Probably didn’t need to add the second part.
He takes the papers from me and opens the plastic, pulling out what’s inside. He holds it far away from him, glancing at the papers underneath, and then turns it over to me.
“Miss, this is a letter to Santa Claus from some girl named Chamomile.” He then slides another piece of paper in front of it as if he’s a lawyer producing damning evidence during a trial. “This is a letter from a boy named Spruce who wants a bongo drum for Christmas.”
“What?” I reach out and snatch the papers from him. There’s a letter from Chamomile, from Spruce, from Jet, from Eunice. Shit. Now I know where I put all those Christmas letters I promised I’d mail last year.
“Interesting names,” he comments. “I can’t tell if you’re a schoolteacher or the matriarch of a hippie commune.”
“Most definitely the former.” I lean back over the passenger side and start rifling through the glove compartment again. There are rabies shot papers from the vet for my dog, Liza, two Sarah MacLean historical romances, a million receipts. I think for a moment that I’ve found the papers, but I quickly realize that what I’m holding is just the menu for our local noodle bar.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but I’ve dealt with a lot of people like you before,” I hear him say as I frantically start ripping everything apart. “You make up any excuse but don’t have the evidence to back it. I gather that you aren’t a photographer or journalist and probably just a super fan, but either way, you’re going to have to leave before I call the police.”
I straighten up, my hair messy, my face red and vaguely sweaty. I narrow my eyes at his aviators. “What do you mean, you don’t think I could be a journalist?”
He sighs, sounding tired, and does that dismissive hand wave thing again. “If you please.” Then he pauses, seeing something in the distance. “Finally.”
I crane my neck to look behind me. It’s a cop car, the SUV of our chief of police, Bert Collins, pulling up behind me.
“Oh thank god,” I say out loud, much to the surprise of Agent Grump.
Bert gets out of the SUV and strolls toward us. “Sorry I’m late,” Bert says to Mr. Broody. “Got held up in town. Utter madness.”
“Bert!” I cry out before the PPO can get a word in. I practically hang my upper body out the window. “Hey!”
“Hey there, Piper,” he says, his mustache moving as he speaks. Bert has a mustache that would strike envy in the hearts of both Tom Selleck and Kenny Rogers, like someone stuck a densely bristled shoe-shine brush to his upper lip.
“Bert, one of the kids threw up in my handbag today and I had to throw it away and it had my wallet in it. I was going to get a temporary license after school, but the town looked crazy.” I side-eye Harrison before I continue. “And this guy doesn’t believe that I live here.”
Bert folds his arms. “You know you can get in trouble for driving without a license.” He sighs and looks to Harrison with a jovial expression. “But I can vouch for her.”
“She doesn’t have her insurance papers either,” Harrison blurts out.
What the actual fuck? This dude is throwing me under the bus now.
Bert frowns at me in overblown disappointment, and I can’t help but cringe. “Is this true? You’re driving around without a license and without insurance papers?”
I give him a shaky smile. “I was just in the middle of looking for them when you showed up. Hold on.”
I’m about to turn back to the rummage pile when Bert says, “No, it’s fine. I trust you’ll find them.” He looks back at Harrison. “She’s okay. She lives at the big property at the very end.”
Harrison’s frown deepens, a canyon between his brows. “But that’s where . . . that’s the real estate in question. We were told it was unoccupied, no renters.”
“She lives in the guest cottage.”
The PPO’s forehead wrinkles like a shar-pei.
“It’s a separate property,” I point out. “Back in the day, it was the guest quarters for the main house. For the help and all that. My mom bought it five years ago when it had just been subdivided into two different properties. We share a driveway, but that’s it.”
I know I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel the resentment in them, the fact that he’s going to be sharing a driveway with me.
Oh. Wait a minute.
I’m going to be sharing a driveway with them.
Holy shit.
They’re going to be my neighbors!
“Nothing is final,” Harrison quickly says, reading my building excitement. “I don’t even know if they’ll want to rent it or not. They’re just looking at their options.”
Bert shrugs with one shoulder. “If they don’t, there are plenty of other properties on the island that might suit them. Privacy, space, we have that in spades.” He pauses. “That said . . . are you sure they really want to move here? I mean, no offense, but judging from how the town was today, I’m not sure our fair little island can handle it.”
“I’m sure they’ll take that into consideration,” Harrison comments, in a way that says they most likely won’t.
“So, am I free to go home now?” I ask.
“Of course,” Bert says, but Harrison holds out his hand in that “stop” gesture again. My goodness, he has large hands.
“Just a minute, Miss Chamomile.”
“Piper,” I say imploringly. “My name is Piper. Chamomile is the name of one of my students.” He’s smart enough to remember my name, so it’s obvious he’s just doing this to be a dick.
“Because you share a driveway, I have to trust you not to go up to the property or take any pictures or tip off anyone or . . . You know what? I’ll escort you to your house.”
I jerk my chin back, which I’m sure is very flattering. “You will not.” I look at Bert with wide eyes. “He can’t escort me.”
Bert’s mustache twitches with sympathy. “The royals are a part of our commonwealth, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is in charge of providing their overall safety when they visit. I can escort you, Piper, if you want, but if they are calling for it, then I’m afraid I have no choice but to provide the service.”
“They aren’t calling for it. He is.” I side-eye Harrison again.
His face could be made of stone. “As head of security for the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, I make the calls, and my word is law.”