audible. Undeniable. His grin goes nuclear.

"That's a yes from your stomach, at least."

"Biological response. Doesn't speak for me."

He laughs. Full, real, completely unguarded. The kind of laugh that fills a room and makes other people want to join in even if they don't know the joke. "Fair enough. It'll be here if biology overrules pride." Two taps on the counter, grab the clipboard from Bev, back door.

Not eating the sandwich while he loads his truck. Absolutely not. Not eating it while Bev rings up his order and chatters about how the fall festival Gabe's planning is going to be the biggest thing this town has seen since the mill closed in ninety-three. Not eating it while he talks about clearing timber for the festival grounds, milling booth frames from cedar, building a stage by the pumpkin patch that Anna's been tending since August.

Not eating it while he walks past me, pauses, and says, "Cranberry aioli. Sal's secret weapon. Criminal to let it go cold."

Eating it the second his truck pulls out of the lot.

Leaning against the back counter with the cat watching me from the register, one eye open, maximum judgment.

Best sandwich I've ever had. Infuriating.

Chapter Three

Kidd

Thursday. Same time. Same errand. Same bell jingling over Shelton's front door.

Same woman behind the counter looking at me like I'm a splinter she can't reach.

"Kidd. Your order's out back."

"Good morning to you too, Selene." Paper bag on the counter. Same Sal's wrapper. Same turkey club. "Brought you something."

Her pen stops mid-inventory line. She stares at the bag, then at me. Pride versus hunger, principle versus cranberry aioli. A war fought in absolute silence across a feed store counter with an orange cat as witness.

"You can't keep bringing me sandwiches."

"Watch me."