Page 31 of Never Been Matched
The people in this town treat gossip like a competitive sport. A ridiculous one, like curling or hobby horsing. If Vivien stays under my roof, the rumor mill will hit Olympic levels before breakfast.
And that’s the minor problem. The major problem is that being near her is like standing next to a live wire: too bright, too electric, and far too easy to get burned.
I cannot be attracted to a client.
“Because she’s hot and you’re hot and you’re both single, and everyone is going to talk and exaggerate, and before long there will be some story floating around town about how she’s pregnant with your baby and you ran out on her to join a cult and kidnap a submarine full of hedgehogs and get a tattoo of a nude woman on your neck, not necessarily in that order.”
“Are you done yet?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all purely professional.” There won’t be a hint of impropriety, even if it means I have to move in with Carter and sleep on his couch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll check in later. Call me if you need anything.”
I stare out the windshield. The plows haven’t made it this far yet. People could be stuck, have no way to get to the inn, or they may not even realize it’s an option.
George had shoulder surgery last month, and Peggy hasn’t driven since she mistook the brake for the gas pedal and took out the mailbox at the post office. She’s fine, just freaked out. I’ve picked her up three times in the past week to get her to the bookshop.
Dorothea will definitely be an issue. Her ears are strictly decorative at this point. I have to knock like the feds serving a warrant every time I go over there, or she won’t hear it. Her granddaughter bought her a cell phone last year, but she thinks it’s a calculator, so calling is out of the question.
I should probably try her first. Before I shift into drive, a loud humming fills the air.
I glance at the dashboard, looking for some kind of warning light, but there’s nothing. No “emojis,” as Quinn would say.
The buzzing gets louder. It’s coming from behind me. I twist in my seat. A four-wheeler barrels down the road. Behind it, someone has tied a bright red snow tube to the hitch.
In the snow tube is a person bundled head to toe in a neon pink snowsuit.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
That’s Peggy.
The ATV roars past, snow spraying into the air. That’s Jerry’s ATV. He’s driving, and George is in the passenger seat, whooping like they’re frat boys instead of retirees.
The tube fishtails wildly behind him as Peggy raises both arms in triumph.
They careen around the corner and disappear down the next block.
I sigh and shift into gear. I guess Peggy is overcoming her fears?
I should probably follow them.
It’s going to be a long day.
By the time I get the elderly misfits all settled at the inn—George with his arm in a sling, Peggy acting like all of this is a party, and Dorothea loudly insisting she didn’t require my assistance—I can’t believe it’s only just after lunch. I’ve lived three days in one morning.
I step out of the inn office and back out into the cold, pulling my coat tighter.
Carter leans against the driver’s side door of my 4Runner in a thick black jacket, arms crossed over his chest. “Forget something?” he calls out when our eyes meet.
Dammit. “I’m sorry, man. I got sidetracked.” We were supposed to meet at Betty’s Diner an hour ago.
“Mm.” He nods toward the inn. “Looks like you personally relocated half the town.”
“They needed help.” I come to a stop a few feet in front of him.
“They always need help,” he says. “You ever notice how you’re involved in every problem within a ten-mile radius?”
“I couldn’t leave them out there without power. They wouldn’t have lasted the night.”
