Alaska, though...
Yikes. Alaska.
I don’t think he gets just how much he’s saved me.
That cash was just enough to keep the shop open and cover daily operating expenses until I can get revenue flow going again. Not to mention making sure I don’t miss my part-timers’ paychecks. They shouldn’t suffer just because I’m basically cursed.
Heart’s Edge seems like an endless riot, but it’s been mostly quiet this past year.
A year of well-deserved peace.
I can’t let my problems with the Lockwood syndicate bring trouble calling to this town again.
And I definitely can’t let my problems spill over onto Alaska.
Especially when I know he’s still trying to help me in his own not-so-subtle way, ordering more coffee than his crew could possibly drink every day.
So many friends try to help me when I feel like I don’t deserve it.
So many people put their reputations on the line to stand next to the black sheep of Heart’s Edge.
Their kindness leaves me so warm I can hardly stand it.
Which is why I can’t stand the idea of letting Paisley Lockwood hurt them. Not that long ago, we got her hooks out of Heart’s Edge, thanks to Warren Ford taking out the head of her local distribution operation.
He never knew it and I wasn’t about to enlighten him. Not when he’s settled so sweetly into family life in between wild bouts of saving the town’s bacon like the so-called Heroes of Heart’s Edge do.
It’s busy in The Nest today. I had to call in a couple of extra part-time staff, extend hours for others, and while they’re happily making a little extra on their pay, I’m just tallying the numbers coming in to make sure I have enough to pay them.
I sigh. Looks like I’ll be living on ramen and instant macaroni for a while.
It’ll be all right.
I’ll make sure of it.
Across the room, Blake and Peace Silverton sit across from Blake’s daughter, Andrea, and that boy she likes—Clark. It’s not hard to tell Clark’s giving Blake crap.
Clark always gives Blake crap, and Blake sits there and scowls and deals with it, looking like a bulldog with his face drawn into ornery lines and clutching one hand against his iced dark roast.
He only pretends to mind, because he can’t let himself actually like the boy his daughter likes.
But every time Peace’s hand touches his arm, his expression softens, and he looks down at her with that hypnotized look that says he’d never dream of looking anywhere else in his life.
That’s what true love looks like.
Kinda wish someone would look at me that way.
Campfire-brown eyes, gazing into me like he can see a thousand things and wants to see ten thousand more—like he’s finding all those secrets inside me and touching them gently, knowing them, learning them, learning me.
My face goes hot, and I nearly drop the tumbler I’m cleaning.
Nah. No. Absolutely not.
I can’t turn to him.
I can’t turn to anyone.
Trouble is, I’m dying to know what’s going on with my father’s flight log and if that could get Paisley Lockwood off my back forever, keeping my mother safe.
But how can I ask these people for help when they’ve suffered so much—when they’ve found their peace after so flipping long?
Blake even found his literally, but it’s the same for everybody.
I’d rather feel Paisley’s terrible knife carving me up than take their hard-fought heaven away from them.
I need a bath.
Possibly a tranquilizer.
Industrial-strength painkillers? Definitely.
Mostly, I just need rest, after a day that kept me on my feet so long I’m amazed I didn’t wear through the soles of my boots.
Thankfully, both are in reach as I pull up and park outside my house.
It’s a ramshackle little ranch cottage, wooden slat siding and white trim, and it’s a lot to keep up on my own but I do my best. This used to be my parents’ house before my father died and I moved my mother out to Coeur d’Alene.
I still have some good memories in here from before everything went bad.
It feels important to hold on to them.
But right now, all I’m holding is an armful of yappy dog. The moment I open my door, I get smacked by a furry mess of brown-point cream-colored Pekingese fluff.
Shrub is my alarm system. As long as he’s okay when I get home, I know no one’s been here.
With a tired smile, I bury my face in his ruff, breathing in the warm scent of clean, happy dog while he wriggles all over me.
Everything’s okay.
Still, I do a thorough check of the house, making sure none of the windows and locks were tampered with. I don’t even get to take my shoes off before my phone rings in my back pocket.
I don’t hesitate to answer when I see it’s my mother.
Sinking down on the battered plush sofa, I let myself drown in the oversized cushions and swipe the call.
“Mom? You okay?”
“Oh my, sweetheart, have you been running? You sound out of breath.”
No, I’m just trying not to hyperventilate, hoping you’re okay.
The moment I saw her name on the caller ID, my blood pressure skyrocketed. I’d half expected to answer to Paisley with my mother’s stolen phone, or worse—the sound of my mother’s screams.
The fact that she sounds so pleasant feels almost surreal.
It goes a long way to calm me down.
Settling my hand over my racing heart, I try to make my voice sound neutral and even.
“Just playing with Shrub, Mom,” I say. “You know how he likes to launch himself at me first thing.”
“Oh, that dog. He’s adorable, but I do wish you’d get something larger. Something that can protect you.”
My mind instantly flashes to something larger, all right, and not from the canine species.
A certain someone who could rival a polar bear.
Mocha-eyed and black-haired and shaggy like a gorgeously built Norwegian Elkhound.
My heart gives a rebellious thump.
Stop. That.
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to get something larger,” I say. Isn’t that the understatement of the year? Nothing about me would be fair to Alaska. But I force my mind back to the subject at hand, continuing, “With me at The Nest all day, a dog that big would be miserable cooped up in the house alone. And I don’t have time to put up a proper fence to keep him roaming the yard.”
“Well, now, if you’d just find a decent boyfriend—”
Oh, no.
Not helping, Mom.
Here we go again.
“So!” I say brightly. “How are things with you, Mom-zilla? Did you manage to get into the local Red Hat Society?”
“Oh, I did.” My mother’s voice brightens while somehow managing to drip with caustic sarcasm. “Despite Cora’s best efforts to keep me out. Why, that woman and her ridiculous grudge! All because the judge chose my tulips over hers at the county fair last year. If she’d just cultivate them properly, maybe she could take home a blue ribbon, too. But no, she’s got to blame others for her problems, so...”
There she goes.
I sit back and let my mother go on.
I’ve heard about Cora before. Mom’s mortal enemy when it comes to every horticulture competition in north Idaho. Ever since she retired, my mom’s dedicated herself to building a prize-winning flower garden with blooms that can turn heads.