Page 3 of Choosing the Rejected Mate

I narrow my eyes.“Why does your face look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something irritating.”

“I know many irritating things.”I hate when she gets all vague.

“Specific irritating things.”

She turns the screen toward me.“Lena says the new handyman is already at the hardware store.Apparently he starts early.”

“Good for him.I hope he stretches first.”

“She says he fixed the door at the library yesterday.”

“Heroic.”I roll my eyes.

“And the leak at the diner.”

“Saintlike.”The words drip with sarcasm.

“And Mrs.Bell’s porch swing.”

“Alert the church.”

“She also says he’s hot.”

I pause, not because I care, obviously.I’m a woman who appreciates information.That is all.Knowing whether a man is attractive is simply part of understanding the threat level, like checking the weather or sniffing milk before pouring it into coffee.

“How hot?”I ask.

Maisie’s smile turns filthy.“I thought you hated him already.”

“I do.I want details for accuracy.”

“She used three fire emojis and one eggplant.”

“Lena uses eggplants for everything.Last week she used one to describe soup.”

“It was thick soup.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.“I’m surrounded by children.”The front bell jingles.“We’re closed,” I call automatically.

“It’s me,” a voice answers.

I relax when Mr.Phelps shuffles in wearing his usual cardigan and judgmental expression.He’s eighty-two, human, and has been buying two raisin buns every morning since I opened.He claims they are for his wife, which would be more convincing if she had not died twelve years ago.

“You’re early,” I say.

“You’re covered in flour.”

“It’s a new fashion.”

“Hm.”He glances at the dead mixer.“That smoking?”

“No.”

Maisie coughs.“Yes.”I shoot her a look.