Chapter 3
three
GEORGIE
The air is cold, a sharp sting to my chest with each breath I take, but the sky is clear and the sun shining bright to the accompaniment of birds singing their morning song as I walk to work.
It’s a reminder that while I might sometimes think I’m alone in the world, I’m not.
Life is all around me and the joy I get from seeing it keeps me from feeling truly alone.
That and the thousands of books—filled with thousands of lives—lining the shelves I’m custodian of at Evergreen Lake library.
I might not have a family but I have plenty to smile about.
Opening the front door to the library, I step inside and perform the morning ritual I learned from Granny. Closing the door behind me I take in the silence, and before I flick on the lights, I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
I don’t stop pulling air into my lungs until my chest aches and I can’t do it anymore and it bursts right back out of me.
Granny always said nothing smelled better than a morning-fresh library. Not even the scents emanating from Gingerbreads almost a block up Main Street could beat the first breath of air in the library every morning.
It’s why I follow her tradition and never bring anything into the building before the lights are turned on.
It’s also why neither of us stepped a foot inside later than seven in the morning, even though the library doors don’t open until nine.
Those two hours before opening mean the first breath is followed by a quick dash up the street to Sips on Main for a cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, then on the way back a stop at Gingerbreads for a sweet morning treat to go with it.
Except morning treats haven’t been a thing for months now, and as much as I’m saddened by that, I’m ever so grateful that Granny never got to experience it.
It would have broken her heart to know Ginger wasn’t around to feed the town her scrumptious baked goodies.
Lights on, bag stashed in my office, I head back out into the cold morning air. I’m a few doors down from Sips on Main when the unmistakable scent of Ginger’s cookies floats around me.
Glancing over I see lights are on inside Gingerbreads, but the view is obscured by paper plastered to the inside of the windows. And there’s no sign on the door saying when the shop might open.
I can’t help the frown when I think about the things I’ve heard whispered in the library about Noah Callahan and his attempt to reopen Gingerbreads.
The minute the paper is pulled down and he gets the door open I’m going in, I don’t care what the gossips have to say about him. I trusted Ginger with my life, and if she thought Noah was the right person to leave Gingerbreads to, I have faith he’s the right choice to reopen the town’s beloved store.
I’m not the only one who will benefit from him opening the doors once more. The library could use some sweets for patrons to grab on their way out. I’d never let them eat in the library— I can’t risk the books getting sticky or crumbs wedged between the pages, but I’m more than happy to offer a sweet treat for them to take with them when they leave.
I hear the engine before I see the truck reflected in the window and the little shiver of… something , that works its way down my spine all the way to my toes has me pressing a hand to my stomach and sucking in a lungful of cold air.
“Morning, Georgie.” The deep rumbly voice makes my belly swoop and shivers shoot out in all directions.
I can’t ignore him. Although the urge is there. And not for reasons of the negative kind.
No, the emotions churning inside me are not negative.
I’m not sure they’re positive either.
And I don’t remember feeling them this intensely before.
Or at all.
Smiling—because as Granny used to say, a smile is free and could make someone’s day—I turn to find Deputy Grumpy out of his truck, leaning against the front fender like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Morning Deputy Gr—” I cough to cover my slip. Heaven forbid I call him Deputy Grumpy outside my head. “Deputy Westwood.”
“It’s Drew,” he mutters as he pushes himself off the truck and steps toward me. “I’m not on duty this morning so it’s just Drew.”
I must look like a fish, mouth gaping, eyes bulging. I’ve never known Deputy Grumpy to be anything but frowny—hence the Deputy Grumpy nickname. I don’t even think he has friends. And the request to call him Drew is definitely friendly… ish ?
No. It isn’t quite there. Mainly because there’s a scowl on his face and the deep grooves across his brow match the ones framing his mouth.
His lush kissable mouth.
Eh…what?
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Since when has the shape of Deputy Grumpy’s mouth—or the idea of kissing it—crossed my mind?
My lack of response has us both squirming as the silence hangs heavy in the air. He’s the first to break the weird spell we’re in by stepping toward me.
The movement snaps me out of my head and I offer up another smile. “It’s great weather for a day off.”
“Hmm…” His eyes bore into mine and I find I can’t look away.
We stare at each other a bit longer before the honk of a horn makes us both jump. Me with a laugh, and him with a growl.
“Well, I’d best be getting on. The library won’t open itself.”
I turn and head for Sips on Main, the squirmy feeling of being watched following me.
If I look back I know I’ll find him there, his eyes on me.
It’s not the first time I’ve had the sensation.
But it is the first time I’ve acknowledged it.
And now that I have, I’m recalling a number of times I’ve been in the crosshairs of Deputy Grumpy.
The sensation has always been uncomfortable, except now I’m wondering if it’s a good kind of discomfort.
Is the little buzz of electricity I feel in his presence attraction?
Is it mutual?
I’ve never consciously thought about how good looking Deputy Drew Westwood is. I mean, I know it, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes he’s a tall, dark drink of yum, but before now I haven’t focused on it, as I seem to be doing this morning.
It takes everything in me not to look back. And I blame Mildred Blumenthal pushing out of Sips just as I reach for the door and making me move out of her way for breaking my control.
The small shift to the side has my peripheral vision lining right up with Deputy Grumpy.
And that little glimpse has me wanting more and powerless to stop myself from turning to get it.
My gaze connects with his, and I swear his lips twitch in what I think could be a smile if he’d just relax and let it happen.
“That man needs to pull the stick out of his ass,” Mildred mutters beside me.
“Huh?” My eyes remain locked with his.
“Oh. Well then. Didn’t see that coming.” Mildred huffs. “Maybe he just needs to pull the stick out of his pants and use it.”
Mildred’s cackle has my gaze snapping around to see her walking away.
It isn’t until she’s out of sight that I realize what her words imply and heat rushes through my core and rises to my cheeks.
Flushed and flustered by the thoughts her words have flashing through my head, I stumble inside.
Warmth and noise surround me. It’s early, so there shouldn’t be many people here, but we’re days from the start of the annual Christmas festival, and that means tourists.
Lots of tourists.
Most are nice, polite, and as a town we welcome them. The occasional bad one can’t take away from the joy that overflows Evergreen Lake every Christmas season.
Except this morning I could do without the line in front of me. The quicker I get my drink, the quicker I can get back to the solitude of the library and contemplate this morning’s interaction with Deputy Grumpy.
When someone bumps me from behind, I realize I’ve been standing just inside the door in a daze instead of joining the line to place my order.
Glancing over my shoulder my eyes lock with Deputy Grumpy’s and my face heats far more than the warm room warrants.
“Are you following me?” The words burst from my lips before I think them and the way he jerks back, eyes wide, has me quickly stumbling through an apology. “Sorry. I know that’s stupid. Of course you’re not. This is a coffee shop. You’re here for coffee. Like everyone else.” I end my rambling words with a wave of my hand.
“Ah, yeah. Coffee.” He tips his chin toward the front of the shop. “Are you getting in line?”
I can’t read him. He’s not being his usual growly, scowly self, and this slightly friendly version of Deputy Grumpy has me discombobulated.
When he arches a brow at me, I remember he asked a question.
“Oh! Yes. But I don’t drink coffee, I get hot chocolate.” Why I’m giving him my drink preference when he didn’t ask is anyone’s guess.
“With marshmallows?”
“Is there any other way?” I ask with fake horror, a hand to my chest. Although, really, who has hot chocolate without marshmallows?
“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had it.”
I’m not sure what shocks me more. This small piece of personal information or the fact he’s never had my favorite drink. We need to remedy that. “Well, let me guide you through the most sublime experience of your life.”
“Don’t really like chocolate.”
His confession has me gasping. “You don’t…” I shake my head. “ What? ” How is that possible? Everyone likes chocolate.
With a shrug he puts his big hand on my shoulder and turns me to face the counter. “Never had it as a kid and as an adult, it’s too sweet for my taste.”
More personal information.
I’m reeling.
I’m certain this is the longest conversation we’ve had and when I add last night’s encounter, I’m struggling to connect this Drew with Deputy Grumpy.
With his hand firmly planted on my lower back, he guides me to the end of the line. “Let’s see if you can convert me with your sweet drink and gooey mush.”
What the hell is he talking about? “Gooey mush?”
“Melting marshmallows.”
Just the words have my mouth watering. “ Oh . That’s the best part,” I say as I glance back and up.
“If you says so.” The quirk of his lips is definitely a smile trying to break free.
I don’t understand why he’s so stern. I mean, the growly, broody thing works for him but he’d look so much more handsome if he just smiled?—
Why the hell am I thinking about how good looking Deputy Grumpy is?
This call me Drew thing has me rattled as much as his behavior. The man behind me isn’t the one I’ve known—if only slightly—for the last seven years.
I remember when he arrived in town. For weeks, everyone who came into the library whispered about the new hot deputy. Granny would laugh and make a joke about taking bets on which single Evergreen Lake woman would snag the fresh meat.
Not that having a betting pool would have done any good. As far as I know, he hasn’t dated a single woman—local or tourist—since his arrival.
I know from experience it’s hard to date in a small town. If things don’t work out, they can get awkward and messy really quick, which is why a lot of the locals date—and I use the term date loosely—tourists.
Pressure on my lower back pulls me from my thoughts and reminds me where I am.
Who I’m with.
Facing forward again, I move a few steps up. I want to engage in conversation—it’s the nice thing to do—but wracking my brain for something to say delivers the dumbest question in history.
“Do you like reading?”
I want to slap myself in the forehead. Of course he likes to read. He’s in the library twice a week to borrow a new book. Before I can say something to redeem myself, he speaks.
“I don’t mind it.”
He doesn’t mind it? He’s one of the library’s more frequent borrowers, reads two books a week, every week without fail, and he doesn’t mind it ?
“For someone who doesn’t mind it, you read a lot.”
I feel him stiffen behind me. We aren’t touching, and I’ve got my back to him, but I feel every inch of his hulking frame go taut, the air pushing against my back thicken.
“Yeah,” he grumbles.
The word doesn’t go anywhere near explaining his lack of enthusiasm for reading in spite of his regular borrow rate.
I’m trying to remember if he’s always come in so often. Except before Granny passed she handled the checkout desk so I never dealt with him.
Maybe that’s why I’m only now really noticing Deputy Grumpy.
Then again, maybe it’s the way he questioned everyone after Jingle Balls hung the final Christmas ornament last year.
His curiosity—and I use the word knowing it’s nowhere near the right descriptor of his search—about Jingle Balls’ identity means I’m more careful around him.
“Move up.”
The nudge on my spine has me hopping forward and out of my thoughts. “ Sorry. ”
“No problem.” We’re back to stern, devoid of inflection, words.
I don’t like it. And before now I haven’t noticed it.
Deputy Grumpy definitely has a tone.
One out-of-uniform Drew Westwood does not.
The man is as much a contradiction as these pesky sensations currently twisting their way through me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was developing a crush on the man.